Scribble scrabble goes the thought,
Sitting in a tumor of deleterious grief.
The trouble is money,
The trouble is power,
The trouble is punny,
But the rhyme scheme sucks.
It really sucks.
Seriously.

Take that—that’s a snowball to the solar plexus!
“Who can make me happy?”
“I dare ya”.
“Nope.”
“Fail.”
“Epic Fail.”
“lol”
“Not heady enough.”
“Not sexy enough.”
I’m certain that everything I’ve ever said is never enough!

Okay….
There’s a type of hollowness in my eye that shrinks from the conflict of a perfect ice-cream sundae.
Who can name all the countries in Africa?
I bet that takes a lot of “Z’s”!
“What happened to the ice-cream thought?”
It disappeared someplace in the Republic of the Congo.

Democratic ramblings from a mind that hopes for distraction.
Republican hopes for a distraction that minds for a rambling.
Nobody actually has any idea why.
So why believe in my analysis?
“I don’t.”
*Sigh*

I just want a simple answer: yes or no.
Is there anyone besides me I can blame… or you can blame… or anyone can blame?
I mean, let’s get some proof!
Let’s find someone positively insane:
Dr. Oz, Dr. Phil, Dr. Dre, doctors who believe in the sagacity of prefixes.
Zaire.
“What did you call me?”
A country in Africa. (Well, a former country in Africa. It’s really the same thing as the Congo. But maybe it counts. Maybe not. Who knows? Don’t worry—nobody’s gonna read this far.)
“That’s over.”
Who said we should stop?
“The Gods of cool.”
Oh, those guys rule.

Two examples:
1) Guy walks into a bar.
2) Guy writes atonal love song about walking into a bar— avoids bumping head.
(There is no third guy, because the third guy is busy making money from something and impressing people with his nonchalance towards anything having to do with walking, bumping, or atonal love songs. He does not participate under any circumstance. His name is probably awesome. He plays the 12 string guitar.)

Scribble scrabble goes the thought,
Sitting in a tumor of deleterious grief.
“Money”, “Punny”, “Power”, “Sucks”.
Zambia, Zimbabwe, Zaire (or the Congo, or… mom, thanks for reading this far. Happy New Year!).

NEW JERSEY COUNTRYSIDE: FLORA AND FAUNA

Reluctantly leaving my wife in Cherry Hill New Jersey on the afternoon of July 17, I drove alone toward Summerville in that state.  First I scooted up route 295, a superhighway, to Lawrenceville; then I chose to make my way North on secondary roads that turned out to be circuitous and thus extended the time of my travels in the first day.  Yet the roads were pretty, winding through some of the finest rolling farmland in the state, small towns with their photogenic white porches and flower boxes sporting small red and blue buds in the afternoon sun.  I say farmland, for it once was; yet today this land is largely inhabited.  Much of it is houses, yards and driveways, separated as if to relieve the eye by fields, some of which extend to a wooded horizon.

It is one thing to be in this idyll; it is another thing to drive through it.  Gone are the days of Thoreau’s wagon rides through the Maine countryside.  At a horse’s pace, Thoreau was able to catalogue every fence post and flower if he wanted to.  Often he noted a species by the side of the muddy road; once he even insisted on stopping the wagon to pluck it, much to the irritation of the driver and fellow passengers.  There is a feeling of belonging to the scene in a wagon, but this receives the back of the hand when driving a car in New Jersey. 

As I passed over small crests and into modest dips in the road, through sharp curves and bearing into gradual ones, my sensation was dominated by the movement; I did not intuit the place through which I passed.  It was as if either the place or I were no more than a television image, fleeting, sunsplashed, then an instantaneous memory.  The remembered image of that drive is like a Kalaidoscope. 

Though an idyll, much of central New Jersey is a spoiled one at best.  Overviewed from the flight up its roads, this lush countryside is dense with people and their objects, no more prominent of which is demonstrated than the multivariate species of automobiles streaming incessantly throughout.

The traffic artery is clogged with a variety of sports utility vehicles, clearly the car of choice in New Jersey.  Every manufacturer in the world makes them.  There are many big bruising Brunos with belligerent grills that seem to project a kind of bar room power.  There were modest, but not diminutive suv’s that carried their still considerable bulk for the safety of some drug executive’s wife - and there she was, driving that big thing with all the aplomb and security of a babe in a carriage.  Then there were the little big things - the suv’s for folks who wanted more space and transport capacity, but were slightly embarrassed by the rolling riches they had bought - and especially by the global environmental impact they were wreaking by buying and driving a vehicle regulated leniently as if it were an industrial truck, but used casually like a motorcycle with a side car for seven.  These little ones are boxy cars (trucks) with the patina of the fine foreign label and little of the testosterone rich decoration that the meaty American based companies lavish on their monsters.  The little suv says, gently: “I know this is an suv, but, look! - it’s a small modest one.  I still care about the environment!”

Though the suv is de riguer in New Jersey, the road is populated with various other machine forms that give the stream of traffic much color and spice.  More than once, I observed a two seat sports car - Jaguar, Mercedes or Volkswagen - zipping down the road (or tailing me like a teenager with grey hair on Saturday night).  These, along with the occasional Camaro, reminded me of the days when your wheels were your story, and kids with style would flaunt their cool with their hair in the air and the Beach Boys blasting.  There were songs about these cars, sung with abandon by the pretty girls they attracted to the lucky guy’s front seat - and by egg heads like me secretly, alone, as I drove my mother’s grey four door Chevy sedan carefully on down the line.  I saw one muscle car, a Thunderbird with bulging headlight eyes, and an endless racing stripe on the side.  I got out my Springsteen CD and put it in the slot.

Thus entertained with the soft lensed memories of a simpler time, and with the blasting, old fashioned rock and roll in my abused ears, I flew, New Jersey driver style, through the small towns and fields in the center of the state, into a massive snarl of two lane traffic near Somerville, where converge several of the signal arteries of the land - Routes 206, 202, 22, 28 and 287.  202 angles in from Flemington and the Northwest; 206 forges North from the Trenton area and storied South Jersey; 22 and 28 slice through this area from the West and head on to New York City, where all roads are said to reach their glorification at last.  287 was my objective this afternoon, for it would take me directly North through the center of the State, and over the border into New York State, where I would proceed. roughly parallel to the Hudson River, thence to the East and into Connecticut. 

This plan seemed straightforward when traced on the map; however, to avoid the traffic snarls of a Friday on the Turnpike and the (Garden State) Parkway, I was destined to brave the rough water of the Somerville Convergence, where six mighty streams, draining travelers from the four corners of this drivers’ homeland, empty into a single traffic circle, just before the entrance to route 287.  Gone was the elegy of Terhune’s world.  I left behind the quaint porches and hawk hunting fields.  My car was my armored tank; the horn was my cry, and I entered this great circle with the ferrous determination of Achilles meeting Hector at last.

Tribute to Pates Baroni, Fallen Comrade

If the video is stuttering or not loading fast enough, try the crappier Youtube version: Here

]]> http://receivingme.com/blog/archives/3972/feed http://receivingme.com/blog/archives/3957 http://receivingme.com/blog/archives/3957#comments Fri, 24 Jul 2009 01:42:04 +0000 Bernard Bygott http://receivingme.com/blog/?p=3957

A long, long time ago in a galaxy where people put content on this blog, Co-Founders, Bernard Bygott and Leslie Fox, recorded stuff with no preparation at all. Part of that session was posted on this blogazine– who can forget the extremely creative title “Subjects Unknown: Part 1“? Shortly thereafter, all RM? contributors went on vacation, promising ... [continue]]]>

A long, long time ago in a galaxy where people put content on this blog, Co-Founders, Bernard Bygott and Leslie Fox, recorded stuff with no preparation at all. Part of that session was posted on this blogazine– who can forget the extremely creative title “Subjects Unknown: Part 1“? Shortly thereafter, all RM? contributors went on vacation, promising never to come back. One can only assume that Part 1 really was that bad. Here’s part 2!

Subjects Unknown: Part 2 (recorded aprox. 150 B.C.)
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]]> http://receivingme.com/blog/archives/3957/feed http://receivingme.com/blog/archives/3947 http://receivingme.com/blog/archives/3947#comments Sat, 13 Jun 2009 17:30:39 +0000 Freeman Frohlich http://receivingme.com/blog/?p=3947 Like a wave of humidity rolling up the Delaware, a fresh optimism has spread over the City of Brotherly Love.  Reports from training camp are that Donovan McNabb, freshly invigorated from a transfusion of tens of millions of dollars, is throwing “lazer” [sic].  New wideout Jeremy Maclin has been confirmed as indeed a wideout, and one drafted by the Eagles.  ... [continue]]]> Like a wave of humidity rolling up the Delaware, a fresh optimism has spread over the City of Brotherly Love.  Reports from training camp are that Donovan McNabb, freshly invigorated from a transfusion of tens of millions of dollars, is throwing “lazer” [sic].  New wideout Jeremy Maclin has been confirmed as indeed a wideout, and one drafted by the Eagles.  Hank Baskett has impregnated a playmate.  Shawn Andrews is laughing because of jokes more than mental instability.  Potency abounds.

The media has read the tealeaves and they all say: Super Bowl!  Book your tickets!  Invest in the Miami insurance industry, because Iggles fans are coming south like a rabid pack of face painted Huns.  Or like those dudes in Braveheart.  Thunderdome.  The Eagles of Death Metal.  Death by chocolate.

Like the first forty-eight minutes of a Law and Order episode, Eagles fans want to TiVo through the regular season and get right to the point.  We’re looking at you Brady, and your hot wife or whatever, and that baby mama of yours, but mostly you in a “you ready for this?” kind of way.  Be intimidated.  All that is past is prelude; all that happens between now and next February is as predictable as Cristiano Ronaldo’s syphilis test.  The outlook is positive.

Some of this spending may even be having a positive effect. The banking system seems to have stabilized, and it’s now become possible to imagine a future economy that does not rely on the barter system.

But this president isn’t content with merely trying to save the economy, no, the agenda moves on. Last month the president signed a credit card reform act that ensured that no American need ever enter one of our national parks without a handgun. God bless America and dad-blast varmints.

But, despite these signs of progress and steps toward reform, problems continue to surface. This last week saw the final death rattle of GM’s solvency. Now comes the limbo of chapter 11. Will bankruptcy render GM down to sweet succulent broth of viability? Or will there be nothing left but a scorched sludge of gristle-like assets too laden with debt and decrepitude to sell? Only time will tell, or to put it another way, I’m no longer sure what question I was trying to ask, but I would like some soup.

It’s enough to make one wonder how the president found time to hit New York City with Michelle for dinner and a show. Many feel that president’s callus act, taking time off on a Saturday to do fun things with his wife, was a disgusting and decadent display that shows how out of touch he is with struggling Americans who have lost their jobs, health insurance, or higher brain function.

Senator Mitch McConnell, (R) Kentucky, led the chorus of outrage. “In this time of economic crisis, when good, god fearing Americans are forced to sell blood and semen just to put good Kentucky bourbon on the table, it seems inappropriate for the president to live in an extravagant white mansion in a fashionable section of Washington DC.” The Senator went on to say “Seriously, how can the president spend a weekend gallivanting up to NYC for a stupid show with his wife when he doesn’t even have time to join my fantasy baseball league?”

Mr. McConnell was not alone in his criticism of the president’s off duty activities. Senator Joe Lieberman, (I) Connecticut, also chimed in. “There are other more cost effective ways for the president to recreate. For example, I have a karaoke machine, and if the president were to come by, say Thursday night, and bring some Smirnoff ice, or maybe a bottle of zinfandel, I know we could have a great time while doing our duty by the taxpayer.”

But perhaps the most vociferous attack came from RNC head Michael Steele. “All I’m asking for is some transparency. Like when he tells me he is too busy to come to my cookout on Memorial Day (I have a Jacuzzi for cripes’ sake) I assume that he is doing boring presidential stuff. Then I hear later that he was playing golf with some of his friends. It’s like, come on I like golf too. I have clubs and everything.” Said the visibly upset Steele.

In response to these critics the president released this statement. “I took my wife to New York because during the campaign I promised her I would. Everyone is still invited to the White House this Saturday for Twister and a Horror movie marathon. There will be punch and pie.”

*Our resident classicist says that this might not be true. Whatever, it should be.

What happens when Leslie and Bernard don’t tell each other what they plan to podcast about? Listen to part 1 and find out…

Oh yes, and now I type other words here so that the layout looks okay, and you excuse me because who else do you know that spends this much time entertaining you for free. Sometimes you get what you pay for!!!

Subjects Unknown: Part 1
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