Prose Poem: The Used Rope Store.

 

I don't really remember where I got the idea;

probably from some newspaper article.

I read a lot of online papers.

See, I could get my hands on a lot

of used rope for next to nothing.

So why not open a Used Rope Store?

*

I had tested the market earlier,

selling tap water from my garden

hose in used pop bottles for ten

cents each. Online. 

Shipping & handling was $19.00.

People bought it. 

Not a lot of people,

but enough to convince me there

is a market for everything today.

Even used rope.

*

But I didn't sell it online.

Too much regulation.

A brick and mortar store,

in a scuzy neighborhood,

represented by a city council

person who didn't care,

required nothing more than 

a bicycle license from city hall --

I framed it and hung it up behind

the cash register and no officious

busybody from the city ever bothered

me.

*

I sold used rope, twine, and string

by the yard. 

I got most of my customers by hanging

out a sign that read:

FREE DUST BUNNY RECYCLING.

That's a thing for a lot of people;

they collect the dust that accumulates

under the bed and furniture and then 

they don't know what to do with it.

So they brought it to me (I just tossed

it out the back door when they weren't

looking)

and they stuck around to examine my

used rope.

*

They bought it for tire swings.

To wrap around fruit trees

to prevent winter burn.

For handmade bee hives.

And to boil and feed to their

goats.

*

I was so successful that eventually

I was bought out by a big retail

chain. But they ruined the whole

concept by expanding the inventory

to include plastic doo-dads from china

 and junked auto parts. 

*

Still, I had made my pile

and didn't have to worry

about where my next Jimmy 

John's was coming from.

*

Nowadays I catalog gastroliths

for the Smithsonian, working

as an unpaid volunteer.

It makes me feel utile.

Prose Poem: Babbling Bat Pups.

 

The author, with bats in his belfry.

The babbling bat pups really got to me;

I mean, all night long they babble out on

the eaves next to my bedroom window.

So I finally contacted the Biden administration.

*

I emailed the undersecretary of defenestration.

He referred me to the Department of Windows.

Who, in turn, asked for my social security number

then asked me to open a bank account in Nigeria.

*

And still the bat pups babbled.

It sounded similar to Pushtu. 

I moved my bed into the garage;

but the babbling bat pups were there

ahead of me.

*

They dropped things on me:

Monkey wrenches.

Moldy yarn.

Cans of Bardahl motor oil.

*

Finally the Department of Windows

got back to me.

They had deposited fifty-thousand

dollars in my Nigerian bank account

and said I should hire an 

exterminator.

*

But there are no bat exterminators

in Nigeria. 

*

I began babbling back 

at the bat pups.

They liked that

and stopped dropping

monkey wrenches.

*

Now they study my eating habits

and I study their speech patterns

and together we have started an

LLC to monetize the lice

in their fur.

*

This is what makes America

so great in the trenches.

A British Village Is on the Hunt for a Vandal Who Throws Beans on People's Front Doors. (Food and Wine Magazine.)

 

Tim Torkildson, canned ham.

"This kind of canned food vandalism isn't an isolated incident in the U.K."

In Wonersh town, a hamlet quaint,

a fiend with beans their doors does paint.

Using cans of Heinz this brute

porch furniture will persecute.

*

Children's playgrounds aren't immune,

where beans are dumped by tablespoon.

I doubt not but this libertine

will next descend to canned green bean.

*

Or maybe pickled beets he'll smear

on bay windows with gloating sneer.

Mushy peas no doubt he'll find

go well on walls with bacon rind.

*

Oh why can't constables arrest

this naughty tinned food-throwing pest

before he he has a chance to stoop

to throwing cans of Windsor soup?

*

The least this villain ought to do

when splattering his veggie goo

is to provide a spoon and plate

and let the homeless masticate!

Prose Poem: I lived on a boat in the desert.

 

I lived on a boat in the desert.

It hadn't always been desert;

once it had been sand.

Now it was the space in between

grains of sand.

*

I drew cartoons.

Of puppies and kittens.

Someone in the Ukraine

paid me millions for my work --

I never knew what he did with it.

*

One day a moth came to rest

on my deck.

It looked weary,

so I gave it some water

and a hot cross bun.

*

Then before my startled eyes

it turned into a beautiful girl

with eyes the color of tin foil.

"For your kindness" she said,

"You may have any kind of 

5G network plan you like."

*

I thanked her, then jumped ship.

Her offer was not to my liking.

There would be strings attached,

and I'd probably have to kiss a 

horned toad somewhere along the line.

*

My new home is 

a charcoal burner's hut

by the sea.

*

I still draw kittens and puppies.

But now I donate my work to 

the NRA and NASCAR.

Loose canons and fast cars

taste like thunder to me.

*

But if nothing better comes along,

I'll go back to my moth girl.

The Daily Dope: Being a Digest of Important Stories You May Have Missed. Tuesday, August 17. 2021.

 

Do you know this man? We don't, and hope we never do!

THE CASE OF THE MISSING COMICS.

"£5,000 reward offered to help find stolen Laurel and Hardy statues"

(The Evening Standard)

As James Finlayson might say -- "Doooh!"  Stan and Ollie are missing once again from the front yard of Lesley and Peter Haylett, who live in the east London suburb of Romford. The couple originally commissioned the statues of the slapstick duo from a novelty company that makes unicorns and other whimsical creatures for carousels several years ago to place in their front yard. The statues have been nabbed several times in the past five years, as a prank, and were eventually returned. But this time the Romford couple decided to take things up a notch. They asked a friend of theirs, a wealthy contractor, to donate reward money for the return of skinny Stan and fat Ollie. The contractor, Dean Floyd, agreed, and sleuths in the area are now on the lookout for kidnap clues in order to collect the five-thousand pound reward (that's over seven-thousand dollars USA.)  If you've got a hot tip, mate, call the Metropolitan Police Service at 101 (the British equivalent of 911.)  Here's another nice mess . . . 

*

Tennis superstar Naomi Osaka breaks down in tears after questioned by journalist.

(Greek City Times)

"Tennis superstar Naomi Osaka left crying during the Western and Southern Open press conference in Cincinnati yesterday, when a local journalist asked her why a tennis player of her calibre who has the favor of the media does not like press conferences."

The reporter in question, who works for the Cincinnati Enquirer, would not return phone calls or reply to emails asking him to expand on the motivation behind his question, which Osaka's manager labeled as "childish and bullying."

The editorial board of the Cincinnati Enquirer issued a statement about the incident earlier this morning: "We recognize that a public figure has felt humiliated by one of our reporting staff, but we believe that journalists have the right to ask relevant and searching questions without any censorship."

*

Texas woman charged with hitting man in wheelchair with can of food, then pushing him out.

(everythinglubbock.com)

A disabled Wichita Falls man told police yesterday he felt sorry for a homeless woman who often passed by his house on the way to the food bank.  He offered her a place to stay in his home in return, he claimed, for some light housework. But when the women moved her meager belongings into his house she claims he asked her to become a sex worker. At which point Angela Black allegedly beat the man (whose name police refused to release) on and about the head with a can of spinach and pushed the man in his wheelchair out the front door onto his front porch and left him there overnight, refusing to unlock the door for him until the next morning.

Black has been charged with assault and battery on a disabled person. No word on whether the man, who was briefly hospitalized, will face any charges. 

Prose Poem: A Nest of Butterflies.

 

Tim Torkildson; Integrated since 1993.

I discovered a nest of butterflies

outside the city limits of Bemidji

Minnesota about a month ago.

I and my research assistant,

Abner Doublefield,

were looking for a suitable

gnat sanctuary for the new state park

when we stumbled across the nest 

in the branches of a weeping willow

next to a morose seep in a cow

pasture.

When I reported my findings to

the State Board of Butterflies

they sent me a letter refuting my

claims and disinheriting me from 

my grandfather's estate.

Even though I had photographs --

taken by my assistant,

Abner Doublefield.

But it all makes so much sense;

during windy days butterflies

cannot be airborne --

they have to have someplace to

hang their hat

figuratively speaking,

and a nest would be the natural

place to do it.

But I can't get anyone to listen to me.

Even my assistant,

Abner Doublefield,

now claims there was no

butterfly nest --

it was just a shredded 

plastic bag he took photographs of

under the duress of losing

his job if he did not back me up.

But at least the state accepted my

recommendation on the gnat sanctuary --

if there are really such things as gnats

in the first place.

How can anything so small actually have

enough intelligence and coordination to

fly? 

And what do they do on windy days?

They have no nests

and must rely on 

a higher power to protect them --

like Superman.

Charity.

 "Charity is the pure love of Christ. It is the love that Christ has for the children of men and that the children of men should have for one another. It is the highest, noblest, and strongest kind of love and the most joyous to the soul."

Gospel Topics. 

Charity, as Christ has taught/cannot be forced or tricked or bought/A love so pure it breeds compassion/that molds us in a softer fashion/True charity will suffer long/before responding to a wrong.

*

"Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel . . ."

King Lear.

Christ knows all of woe and weal/Our afflictions he does feel/He exposed himself to pain/So comprehension he would gain/Because of this his charity/is given with sweet clarity. 

"Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends."

Jesus Christ. 

Charity sans sacrifice/is colder than the Arctic ice/Adulterated with conceit/it leaves the giver incomplete/Christ's example of pure love/is the greatest proof thereof.

 “’Twas I; but ’tis not I: I do not shame to tell you what I was, since my conversion so sweetly tastes, being the thing I am.”

As You Like It.

In charity the Lord decrees/our sins can drift upon the breeze/of his refreshing love -- depart/out from our beleaguered heart/when we change and thus repent/of time with vice so foolish spent.

*

"Charity never faileth."

First Corinthians 7:48.

Charity is such a force/that it will always stay the course/When other virtues don't pan out/charity is still about/That's because the Savior's plan/offers charity to man.

Haiku:   "And above all things have fervent charity among yourselves: for charity shall cover the multitude of sins."

Peter 4:8

Kindness heals all,

sweeping/erasing wrong roads --

repaved by the Christ.

Movie Review: "The Kid Brother." Harold Lloyd. 1927.

 

Before sound came to Hollywood, comedians could be very personal and heroic -- which only added a certain naive luster to their white-faced appeal as untutored waifs under God's own care.

*

Emerging from the godless slapstick rough house of Mack Sennett's Keystone Studio, clowns such as Chaplin, Keaton, and especially Harold Lloyd drew apart from the meaningless hurly burly of mere physical absurdity to work out their own frail destinies -- while keeping all the props and schtick of pratfalls and pies in their elemental scenarios.

*

Before movies could bark, they wagged their cinematic tails in many remarkable and fetching ways. They could be visually lush and striking, with casual nods to artists like Vermeer, Rembrandt, Titian, Van Gogh, and even Picasso. Backgrounds and settings, the entire mise en scene, when in capable camera hands, could evoke anything from the grimy off-kilter reality of Chaplin to the mystic bucolic splendor of Harold Lloyd -- especially in the several 'rural' films he made in the mid-Twenties; films that celebrate a vanished cinematic heartland that nowadays many dismiss as 'flyover country.' This is never more apparent than in his film "The Kid Brother." The trees, the dirt roads, the shanties, the river -- even the actors -- carry a sometimes stark, sometimes gauzy, nimbus about them ~ as if the whole movie were a fairy tale narrated by one's grandmother on a snowy evening.

*

The movie opens on Lloyd washing the laundry for his widowed father and older brothers on their farm -- and drying the clothes by stringing them up on a soaring kite line. Complications ensue, leading to the first of several imaginative chases, with a goat, a bully, and other sundry and frenetic characters trying to get the best of Lloyd.

*

And so we come to a consideration of the comic chase -- perfected in silence during the 20's and never really improved upon even after sound crashed the party.

Movies are supposed to move -- and their function as speed and action personified are never more absolute and entertaining than in the slapstick chase. Always based on misunderstanding combined with ignoble happenstance, the comic speeds along city streets and country lanes, usually pursued by a cop or two or other figures of authority and/or menace.

And hark ye, the old silent chases as manufactured by the great movie clowns and their cameramen were not simply a blur of violence and speed; they had an athletic grace and wry ingenuity that produced vivid and admiring chuckles from cinema audiences.

The several chases in 'The Kid Brother' are no exception. How many different ways are there for one man to chase another? You'd be surprised. Lloyd and his gag men come up with dozens of variations on the alarums and excursions that are the lifeblood of most silent comedies. I won't go into narrative detail here about the Lloyd chases -- they need to be seen in person, like a fine painting or dazzling dance routine, to be savored and appreciated.

*

Ancient comedy, with Shakespeare and earlier, always had a romance and then a wedding to tie things neatly into a bourgeoisie package at the end. The silent clowns did the same. In 'The Kid Brother' Lloyd is enamored of a traveling medicine show girl, and through courage and determination (plus the sprightly machinations of the unseen goblins that launch every comic into the abyss only to pull him back at the last second) he not only saves the girl from peril but manages to prevent his own father from being lynched. Lloyd and the girl stroll down a country lane straight out of Currier & Ives, hand in hand, as the camera irises out.

*

Certainly there were female comics during the Silent Era -- but audiences of the time didn't care for the zany and flippant spirit of the slapstick clown in a woman. Women were to be wooed, rescued, and brought into domesticity during the last reel. And we may cavil against our grand daddies for holding such medieval and chauvinistic opinions -- but maybe we should be asking our grandmothers just what they thought about the whole subject before sending anyone to the guillotine. 

*

Lloyd and his comic colleagues are recognized as brilliant delineators of the Human Comedy by critics and pundits today -- but what of the masses who, presumably, yearn for a good belly laugh nowadays as much as their predecessors? Not being omniscient yet (although I'm working on it) I can only relate the sad experience of inveigling some of my grand kids into watching 'The Kid Brother' when it recently played on Netflix. Within ten minutes they were clamoring for the Teen Titans on Cartoon Network.

*

The great cinema clowns require our patience as they silently build their castles on custard pies. Cell phones and tablets are inherently inimical to the enjoyment of silent comedy. And so I fear that the inspired buffoonery of Harold Lloyd and his contemporaries will remain relegated to something akin to a museum tour -- a phenomenon people approve of but rarely participate in. 

But no use crying over spilled nitrate negatives -- let's all binge watch Seinfeld . . . again. 

Prose Poem: American Rant.

 

Tim Torkildson: Patriot and Beach Comber.

America, you're a fraud.

Your M&M's melt in my hand.

Your Timex watches take a licking

and stop ticking.

Roto Rooter does not make my troubles

go down the drain.

There's absolutely NOTHING

about an Aqua Velva man.

You can't say anything with flowers.

Your fingers can't do the walking.

The best part of waking up is taking

a shower, not coffee in your cup.

Chewing gum doesn't double

your pleasure. Ever. 

There's rarely room for jello.

And special orders do upset us --

us being the American people,

who have been lied to and promised

pie in the sky and have gotten nothing

but a mess of flighty plastic bags

whirling about our heads in gossamer

mockery.

There is no breakfast of champions.

Or pause that refreshes.

Where's the beef, America --

where's the beef?

Movie Retro Review: "Abbott & Costello Meet Frankenstein."

 

"Abbott & Costello Meet Frankenstein" is the only great movie the team ever made.

Every other movie they made is just a series of programmed japes and Joe Miller retreads. They were, in a very real sense, the puppets of gag writers Felix Adler and John Grant.

If this seems harsh, it's because comedy is too important, too precious, to duck constant reevaluation -- even the icons need renewed scrutiny. And Abbott & Costello are certainly comedy icons; in a very mannered and eventually very faded way.

The movie is great by accident more than by intent.

It combines cliches, tropes, and moth-eaten concepts of comedy timing and byplay to produce not a 'send up' of monster films, as most movie critics like to prattle on about, but a superlative cinematic Invictus to the horrors and terrors that mankind faced in the past and continues to face today.

Frank Skinner's opening theme is so heavy handed that it always sinks into the unformed subconscious of every child who has ever seen the film -- those ominous chords still haunt me today, 55 years after first hearing them on our old black & white Magnavox.

The film opens, not with the two star zanies, but with Larry Talbot -- symbol of predestined doom as the wolf man. He introduces the plot, such as it is, and then disappears for the next fifteen minutes of the movie while Bud and Lou begin their slapstick labors. Which are promising and done in an economical and (pardon the pun) no-nonsense manner, as baggage smashers at a Florida train station. Costello gets more comic mileage out of a stack of recalcitrant suitcases than anyone but the Three Stooges.

"Frankly, I don't get it" is the repeated refrain of Bud Abbott during the film; as pudgy Costello is cossetted and cooed over by an assortment of slinky and slimy villians and villianesses. They want his brain for the Frankenstein monster -- thinking it will somehow tame the fearsome proto-zombie into becoming a docile superman who will do their bidding. And that is the first great theme this film harbors and nurtures -- the inexplicable fortunes of each of us. We all believe, more or less, that we are in charge of our own lives -- but there are forces, often malignant, that have mapped out our gruesome destinies, and we seem powerless to discover them or their schemes until it is too late to combat them. Frankly, none of us 'get it." Until it's too late.

Costello's incoherent splutterings as he faces down first Dracula and then the Frankenstein monster are an apt, if obscure, reflection of the world's initial reaction to the Atomic Age at the end of World War Two; faced with such frightful and destructive power, we are all reduced to unnerved burlesque comics.

"I saw what I saw when I saw it!" is another important refrain from the film, as Costello vainly tries to convince others of the monstrosities menacing the community. (BTW: Anyone else notice how much Costello resembles the mature Robert De Niro?) Costello's shrill voice in the wilderness, warbling like a clown Cassandra, should give pause to those who think anything or anyone uncouth and unlicensed can't be telling the truth.

Lyle Talbot is also the wolf man; Dracula poses as a doctor; everyone in the film has a facade, a disguise. A costume party gives the crowd a weird and possibly threatening persona. And so the theme of otherness, of the impossibility of ever really knowing the character of another, becomes prominent as the film spirals towards its climax in a mad scientist's laboratory. And the wolf man's dilemma poses the most disturbing question of all -- can a person even know and command their own self?

The film has no truck with existential posturing; this is not a Jean-Luc Godard film with actors sitting around discussing the meaning of life and death -- this is a mainstream slapstick comedy film in which the protagonists are truly involved in a matter of life and death -- their own. Their peril is both real and supernatural -- and it's that conundrum of the magic and mundane that propels "Abbott & Costello Meet Frankenstein" to the heights of an ambiguous Shakespeare or Greek tragedy with raucous comic relief. Things are altogether too grim to flow unceasingly without buffoonish leavening.

The climactic chase, when Dracula, the wolf man, and Frankenstein's monster are all after Abbott & Costello remains one of the most intense slapstick pursuits in cinematic history. All it needs to be complete is Godzilla rising out of the Florida swamp to give a rousing 'yoicks!' 

Since it's a traditional comedy, the monsters are defeated and destroyed at the end, and the happy lovers are reunited (oh, did you miss them? No matter -- they were of miniscule importance anyway.)

But slapstick comedies are not romantic comedies; the best ones always have what Mark Twain called a 'snapper' -- a twist that takes the comics out of the frying pan into the fire. And this film ends with a beaut: As Bud and Lou row away from the destroyed monsters they rejoice that all such evil things have at last been wiped off the face of the earth, at which point the Invisible Man, with an insane chortle, lights up a cigarette in their boat. Abbott and Costello naturally jump ship and swim away as the THE END title card appears.

Abbott & Costello Meet Frankenstein is nearly 70 years old, but it succeeds much better at using comedy to explore and explode darkness than, say, Chaplin's 'Great Dictator,' or Harold Lloyd's 'Mad Wednesday.'

The film is an unsettling reminder, a memento mori with pratfalls, that darkness can descend at any time and, but for the grace of God, we all would succumb.