Archive for the ‘a story’ Category

We re-publish this essay first published in 2014 in tribute to the thousands murdered by the military of Chile backed and supported by the U.S government.

Venceremos, Victor Jara

A year ago a few of us in the Hartford area were quite upset when a LGBT organization was sponsoring an empowerment workshop with the CIA. This workshop was to be held on September 9, 2013 just 2 days before the anniversary of the CIA/USA sponsored coup in Chile. This caused some heated tempers all around and some very condescending attitudes from a few young gay people and their supporters in the organization towards those of us who opposed these workshops. (see link in notes) I wanted to tell my story then but decided to wait, ( as a facebook event page with a hostile audience and shifting allegiances was no place,) until the anniversary of the coup in Chile and the murder of not only the democratically elected president Salvador Allende but the murder of thousands of other Chileans including my lover’s sister and her husband. I looked though a box of slides as I knew that I had a slide of a painting I was working on when the coup happened. Here is the story and and just one of the many reasons why I was appalled that folks I considered to be friends and comrades would ever sit down and break bread with one of the most horrible vile organizations on the face of the planet the CIA.

New York City 1973

It was 1973 in New York City when I did this painting. We were working in our studio down on Lafayette Street when we heard the news. Salvator Allende the president of Chile was dead and a coup d’état backed by the U.S. Government and the CIA had taken place.

chile

Santiago Chile, 1973 Streets.

At this time I was working on a city street painting, you can still see parts of it peeping out from under the red. When we got the news I remember throwing the painting on the floor, pouring red paint and turning and turning the painting around. I smashed glass, cut my hair and all went on the surface of the painting. The red, the blood that ran in the streets. The blood that was shed in the stadium in the days following the coup. The blood of many. Thousands gone. My lover at that time was Miguel Carlos Gomez and he was from Santiago Chile. Miguel finally got word sometime after the coup that his sister and her husband were among the disappeared. Now it became very personal for us, it was not just some coup in another country a coup against our Socialist comrades but a direct hit against our family. His mother knew something was up when Catalina didn’t come to pick up the children after a sleepover at grandmas. She tried calling around but received no answer. The TV stations were off the air. Folks heard that that the military had stormed the university, the presidential palace was bombed, Allende was dead and a junta now replaced the president.  All that the people had hoped for was quickly vanishing. Night came and still no Catalina, no word from her husband Vincento.

How we cried. Our tears as we heard more and more turned to anger. Catalina and Vincento had spent the summer of the year before with us in New York.  Miguel wanted to go back to Chile and search for them but cooler heads among our circle prevailed and he stayed in the city. Everyday was more and more anguish as word came out of Chile about what was happening. Was my sister dropped into the ocean from an airplane? We had heard the rumors. Was she brought to the stadium along with her husband to meet certain death? Did she escape and go into hiding? Where is my sister? Deep down we knew, as Communists they were both dead but we didn’t want to believe it.  I will never forget those days and I will never forgive the government of Nixon, Kissinger the CIA and never will I cozy up to, support or break bread with the likes of the CIA or the people that hold empowerment workshops with them.

I have no idea what happened to the painting. It was included in a artist protest show against the CIA and the Coup in Chile in 1974. Miguel  and I broke up in 1975 and he was going to make his way home to his mother at least that is what he hoped to do. I left for the West Coast. Most of our things were given away and I think that the painting might have ended up in at my parents home among some items that I sent there for safe keeping while I traveled. Heavens only knows what became of the painting after they moved.  But someone knows I am sure what happened to Catalina, Vincento and thousands and thousands of others.

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Minnie Coe, she is a sister of Alice as you may know, sent us a request that we republish a work that she has enjoyed over the years. We said “oh, okay, why not,” we like Minnie, Alice, Mary and Jake friends of ours since the early days when we all ran around Goon City as hippie artists. We looked through our works that she suggested and hit on one that when first published by Queerartist that everyone enjoyed when it was first published.

Here is one of our favorites. Minnie will remember feeding apples to old man Nichole’s cows, teasing the cow with more and running so it would chase us . We hid up a tree until the cow left and then beat it home.

Don’t eat this cow! Save this pancake!

These are the end times and all sorts of end times signs and symbols are popping up. A week or so ago the Virgin Mary was spotted in a Thanksgiving morning pancake, she was seen a month ago in a tree, and then appeared in a fried egg. That gal sure likes to travel. Of course Jesus gets into the act every once in a while and appears in all sorts of odd places. The best was on the screen door. My poor grandmother had just come into the kitchen and low and behold there he was staring back at her. At first she thought it was a hobo who had come up from the railroad track and wanted something to eat, but no she said I have seen that face before staring back at me from the altar of the Swedish church. THATS!!! JESUS! Everyone thought she was crazy except old Ben Jones who bought the screen door from her and put it in his Miracle Museum. Ben charged just a quarter to come in and see some of his miracle collection. Now old Ben Jones has gone on to his great reward, his museum is closed and the items he spent a life time collecting are scattered hither and yon.

Now I don’t know who this is but someone told me its Michael Jackson not the Virgin Mary.

A most blessed event. Someone is watching.

Word was in yesterday that a divine miracle has happened on a farm here in North East. A calf has been born with the sign of the cross on his forehead. Already thousands are making a pilgrimage to the farm to see what wondrous signs have come down from on high. Nobody knows what it all means but by god it must mean something.  I don’t want to make too much fun of this just in case there are any divine creatures flying around out there looking for something to smitten. Not me I will stay a mile away. So enjoy the video of this little Holy Cow. Born a few weeks before Christmas and celebrated as a miracle to some and to others just another cow born on another day, in another week.  Moo Moo Moo.

A cross on the forehead of Moses the calf.

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You remember from our other stories that Arvey Jones as a young man fled his home in Good City with only the shirt on his back, nothing in his pockets except a comb, heading for New York, New York. If you don’t remember the story you can make one up as you go along. Here is Arvey’s recollections of a coffee pot, the one in the photo, that he has been carrying around in all of the travels and settling in over the course of the last 50 some years.

Coffee Pot view with handle.

It was a sunny Saturday, the kind of day that everyone enjoys except for those who like it blasting cold with snow swirling or raining. Yes, I do know there are folks who like such things and I am one of them who likes all things. Never has the weather made me mad, or to cry out loud, “This fucking weather is going to fuck up my plans.” No what ever the weather the weather may be if its good enough for Mother Nature then its good enough for me. I was walking down on the Bowery, the old Bowery not the superficial one that is the Bowery now. The real deal Bowery of flop houses, cheap bars, panhandlers, A.I.Residence, junk shops, cheap clothing stores, used restaurant equipment, and down and out folks all over the place. Gerry warned me, “Stay a night in one of those hotels and get bugs like you wouldn’t believe.”  There was a junk store or a “we got a bit of everything” type of a place that I loved to poke around in and see what I could find. The owner, a delightful older Jewish man took to me right away and we had many a good talks when ever I was around. Well I spied what was to become my coffee pot for many a years after that. If not traveling to my new destination then packed away in my old trunk, stored in someone’s home until I could come back and retrieve it. Coffee pot 5 cents, couldn’t go wrong. A drip coffee maker that Carl told me was a French Drip Coffee Pot and that it made some very good coffee. Some of the best. Here look I have the same type in my back room. Sit down awhile and I will make us a cup of coffee. Carl’s brother ran a business out of the West Village, a work ready place where assignments would come in and he found the people to fill it. He got me the job that I had at the time. He told me about Carl’s store and said I should stop by there as he had good things cheap. Not in it for the money but for something to do. When the going got tough for some folks they knew that if they had something to sell go and see Carl. He was fair and would throw in a couple of extra dollars just because. One thing he wouldn’t deal with was the junkies. I can spot them a mile away and don’t want any of their stolen property. They want to get sober, well I know folks who would help them. But if not stay away.

Coffee all made I have to admit it was some of the best coffee that I had ever drank. So began my love affair with my French Drip Coffee pot. You know I think that if I had one bag to bring on my journeys I would leave out a change of socks, underwear, or any thing else just so my coffee pot would fit. It was my security blanket, a reminder of my home, a token of closeness. This coffee pot has traveled to San Francisco and back to NYC. The pot traveled through all the states in the middle of America. In a suitcase to Sterling City, California and a small steamer trunk to Davenport Iowa. It was in my trunk when I moved to Woodstock New York and came here in the same trunk when I moved to Hartford in 1978.

Coffee Pot view with spout.

I will never forget the afternoon that I couldn’t find my coffee pot. Where, oh where, was it? I searched and searched. I even went out to the dumpster pulled out the bag of trash that I had put in and searched. I finally gave up and said, It must have vanished in thin air or I have a little elf in the house playing tricks on me. I looked at my cat Sammy, “Sammy did you see my coffee pot?” and he meowed back. Well later in the day I went into the refrigerator to get some juice and there I spied it. In a real lapsed I had put the coffee put behind the milk and the juice. “Alleluia,”  I yelled and they heard me the other side of town. Sammy cat came into the kitchen to see what was going on.  Well I went about making a nice cup of coffee so happy that I had found my coffee pot.

I gave up coffee and my French Drip Coffee pot around 20 years ago. At that time there was a scare about using aluminum cooking utensils. But I hung on to the coffee pot. It resurfaced again when I was packing to move. I had placed it in a large kettle stored with a box of candles, wooden matches, and small cooking pans. There in the emergency kettle was my dear old coffee pot. The items were suppose to be used if the lights went out and we needed to cook on a steno burner.  I thought to myself, “How foolish you would never be able to heat up enough boiling water to use in the pot.” So guess what ? I am going to turn it into a work of art. Yeah, Yeah, art.  Now I can’t promise that I will have a show, put the coffee pot in it and make coffee as I would not want to be accused of helping anyone’s diseases along the way. I am sure we all got something brewing in us and of course its not from one cup of coffee from a aluminum drip coffee pot, but you know how it is now-a-days. Everyone knows everything, some know something, there are jack of all trades running around, and a bunch of goof balls in change of the United States. I once knew a anarchist woman who thought a beautiful bouquet of flowers was disgusting because the vase had come from Walmart. Honey get out of the way, you are not going to make any change that way.

So enjoy my photos of the coffee pot and my little recollections. I know just the artist that may want it for one of his terrific installations. I will ask him or maybe leave it on his door step. On the door step would better but I’m not sure where he lives.

Many thanks to Arvey Jones for this first person account of his French Drip Coffee Pot.

 

 

Meet Ruthie Hillard

Posted: July 18, 2017 in a story, art

Meet Ruthie Hillard was first published on Queerartist blog. Queerartist knew Ruthie Hillard growing up in Goon City.  Ruthie would always show with the young artists in town whenever there was a art exhibition. We asked Queerartist if we could re-publish this piece as Ruthie has a lot to say not only about art but about politics too.

Scrap Work, 2002

by Ruthie Hillard

Ruthie Hillard always had scraps lying around. Scraps of this and scraps of that. In Ruthie’s house there was a large room. On one end of the room was a large bay area with many windows. It was there that she had set up 3 old dining room tables. Ruthie never told us where she ever got so many dining room tables as in her dining room she had a nice oak one that matched her china closet and sideboard. Ruthie liked to walk and in her walks she picked up scraps. A scrap of paper, a piece of string, a piece of metal that had fallen off a car. She pulled a shopping cart with a few boxes in it. One for paper, one for metal, one for odd bits of this and that. Of course everyone thought her to be a bit off and according to Ruthie she was of course. Not like them at all. Won’t want to be. So sterile, so fit in the box,  so wonder bread. Little Boxes, Little Boxes the song was written for them. Straight out of the boob tube.

When Ruthie got home after a day of collecting supplies, she would wash her hands, make herself a nice cup of tea, and get to work.  Scrap work is a piece that she gave to my cousin with the instructions to give it to me. She was always working at making her art. I went down to Goon City and asked her, “Ruthie, can I give you a show on my blog?” Well at 88 she really didn’t know what a blog was confusing it with a bog as she was a bit hard of hearing. After explaining to her what a blog was she consented. I went out for a walk around Goon City with Ruthie and she showed me some areas that she thought highly of. “By all means take a picture and put it on your bog.” (she never got it) “These things are as much my art as the things I make in my sun room.” See that window there? If nothing else put that on your bog. So we did put a few of these things on this “bog.” Things that Ruthie pointed out and that I must admit were quite interesting.

A Window That I Admire.

We clapped for this art. It is called Bird King.

 

 

Ruthie and I have no idea what this picture was. But both thought it to be very beautiful and well worth it to include it in this posting. I told Ruthie that I think the photograph was taken when the camera was in the pocket of my coat, I slipped my hand in and my hand hit the picture button. We both loved that idea and I promised I would take some more pictures of inside my pocket for a later posting.

Got Something In My Pocket, art.

Last but not least this is a photo from our walk. It is of Jake’s Corner Store. You see posted on the door Jake is holding a sale of big hair. Come on in. Get your big hair. Soon Halloween will be here and big hair is nice to wear. Stick some birds in it. Maybe some flowers. Add some rubber snakes. Just wear some big hair and everyone will think that you are a star of something.

Ruthie wanted some of her out door work to be shown in this exhibition. She choose one that was done near the pond. At one time Boyce Hubbard had a cabin in the area. He worked for Ruthie’s father doing all sorts of work. The cabin burned down years ago but in digging around one could find broken dishes bottles, glass and all sorts of other things.  Ruthie mapped out the area and said, “anything that I find in this area will be my art supplies for the day.” Ruthie worked for a short time on Monday morning and then took a break and ate her tuna fish sandwich, and drank her bottle of apple juice. She always drank apple juice when out and about as she was afraid if she started on a bottle of wine that she wouldn’t make it home. That happened more than once and many times she woke up under the trees. Ruthie didn’t recall the date that she made these pieces but thinks it might have been sometime in the early 1970s.

Art out doors from Ruthie’s photo album

I asked Ruthie how could she just make some art and leave it out near the pond where probably the kids would wreck it if they came around. Ruthie didn’t seem at all concerned about that. “Well I do hope that they for a few seconds can stop and say, “what the hell is this stuff, and how did it get out here by the pond?” She only worked an area once and that was it. Didn’t even stop to take a look when she passed by the pond, on her way through the pine tree forest to the other side of town or on her way to visit Bessy Bates. One day in the Pine Tree Forest she found a dead black bird, dug a hole, buried it and sang a little song. Ruthie is like that, always mindful of other beings. You know I like the idea of bringing the “whats underground out and into the open, like some dig in ancient lands. My grandfather use to dig down by the river and had an amazing collection of arrow heads, stone tools and other artifacts. When Great Grandfather Bates was alive he could identify each and every thing that my grandfather found. The decision was made to give the whole collection to the historical society and the Bates wrote information about the Wongunks the tribe they belonged to for that section of Goon City history.

This is one of Ruthie’s String Works. She didn’t want any other pictures taken of the other string works in her studio as in her words, “there’s not one in the bunch that I give one rats ass for.” I am not very good at working in string but you can include one just so the viewers will know what I have tried string and couldn’t make a go of it. You know I use to take a good hard look at the cord attached to the vacuum cleaner and I tossed it from here and there. I liked the lines on the floor. I also liked the idea of what the vacuum was picking up as the whole part of this cord art. I tried this art years ago gee maybe around 1969 or so. Gave it up and hope someone else takes it up. I figure its drawing, sound art and disappearance art all in one. Sort of the opposite of painting, where one takes a nice fresh white canvass and mucks it up with paint. Here we take a dirty area and clean it up with the vacuum. Here today gone tomorrow. That’s a good motto.

The first collage is an untitled piece or just say “I have forgotten what it is called.” The collage on the bottom is of the famous accordion player Pauline Oliveros when she was in concert in Hartford Connecticut. Ms. Oliveros was on her back with a leg up playing the accordion. Pauline Oliveros was one of my favorite composers and I was delighted to have met her. In 1984 I went up to Hartford with Janet Owens and stayed for a week to attend the NEW Music America Festival. Pauline played there along with some of the greats in new music. What a week that was.  I will never forget at Center Church, Glenn Branca was playing.  The audience members were offered ear plugs as Glenn’s music was LOUD!! Well I said to the women passing out the plugs how in the world can I hear the music with these in my ears. “Oh, she said, just a warning you may need to tone it down.”  “Well,” said Ruthie, “I got eight fingers and two thumbs if I need to do that.” Sort of defeats the purpose of Glenn’s work. Its a wonder the alter didn’t fall down. Maybe we should move to the back, near the door just in case the rafters start creaking and the whole damn place comes down.  You know what, get a copy of some of his music and take a listen. Well I took Ruthie’s advise and decided that we should post a you tube video of Glenn’s work.

One of my all time favorites has always been Skip La Plante with his music for Homemade Instruments. Musical instruments made from trash. Skip said to the crowd that gathered and I remember his words well when I think about art, “Every object in the world is a potential musical instrument. Every sound in the world is one you can choose to use however you want to.”

Pauline Oliveros New Music America Collage, 1984

2 Tapings

Ruthie used a lot of tape. So much at one time in her collage making that Mr. Sweeny at Sweeny’s Hardware Store asked her if she had stock in any tape companies.

Collage works

The next work is called Landscape, Stripes falling in from the right. Ruthie says these were done when she was much younger probably around age 77. She keeps them wrapped up in the hall closet some of the few pictures that she has bothered keeping. Why keep them? All of them. My god I would have to move out of here and live out the a tent if I keep all of the art I make.  Throw it away, I can always make more. That’s the beauty of it. There is always more to come out. I don’t know why I kept these two all these years.

Untitled , Forsythia branches in a tub.  2009

It doesn’t matter if the branches are the type that will flower after being brought in the house or if they do not. I like to put water in the tub and float anything. Branches are the best. With 3 bathrooms in this house I have my pick. You know here is a funny story. My mother, god rest her soul had her bathroom done over, maybe around 1962 or so. She had all pink fixtures put in. A pink toilet, pink sink, (like the rhyme), and pink bath tub. It was her pink room. My aunt when she came to visit saw the bathroom and loudly exclaimed, “Pink, pink, you stink,” upon entering the room. That was her take on the pink bathroom room.  The photo below is a good take on the pink bathroom. You know one idea pushes another, maybe I will find some of those pink flowering branches and stick them in the pink tub and after the flower decorate that bathroom with them. Maybe.

Anyway this photo was taken in the downstairs bathroom where everything is white. I never use the pink bathroom but if you like you can take a look. Up the stairs to the left and down the hall, third door on the right. If you have to let one go do it in there in honor of my aunt.

Sticks in tub.

How about a little story with this art? (more…)

Image result for love

Everyone is talking about love, love will bring this monster down. Love will shake all foundations and a wide awaking will take the place of this regime’s hateful rehotric. Love, love, love through in a bit of music and maybe we can get the monster to twirl around and around and around and around and dance, dance, dance then fall to the ground just like that foul smelling monster Abbie Yo Yo and plunk, plink wave you love, love wand and he will disappear. Really, but what would be our luck if the monster put a ban on our music? I keep hearing and reading over and over about love conquering all, love will trump hate, like everyone is just going to give up their hate and dislike just like that and become loving beings. Those who hate will still hate and there is not one thing we can do about it. You know we tried all you need is love way back in the day. It got us someplace but not to the place where we should be. How much time do we have in order to get the monster to love? How much education will it take? How long, how long, do we have the time? His works are wicked each and every hour with no let up. He thinks love is for hippies, dirty, smelly with flowers in their hair.

Maybe those who cry love are a privileged comfortable lot never going too far, the beating stick isn’t at this time hitting them upside of their head. Not all of us can just sit there and take it. A hit, a hit, a hit, hit hit, hit, hit, hit, hits. Once we heard again from back in the day that the definition of a Yippie was a hippie that got hit by the cops one too many times. We are going to keep watch and each time a group tells us that love will win in the end, we will post about it. We will post about who they are and what they are up too. We will post if they are beholden to the other evil monster, you know the one the one that is nicer and this one but still bombs the hell out of folks and deports. We want to see just who is promoting this idea and why they are. We suppose that we must try it one more time. Take the high road as they say. Take a beating, take a bullet all will be well bye and bye. Don’t expect any pie as they are not serving today. No one is serving pie get over it. No pie in the sky, you wanted it here but no one really knew how to bake it. Where and what is the reward for being love. We pander then to the tools of the ruling class that has convinced the mainstream that anything other than a lovable struggle against them is forbidden. We must stop worrying about what society, the news media or anyone will think. Smash the window, how bad, bad, bad, but realize that those on the other side of the window are committing a bigger crime. A few broken windows here and there are nothing compare to what some of he corporations are doing in their raping and plundering, their murder and genocide, their destruction of our air and water and their all around greed. Say a big fuck you to the cops, awful, thy are nice fellows and ladies who help to escort the children across the street when there are no old ladies to do it. Privileged folks forgetting that those cops kill, nice one second and all off and in your face the next. Folks who wish to cuddle with them had better get the hell out of the way while the wheel in this time and in this age is in spin. (more…)

Sitting around one Saturday after last Bessy Marie said to Olga, “You know we haven’t gone out to lunch for awhile, can’t even remember when we last did as we are always eating at home on a Saturday and then take a nice little nap get up and start again at what seems like another day.” Olga had to agree we need a little break. Let’s go to the art show a town away and then have a nice lunch at that hamburger place that is all the rave. Nice that would be and we would get in not only a bit of lunch but a spiritual uplift from seeing some art. Olga added that one of the top artists in the area curated and some artists we have heard mentioned are showing in. Let’s see what is out there as one of our favorite artists is showing in that show. Off we went and two buses later arrived for lunch in a busy little café that was quickly filling up a half hour before noon.

Lunch in the freezer. Or we might have well be dining outside in Alaska.

We should have gotten up and left but where else was there to go when one has their heart set on a good hamburger. Nowhere around here in this town. Man is it cold in here, don’t they have any heat? The older lady sitting next to us gals said, “I have to eat with my coat on its so cold.” It feels like a terrible breeze coming from the kitchen door every time it opens. I’m glad I have some soup, which is okay to eat first, hopefully it will warm me up and I can get down to eating my traditional burger with Swiss Cheese and onions.” Damn thought Olga I gotta sit here and just about rub elbows with this couple at the next table. What a crowded place this is. Maybe that is where we will get the heat from each other.

Bessy looked around the dining room and notice that over near the corner no one had their coats on but every table was full. Folks must know get here early as soon as a table was empty someone came and sat down. This certainly  popular place let’s hope the food is as good as the crowds are predicting. We must have gotten there at the right time as the place was filling up rather quickly.

Well finally the waitress came, all bubbly and apologizing for the wait. “Okay, we see you are busy as a bubbling bee and cute as a button to boot,” said Bessy we had fun complaining about the cold weather in here and rubbing our toes together to keep warm. Should have worn my fur lined socks and should have brought a blanket for over my lap and a good wrap. Man eating with my coat on is not my idea of a great time.  Bessy Marie remarked, “I bet there is more heat in a Puritan Meeting House. Foot warmer rocks needed here.”

Scanning the menu Bessy Marie decided on a lunch called, I luv Pastrami, “Wow said Bessy what a great sandwich.” It was a delicious burger with nicely cooked pastrami on top ($11.00). A well grilled hard roll with creamy horseradish, lettuce tomato, raw onion and Swiss cheese. Yum, Yum what a tasty sandwich.  Olga being the traditional one in the bunch ordered a Traditional Burger ($9.00). Honey please the lettuce is limper than a old man’s dick. Nice cheese and a well cooked burger. Its funny Olga said that with all the trouble in the food industry that restaurants would still ask people is they want meat rare, medium rare or well done?  What comes with the burger? Just some coleslaw UGH a slimy mystery pile of wilted cabbage with a weak pickle juice sauce. Strangest coleslaw we had ever tried along with a run of the mill limp Dill pickle. No bite no crunch no dill in that pickle causing Olga to wonder, “Is that pickle real?” French fries were an extra charge, only $3.25 and large enough and tasty enough and we shared a basket. Cute little basket it was modeled after a fryer basket. Better than other places were we have tried the French Fries, not greasy and done just right but what a surprise that a lunch didn’t come with the fries. Now what some would call the piece de resistance was the peanut butter pie, more like a brownie. served on a blanket of confectionary sugar a few squirts of chocolate, a nice dollop of whipped cream.  If this has any peanut butter in it I am a monkey’s uncle. Where is the peanut flavor? Maybe if we sing that song, Found a Peanut some flavor will appear?  Now I’m no pie maker but I bet I could make a better pie 10 miles from the kitchen on a rainy day with only a campfire. “Oh your such an exaggerating old coot you don’t even know how to boil water,” Bessy Marie the baker, the cook, the bottle washer and all around Kitchen Queen exclaimed, setting Olga in her place with that one. “Now hold on here that is just the point I am trying to make.”

We never care for a waiter or waitress who every time he or she passes our table says, “How is everything, are you enjoying your meal?” Well snorted Olga as long as I can keep defrosting the icicles that are forming at my nose so they don’t cut into my lip with each bite I will be okay.  Why do they always ask when you have just taken a bite of lunch and are chewing. Not talking with ones mouth full is a rule that one learns way back, most likely in dining at the table 101 for very young people, along with not spitting out your food, talking with your mouth full, farting, eating with your fingers, wiping your mouth with your sleeve and proper cutting into manageable size bites meat. But we loved her anyway. We always take kindly to our working class comrades and always  make sure to give them a great tip. Our little bubbly bee received $15.00 dollars from us and she thought we had made a mistake. Just take the money and run before we change our minds due to you questioning our judgement. Buy your self something nice and we hope you don’t declare the tip, just put it in your pocket and say, “those old gals, didn’t even leave me a penny.”

We are sure that you don’t make all that much due to the crummy laws in this state concerning what a place of business may pay a waiter or waitress. (1) Now if we ruled the place we would make it a law that all workers must start at a wage of $20.00 per hour. Any tips given for a job well done is for just that and one should not need to declare them.  You know honey a waiter or waitress works hard, always running on their feet all the time, serving all types of people, keeping orders straight, smiling, being nice and taking whatever shit a customer gives out. (2)

One thing this place has going for it is the restroom. They didn’t smell which is such a drawback in any restaurant and bar. These were clean. One was not afraid to park there naked butt on the toilet seat with no worry that a bit later, a itch would start and then another or a pimple would break out or a rash on the ass is no joy of living just because one had to pee using a strange toilet.

All in all we will give this restaurant 4.5 stars outta 10.

Overall this isn’t a place we would come back to. (more…)

“When did you become so defiant?”

Posted: January 12, 2017 in a story

I had a good laugh today. I was in conversation with a much respected person on the left and he said, “Tell me when did you become so defiant? Well now what a great question. I suppose if I thought about it I was always a defiant child. I defied the play norms of what a boy should play with and who he should play with. I defied how a boy should act, loving to get all dolled up in satin and silk gowns that were hanging in the attic and creating wigs with piles of curtains that would put the wigs of Marie Antoinette to shame. I defied the poor vrs rich norms and stole old man Bevin’s apples and then let his cows out of their pasture. I defied the sexual norms and would rather look at naked boys and play around with them than with naked girls and on and on I could probably think of more but you get the story.

But my real turning point came one day in the late 50ties or early 60ties. Now I don’t have time to try to figure out just what year it was. But it was one of those years when the air raid drill would sound and we were all suppose to stop what we were doing, duck and cover and if home go down into the basement and hide from the Russian bombs. I often wondered what the people way on the other side of town, way out there up near the lake or in the backwoods near the mud hole would do as they certainly could not hear the air raid whistle. So the bomb would drop and poof they would be gone with out any warning. Suppose its better that way. Take a listen to this song that terrified so many kids.

I can’t for the life of me remember what day of the week it was but know we were all home from school and my mother was home from work. My father who knows where he was most likely hanging off a bar stool, maybe at work, we’ll give him the benefit of the doubt and say that is where he was at work hiding under his machine. But on that day it was announced that there was to be an air raid drill and if you heard the air raid whistle everyone should duck and cover or in our case at home go into the basement and hide in a corner.  Well whatever time the fire chief, the police and the air raid specialists deemed to be the time the Russians would drop their bombs the whistle wailed and wailed. My sisters ran to the basement door, along with my mother taking with them whatever they could carry to sit out the bombing of Goon City. “Come on,” they said to me and our grandmother. “Shouldn’t we go hide too as I have heard those Russians are such nasty people and they have bombs as big as our bombs if not even bigger and if we don’t hide we will all get blown up.” “Well,” my grandmother said, “if the bombs are dropped it won’t matter if I am here in the kitchen making my apple pies or down in the basement under the stairs.” “We’ll all be dead no matter what.” Being a follower of my grandmother I stayed upstairs and made apple pies. My sisters told me that they use to knock on the basement wall to my cousins hiding under their basement stairs as she said, “just to make sure they were still alive.” But I made pies and defied such nonsense and my grandmother gave the basement crew the, “you fools” look when they emerged to a world just the same as it was before they went to hide in the basement. I stayed and made apple pie and defied something bigger than my own little world. I defied the US government and the Russian bombs.

Here is some propaganda that was floating around during those days.

Here is a good one:

When you see a flash of light brighter than the sun—
Don’t run; there isn’t time.
Fall flat on your face.
Get Down Fast!

The recommendation in most of the literature at that time was to stay down for “at least a minute.”

Kathy remembers it well: “A warning siren would sound, and you were to immediately, in an organized fashion, take cover “Duck and cover” as it were. If you were outdoors on the playground (and this is where I remember having to do these drills), you were to line up in an orderly line and shuffle single file into the fallout (bomb) shelter. By the time we’d get everyone in, we would have all been “glowing in the dark”. But I guess it lulled people into thinking that they were being proactive and doing something.’

File this under the government knew what would happen if the big flash came to town;

Shadows of humans after the bomb blast in Hiroshima 1945.