Drum concert and spaghetti dinner from 5 p.m. to 7 p.m. Sunday, March 28, at the National Guard Armory on Range Raod. There will also be an auction. Free will donation with proceeds going to Relay for Life Bring a canned food item. Food donations will go to the Hochoka Healing Center serving the Pine Ridge Reservation.
The Litebrite's now black and white
'Cos you took apart a picture that wasn't right
Pitch burning on a shining sheet
The only maker that you want to meet
A dying man in a living room
Whose shadow paces the floor
Who'll take you out in the open door
This is not my life
It's just a fond farewell to a friend
It's not what I'm like
It's just a fond farewell to a friend
Who couldn't get things right
A fond farewell to a friend
He said really I just want to dance
Good and evil match perfect, it's a great romance
And I can deal with some psychic pain
If it'll slow down my higher brain
Veins full of disappearing ink
Vomiting in your kitchen sink
Disconnecting from the missing link
This is not my life
It's just a fond farewell to a friend
It's not what I'm like
I'ts just a fond farewell to a friend
Who couldn't get things right
A fond farewell to a friend
I see you're leaving me
And taking up with the enemy
The cold comfort of the in-between
A little less than a human being
A little less than a happy high
A little less than a suicide
The only things that you really tried
This is not my life
It's just a fond farewell to a friend
It's not what I'm like
It's just a fond farewell to a friend
Who couldn't get things right
A fond farewell to a friend
This is not my life
It's just a fond farewell to a friend
I am proud of my cat, Wilford Peter (Willie) Nelson. He has always been a successful cat with a serious competitive spirit, once beating me at HORSE out behind the garage with a spinning, back-flip dunk. Next time we'll youtube!
Still, I never thought he would achieve on this level. Willie is going into outer-space. He has been nominated to lead the first mission to the planet Mars. While Mars is still just a planet in our meager solar system, Willie plans on much bigger, extra-universal work later. He's that good! He has been training in California and, more recently, Florida. I can't say much more for national security reasons or something, but Willie lets on a bit. He talks in trapezoids and trajectories. Logistical aim. Looping algorithms. Terabyte processing in real time via over the horizon satellite technology. All conveyed intelligibly via a staccato system of meows. Like telegraph music on a blues foot-board in Duluth in December.
I am proud of Wilford Nelson, a mere, domestic indoor/outdoor cat. He can't produce offspring after the "surgery" but still, he is serving our nation honorably, as many cats likewise do. And when he's at home, he licks himself clean, enjoys policing the premises for bugs and errant twist ties and, most importantly, he only poops in his box. Bravo Wilford! Well done!
I can't speak Spanish much. And George can't speak English any more than that. But George works for me. We need to be able to communicate. So I asked him to write a post-it note saying what he needed to say to me in Spanish. I took his yellow post-it and typed the words into an online web translation gig/app. Result positive. George was impressed. Then I typed in English what I needed to say to him. It worked. We realized we weren't a million miles apart. I can't complete my daily paperwork without George's input. I sign his paycheck. Obvious. Classic co-dependence.
In the meantime, we talk a bit and learn a little of each others language. Mostly though, that's a matter of George working with me on correct pronunciation. I have a hard time doing well at it, but I'm trying.
Singer and guitarist Alex Chilton, known for his influential work with bands the Box Tops and Big Star, died Wednesday. He was 59. He died at a hospital in New Orleans after experiencing what appeared to be heart problems. As the teenage singer for the pop-soul outfit the Box Tops, Chilton topped the charts with the band's song "The Letter" in 1967.
His work with Big Star had less mainstream success but made him a cult hero to other musicians, as evidenced by the title of the 1987 Replacements song, "Alex Chilton." Big Star's three 1970s LPs all earned spots on Rolling Stone magazine's list of 500 Greatest Albums of All Time.
Chilton said in a 1987 interview with The Associated Press that he didn't mind flying under the radar. "What would be ideal would be to make a ton of money and have nobody know about you," he said. "Fame has a lot of baggage to carry around. I wouldn't want to be like Bruce Springsteen. I don't need that much money and wouldn't want to have 20 bodyguards following me. If I did become really popular, the critics probably wouldn't like me all that much," he said. "They like to root for the underdog."
Chilton had been scheduled to perform with Big Star on Saturday at the South by Southwest music festival in Austin, Texas. "Alex Chilton always messed with your head, charming and amazing you while doing so. His gift for melody was second to none, yet he frequently seemed in disdain of that gift," the festival's creative director, Brent Gulke, said in an e-mail.
Elliot Smith performs a cover of Big Star's "Thirteen"
There will be a Public Dance on Saturday March 13 with Stringbean Svenson and his Fiddlestring Band playing dance music from 7:30 until 10:30 p.m. The dance will be at the Viking Hall at 2900 Canyon Lake Drive Admission price will be $5.00 per person and everyone is welcome to attend.
You are the chewing gum
of God. You are the reason
I know that skin
is only that, holds
more than it meets.
The heart of you is something
I don’t quite get
but don’t want to. Even
a fool like me can see
your broken
beauty, the way
out in this world where most
things disappear, driven
into ground, you are ground
already, & like rice
you rise. Drunken deacon,
sausage’s half-brother,
jambalaya’s baby mama,
you bring me back
to the beginning, to where things live
again. Homemade saviour,
you fed me the day
my father sat under flowers
white as the gloves of pallbearers
tossed on his bier.
Soon, hands will lower him
into ground richer
than even you.
For now, root of all
remembrance, your thick chain
sets me spinning, thinking
of how, like the small,
perfect, possible, silent soul
you spill out
like music, my daddy
dead, or grief,
or both—afterward his sisters
my aunts dancing
in the yard to a car radio
tuned to zydeco
beneath the pecan trees.
Willard Delka stood on his chair in Third Grade and slugged Mrs. Horton in the stomach. I saw it happen. Willard was a missile base kid. Brought to western South Dakota by his Pa who was employed in the construction of nuclear missile silos. Itinerant. Unattached. Blamelessly evil. Scorned.
Willard died in the back of a fruit truck on a cold South Dakota hi-way. Knife wound. Stomach. Ironic.
As of today, I am ensconced in my new Minneapolis digs. It is very cool after a period of wandering aimlessly with only a few anchors; my girl, my sidekick and my truck. These are the three things very dear to me - oh, that and a job (and the truck not so much)! And Ethiopian coffee, Vietnamese food (Pho and Banh Mi Thit Bale). And music (Meat Puppets at the 400, Spoon at First Ave). A broadband connection. Friends. It's all good.
Last year, I fell off the mountain but I'm determined to get back up top. So I'm climbing again. I'm happiest facing challenges. I'm never bored. But I like the view. It's keen!
Pinhead Filson reads his Meatpaper in the morning while seated on his tiny porcelain throne in his miniature recreation of his own mind's eye while restlessly squeezing every ounce out of the day before. It's come to this then he not so silently reasons, as the discarded carp toss in the turmoil below. "I'll be lost to my own degraded wit, a plumb bob to the wallpaper festering with decay in my tiny wool-bedecked pinhead."
It wasn't always this way for Pinhead Filson. At one time he sailed the roiling, cold waters of San Francisco Bay in a tiny skiff, hunting sharks with a sharpened lance and abalone deep below while holding his breath for minutes at a time. He'd scowl at the oyster pirates and later set-up his fellows for rounds at China Bill's on the wharf chewing seal blubber with pickled egg, all the while tickling the giggling Chinese with horsefeathers and broomsticks. But Pinhead took a turn for the worse and egged on by John Barleycorn, took up residence in an opium den.
He lost his money, then he lost his mind. He's never been the same. He fled into the mountains pursued on all sides by his imaginary demons while his once swollen brain-case shrunk to the size of a pinhead. He took to wearing tight fitting skull-caps which only exacerbated the problem until his head resembled his name. He looked around for his fellows but none had met the same fate. He was all alone.
Today even, as Pinhead Filson mounts his throne in his tiny water-closet clutching his Meatpaper, one can hear the wind gusting melodically, calling Pinhead home. He won't get there because it no longer exists.
The deer tick lives in a cave in the mountains and can barely sustain himself. He's an ungrateful parasite that enjoys himself only when he's feeding off another. When the tables are turned he's nasty and mean. A stomper and a slammer of doors. An ineffectual thwarter of his perceived tormentor. Sure, he talks a good game. Burps up his food and suggests it is best to be a giver than a receiver. Conveniently forgetting what's been done for him. Debts forgiven. Gifts. Everything.
Thank God they make a pesticide for his type. It's also a good idea to avoid his habitat. It smells there anyway. Of the deceased and soon to be deceased. Just like any dream he ever had. Just like piss down a rope.
