Ballet & pk

/ Music&Art /

Dancing, including ballet, has meant more to me than average. I’m a dancer, I dated dancers, dancers on Broadway, but I never tried ballet. I did however not join the crowds, my “peers”, posing against it. I got dirty looks I can still feel under my skin the summer of 1956 when I mentioned at work that I’d attended a ballet. QED: I must be a faggot!

Being a good dancer cost me: socially, economically, but in my thirties it also started making me some money.

GH Rothe, Interlude
G.H. Rothe, Interlude, mezzotint

The Rothe edition I published in the mid-1970s, Interlude, was I believe her best mezzotint to date! One of its distinctions was to be small: at a time when she was rocking up 40″ plates. My other Rothe editions from that period were also small.

PK Fine Arts, Ltd. became known for ballet art. Other ballet artists flocked to me: from more than one style.

Gail Bruce, Ballet Dancers, serigraph
Serigraph by Gail Bruce

I’ll scan and add my David Tamerin lithograph, Her Mind Moves Upon Silence.

Scrapbook for more

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Induction Stories

Recreating (and advancing) pk’s censored domains: Macroinformation.org & Knatz.com / Stories / HierCon / Army /

Culture has literature. Government has forms. One of the induction station forms had a section totaling perhaps one half a square inch of writing space for comments. It reminded me of the time I decided to write in my gubernatorial choice at the poll. You could flick a switch for the Republican candidate or the Democratic. Or you could, if your were a cross between Wilt Chamberlin and Harry Houdini, cipher markings into the teeny slit for the purpose, up by the booth’s ceiling. The slot kept trying to close, keeping my ballot secret from me. There was room for perhaps my initials, perhaps the word “me.” To write “Nelson Rockefeller” I would have had to have the calligraphic skill of a miniaturist: one of the guys who illuminated medieval books of hours.

I volunteered my comments into this half inch of space and continued them crazy quilt in the margins all over the form. My choice was clear. Stand for my conscience and spend five years in jail; or tell a lie under duress and spend two years in the army. I explained that my not screaming denial at the swearing in ceremony meant nothing but that they had me by the balls. Such a vow wouldn’t stand up for one second in any honest court (if there ever were such a thing as an honest court: I sometimes doubt that God’s court will be honest).

39 Whitehall St
Whitehall Induction Station, NYC
Anti-War Protest, 1966
thanx NYT

I was processed in the early 1960s.

I referred to this statement of mine on more than one occasion in the couple of years that followed with me in uniform. No one I so addressed ever admitted to having seen it, never hinted that they suspected its existence. Bureaucracies notice only the records they chose to: all others are automatically “lost.” It wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest if my form had been filed in the circular file. Who monitors government agencies for filing errors? Has any bureaucrat ever gone to jail for losing a form? Even when such loss can ruin a life? Deny Constitutional “Rights”? Etc.?

I love to imagine a Judgment Day in which the thief’s fingerprints glow for all to see: and God shows candid camera records of every act thought done in secret. Truth will count in the long run.

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East Village

Recreating (and advancing) pk’s censored domains: Macroinformation.org & Knatz.com / Personal / Stories / pk by Age / Draft Loom Limbo / (thru grad school)
@ K. 2003 11 25

1960s

My personal stories menu organizes things mainly chronologically (Kid, Teen)) or by theme (Skiing, Fishing). Typical enough, right? It’s just occurring to me that an interesting perspective could be had by modeling lives geographically. I wrote a paper in grad school that wowed the professor on the symbolic significance of compass directions in Milton’s Paradise Lost. (Maybe the professor hadn’t read much Leslie Fiedler who explains all that kind of thing as standard.) (That consciousness, nowhere more evident than in Huck Finn, prepped me for reading Faulkner: the shoeless pregnant gal’s journey west, just behind her child’s father’s progress with the timber company in Light in August: civilization: overpopulation following deforestation. (Jared Diamond trumps all of us with his east-west history of the world, Guns, Germs, and Steel.

Man trickled north out of Africa, but raced east and west through Eurasia once womankind discovered agriculture. We grew wheat in the Shatt al Arab and the next thing you know the Jews wanted beach front property on the Mediterranean. We kind of stuck at the British Isles to the west and the Japans to the east until Columbus lucked onto the New World: lucky for the invaders; unlucky for everything else. By Faulkner’s Civil War times, we were destroying everything like locusts.

Gangs of New York shows the same time period more northward: same time period when my grandparents, both paternal and maternal, came in through New York. Fresh out of the army and just starting graduate school full time, I, pk, grabbed a dinky apartment on Manhattan’s Lower East Side. It was called the Garden of Eden. It even had a mural of the Temptation (which I’ve already elsewhere stated that I later learned had been painted by my later-friend, artist, and patron Gatja Rothe!). (Fiedler, had I known you then, I should have sent you a postcard the same day!)

My father quipped on how proud my grandparents had been to move from the lower east side out to Brooklyn, how proud they had been that he, my father had then moved to the open spaces of Jamaica, Queens, how proud he had been to then move from a tightening Jamaica to a wide-open Nassau County … and here, he grieved, I’d regressed back to the lower east side!

I remember how big the house we’d left on Hillside Avenue (Jamaica) had been, how huge the yard. The last time I was on Hillside Avenue I tried to guess where it might have been (never having knows cross-street names at age three). The only thing open about Hillside Avenue then would have been the cut you’d get from all the broken glass.

1963 or so my girl friend’s sister (through whom I’d met my girl friend) was paling around with some middle aged commie alcoholic named Lev. Lev hadn’t come to Marxism: he’d been raised Marxist! (and atheist) from the cradle, a missionary-commie-atheist: an atheist crusader. Always broke, seldom employed, an amazing pussy hound for a really ugly guy with a Falstaff belly, Lev would crack everybody up by telling the West End bartender, “Just wring the bar rag out into a glass.” Lev came into some luck by getting wrecked but not killed by an insured driver. Lev walks into the Old Reliable Bar on East 3rd between Avenues B and C, lights up the livid new scars all over his face, produces his lawyer’s statement of his expectations, and suddenly Lev has credit: a tab good for years. The Old Reliable can sponsor his drinking himself to death via a lien on his estate.

If the visitor has already seen some of the pk-in-New-York stories that have been here the longest, you know that I’d been a west-Village man through college. Indeed, you can’t get further west than my beloved Whitehorse Tavern without wetting yourself in the Hudson River. Actually, just tracing pk around Manhattan from the mid-1950s through the mid-1960s could source a mythology: West 52nd Street with its jazz clubs, West 53rd and MOMA … then Morningside Heights and Columbia … then the Village: from Macdougal Street, Bleeker Street, over to Hudson Street, Bethune Square, Sheridan Square … In the army I shuttled from Morningside Heights to the Battery and Whitehall Street. Graduate School was old turf: NYU is right on Washington Square.

Washington Square
thanx urban75

Fifth Avenue buts up against Washington Square at its south end.

The first time I’d gone to the lower east side, 1958 or so, I’d lucked out: I met my beloved Jackie at a party in a loft nearly under the Manhattan Bridge. But my other visits nearly made me sick. I let a guy talk me into toking on his reefer on the lower east side. Yich. People who had apartments in the Village tended to have cute little potted plants; people who tended to prefer the East Village, or, God forbid, Chamber Street lofts (lofts that would later become SOHO, TriBecca) must have studied behavioral psych at Columbia, because everything there looked like a rat’s nest. But there were lots of such people. They thought rats’ nests were great.

So it shouldn’t have surprised me, the kind of life I found through the Old Reliable.

One difference was huge. I was going to NYU; but my social ties were still all uptown, Columbia-associated. Through the Old Reliable I met very different types. It was far more NYU, Cooper Union, this and that art school down there. Over in the White Horse it was all intellectuals bumping up against British seamen (more Celtic than English: Welshmen, Scots, some Irish …) In the Old Reliable it was lunatic artists bumping up against street cleaners, whores, welfare people … The Whitehorse was pretty robustly heterosexual. The Old Reliable was bisexual, bi- or tri-racial gang bangers.

You want to see the difference? See the movie, Basquiat. That‘s the lower east side: Basquiat slept in a cardboard box in Thompson Square Park. In Pollack you’re sort of midway: the Cedar Bar. The Cedar is actual Village, but near 5th Avenue, which splits Manhattan east and west: alcoholic artists with just as much business eastward as westward. In the Whitehorse, the seamen were from Glasgow: and Hudson Street was as far into North America as they got (one block).

In the Whitehorse you were either slumming with a bosun, singing with an Irishman, or intellectualizing with a poet; in the Old Reliable you were most liable to be a black militant willing to get blown by a white conceptual artist. What Lev liked about it, why he even asked for a tab there, I don’t know, but Lev’s friends there appalled me. Imagine that you’re working on your doctoral thesis: you’ve noticed that Shakespeare’s sonnets are split between a Fair Love (male and aristocratic) and a Dark Lady (female and common), that a meta-oxymoron forms between those two poses, and further that the contrastive elements can be formally mapped against the central conflict of the late Middle Ages: that between Authority and Experience. The poet loves the rich aristocrat with a love that’s all theory, all words: very orthodox; and both the aristocrat and the poet love (actually make love to, have actual orgasms) the dark woman: so common she is that she gives them both the clap! And here you are wasting time listening to a homosexual artist discussing with a bisexual artist racial differences in the taste of shit: both discussants liking to rim as well as blow (but both like best to rim and blow black guys!) And while this discussion is taking place, the bi-sexual artist’s wife, a school teacher and mother of several, is likely to be taking three guys home to show them that all of her holes are open to men dedicated to rhetoric about violent revolution.

I’m not happy with this telling thus far, but hell, it’s a first draft. I’ll come back for more, maybe straighten out what precedes.

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Monthly

Monthly: scrapbook re-dated the first of each month: chronology on convenience, not history
(I keep dozens of scrapbooks here, a dozen or so of them I made (past tense) “monthlies”: that is, I dated them the first of the month, updating the fictional date each month. But now I’ll keep just one: this one. Here I’ll jot notes to be further developed, maybe elsewhen, maybe moved elsewhere. This is, some may promote to modules; others may remain entries in scrapbooks.) Excess will go to a Monthly Archive.

Hef’s Playmates
2015 06 22 https://gma.yahoo.com/holly-madison-reveals-details-life-playboy-mansion-165920716–abc-news-celebrities.html
A Playboy whore lives in the mansion, finds a Hef document declaring that if at the time of Hef’s death this girl is still living in the mansion, she will inherit $3M. She’s indignant. What? Does he think he can buy me??? Honey, I think he did buy you: top to bottom.
You have no business understanding my attitude to Playboy and the whole schmear unless you know that Playboy turned my Puritan stomach from its first issue though to today, two thirds of a century later. I read Esquire, posted Esquire calendars, but still in the early 1950s gave that up too.
Don’t get me wrong, this Puritan fucked a gillion women of my own. So it’s a different kind of Puritanism.

Trump this!
2015 06 15 I phoned Jan this morning, no surprise there. Her machine picked up, no surprise there either. And no worry, she’ll phone when she can: at least I’ve touched base with her no matter when she returns the call: so long as we dine together, read together … sleep together, watch Steph Curry together … Ah, but when she calls she tells me that she didn’t answer because she was busy being enthralled by Donald Trump, running for pres.
I tell her, Oh, good, the better because you didn’t have to put up with me moaning and groaning and scooffing.
See? the only thing I want to hear from a politician is that they’re committing suicide. I’m an anarchist: except to cut the human population back toward zero, I don’t want to hear anything from anyone-such. Jan knows that, but she’s a Republican: a Republican with a current enthusiasm, a current hope. She wants to see Trump run the government like a business!
What an awful thought: like a business? Business is what’s already put us over the edge, business is 90% of why we have no future.
I ask her, What business does anyone have treating government like business, unless their business is fascism.
See? If business entices us to want to drive a Chevy, that’s fine, so long as we’re enticed, seduced; not ordered, not compelled. In business you don’t owe the money till you’ve agreed to the purchase. Government is the opposite. Pure compulsion.
Trump can say, Last year I tried to rent you the property; this year I can just compel your compliance with a contract you never signed.
Grr.

Pharoah Crown
2015 06 06 I’ve lived through lots of horses winning the Kentucky Derby, then the Preakness, only to gasp and fade at the mile and a half of the Belmont. I’ve long heard this and that reason for it: to cite one example, the competitors aren’t compelled to race all three races, but to win the “triple crown” the horse must: run all three, win all three. It’s only these past few days that I heard a reason that should compel attention: it takes a horse three weeks to recover from a race of a mile plus: running the horse sooner is like asking Frazier to face Ali again while he’s still black, blue and purple from the last battle: like getting Shakespeare drunk after the premier of Hamlet, then urging him to rite Lear the next day: not just hungover, still drunk.

Betting which branch will produce which twig to produce which leaf which will first touch the roof doesn’t do much harm, though anyone should understand an argument that the difference is arbitrary; which plant is the better photosynthesizer, which plant digs deepest for water, these are real differences: nature and evolution related. Meantime: I agree that the Triple Crown, silly as it is, would be less silly if the three races were spaced three weeks apart: run the Belmont in July.

Chair
2015 05 28 email to theMarcus:

a word further on A Thousand Months:
I do not recommend you see it, but: a detail followed hard on the detail I already mentioned: priceless:
The kid loves his father, he’s told the father is off in France, not true, the father is in jail, along with practically all the other males, political prisoners.
The women line up to visit, haven’t seen their men for a year, no trials, all very “illegal”.
The Nazis announce that all visits are cancelled, Go Home.
Our woman wants to know Why: she’s knocked down, dragged away by the cops.
Grandfather tries to plead with the thugs, he crawls on his knees, begging, imploring, Forgive her, forgive her, trying to cling to the cop’s robe: praying to the cop, all peasant to shah body language. The cop beats grandpa while grandpa persists in trying to pray to the Nazi!
One other word: the kid is special, he gets to carry the teacher’s chair. Throughout the film this kid is carrying the chair.
Americans don’t know what a chair is traditionally, can’t have it explained, from a totally alien universe: chair does not mean comfort, does not mean convenience, it means Authority!
The king, the pope, sits, not because he’s tired.

School, Lies, Myth
2015 06 22 One of those infuriating popup, top ten, top twelve, this or that: there’s one today on lies told by schools. First it says that Van Gogh didn’t cut his own ear off, Gaugin cut it off with a sword in a duel. Maybe: but a mistake in fact is not a lie: not until it’s deliberately repeated as a falsehood. It goes on with a bunch of bromides like Columbus didn’t discover America, the Greeks “knew” the earth was not flat … Then Lincoln and slavery is addressed: where some falsehood is diminished to a “myth”. No! Myth and fiction are not synonyms. A lie is not a myth, a mistake is not a myth: not until the culture has lied to itself and mistaken everything for a long time: then it’s myth.
Like ferinstance: it’s a myth that women, females, are, and always have been, the source of all evil. First you have to swallow forged biblical documents, generations of false scholarship.
School wouldn’t be so evil if we weren’t forced to go to it: for our daily propaganda diet. Some little Baptist church elevating lies to divine messages aren’t nearly as bad as a universal catholic church draining whole economies into its monopolist maw while it deceives us one and all.

NBA
2015 06 22 I love the NBA. I love Stephen Curry. I love certain players, certain teams, certain periods of “destiny”. I loved Jordan’s tongue sticking out, I love Steph Curry’s stroke. I got to watch Chet Forte practice trick shots every day in 1956-1957, my crew locker, indoor winter tanks season, was just above the basketball court. So: I know great strokes: and I’ve never seen a greater smoother more repeatable, less defendable stroke than Steph’s.
Meantime: I wear beards, have since I was 15 years old. Beards are not a big deal to me: with an exception: I hate James Harden’s beard! I hate it!
So, it’s no more than justice, that Curry outdefends Harden last night, even if he doesn’t outscore him! Warriors beat the Rockets! Keep it up, Curry. Go all the way.
Do Not Miss the recent gallery of Curry in interview with his daughter on his lap! Wonderful daddy, wonderful daughter. Maybe humans aren’t quite 100% evil.

Demilitarize Police
2015 06 22 apropos: Seattle: “demilitarize” the police and produce officers who think of themselves as guardians of their communities, not members of an occupying force.
Really? That’s nice; but: to me it’s all like the Nazis remaining in power, promising to do better. I don’t believe us. Governments, states, have no right to survive exposure.
If the earth gives us another chance, if god gives us another chance, if Jesus says, OK, one more try … No. I don’t think we should have another try, not without paying a debt or two first.
First the civilization makes it impossible to establish true facts: then it promises to do better: still without knowing the truths it’s suppressed.
We want to keep Jesus crucified and reform the world.

Third Grade Pop
2015 06 22 A news & comment article yesterday said that pop music hit the charts at a third grade reading level, barely literate and getting dumber. I remember from decades ago hearing a tinpan ally veteran say that it never took him more than a few minutes to scratch out the basics for a popular song. He was not saying that the song was stupid, he wasn’t saying that his audience was stupid: I understood him to be saying that what he wrote was basically human, that we had all already adapted to it. Maybe there were profound parts, but few hard parts.
Yesterday’s article had the opposite tenor: as though civilization should be a test that most fail.
I can see points both ways. But I remind us of a third tangent:
Any twelve year old who wants to channel Shakespeare immediately speaks awkward nongrammatical diction with a preposterous voice. It’s true you can find passages in Shakespeare that seem stilted, awkward, not at all modern, damn hard to understand; but check out Lear’s speech as he carries in the corpse of his dead daughter Cordelia. It’s third grade level at best. It’s so simple it could pass for prose. It’s the greatest poetry ever uttered, totally simple. There isn’t anyone who doesn’t get it.
It’s not Nazi-vertical; it’s common humanity broad-based.

Waco Bikers
I loved the news interview where the expert declared that there was nothing new about the vilence of the bike gangs, he said they’d always been like that, always killed each other, always ignored the police presence.
I’m reminded of the Cuban draftees I was interviewing for the Army in 1962, 63. They told threilling horror stories about the bandits in the mountains of Colombia, capturing people, cutting off guys’ dicks, castrating them, sticking their dick back in their mouth, sewing their balls closed over their dick. Jeez, I said, how come we don’t do something? You can’t, the Cuban answered, they’re wild men, mountain men. But if you caught them, put them in school, it still wouldn’t change them:

They like to kill!

Yeah. I believed it then, I believe it now. Kleptocrats, centralizers are so naive.

This file fills up fast, I empty it now and then, moving stuff to more specialized scrapbooks, promoting stuff to unique modules … I’ll make a Monthly Archive for excess.

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Honeymoon Down South

Recreating (and advancing) pk’s censored domains: Macroinformation.org & Knatz.com / Personal / Stories / Themes / Racial /

Honeymoon Memories (and associations) from 1965, Feb, March

Just [early 2000s] watching the DVD of Mississippi Burning I paused to scribble an email to my son:

pk, perverse … goes together, always has In grade school suddenly two little black girls appeared, identical twins, cotton dresses, bright colors, contrast, stripes, corn row part, tight pigtails, cheap pink plastic barets …

I don’t think I’d ever seen a black kid in my life. Then, by magic … The students, the teacher … everyone knew something was odd: including pk. Except I was fascinated. I couldn’t get enough of them. They were different. Information exuding from them. The one girl pressed on her pencil till her finger end digit bent backwards. She didn’t arch the curve, she pressed against the joint. I was FASCINATED. Then, they disappeared. Vanished. No trace, no explanation. I wouldn’t see another black kid in school till senior high: then, just one oversized retard: they were grooming as a singer.

I was a freshman in college, working as a garbage man, before I discovered that RVC had a ghetto. So that’s where they were hiding them. They had kids … how were the kids kept out of school? It was all done invisibly. There was just that one snafu where the twins showed up for a few days. 40s, 50s, 60s … as much The Matrix as any other time. “They” were kept in a box; we were kept in a box: only our box was bigger, and much nicer. And WE KNEW to say nothing when the seams showed.

And now I’m watching Mississippi Burning. Maybe I have seen it before, I’m not sure. But I sure do recognize that pk is being perverse again, still. Why shouldn’t these people do whatever it takes to try to protect their advantages? They’d used slaves. They hadn’t invented it. Then the slaves were wrenched from them. No one made the slaves equal. No one swept away the bodies. So they improvised ways to emphasize who had privilege, who didn’t. Separate water fountains. the one refrigerated, the other primitive. Elegant. cheap. simple. Sure you ride around with shotguns, intimidate people. Murder a few on occasion? Hey, has anyone ever really argued that murder was wrong? !?

If there’s not enough to go around, why share? If there’s not enough to go around, why not cheat?
I sure wish I had the text for that Simpsons quote about black market cigarettes, at prices so cheap, it’s practically giving them away.

movie opens with the 2 fountains. nuff said. then there’s a road, foreshortened hills, up and down, telephotoed, car not getting anywhere, slowly. whose idea was the roads? foreigners coming around, no border checks, telling people what to think, how to behave.

I don’t know what your mother has told you of our marriage. I know I’ve told you little to nothing. Did you know that our honeymoon got cancelled? Hilary “sick”? Sick in the head. Instead of annulling we went on a bit. She got to feeling better. Then she wanted a honeymoon after all. Couldn’t I forget classes and just drive to Florida for a week? We did.

And when we got to Virginia, I, thinking we were south, wanted some “southern fried chicken.” We stopped in this place and Lyndon Johnson was on the tube. Man, was the mood in that Virginia restaurant, 1965, ugly. I remember clearly the mutterings, hissed at us too. A white man, telling white men, how to behave, toward niggers.

We picked up a hitchhiker in Carolina, hoping for local color from a short favor. Kid stank, kid turned out to be running away from an apartment on Cathedral Parkway, our own neighborhood in NY, turned out he wanted to go to Miami. How could we get rid of him? But once the cop cars were picking us up on one side of the town and pealing away as the next town’s cop car picked us up … we wouldn’t let him out of the car for anything. stopped for gas, got bumped into by fat bellies, owner wouldn’t budge his bulk out of the doorway to let us in to buy soda.

in other words, that opening Mississippi Burning scene, I’ve been there.

KKK gun rack
thanx pinimg

We drove that kid all the way to St Augustine, decided that was as far as we were going, that’s how we finally got rid of him.

Meeting the twins in grade school had already been told. Today I said “red”, then I said “pink”: today i said “plastic”, then I said “ribbon” … Anyone can see — it’s the same story.

recreated for K. 2015 06 30

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Madison Square Bolshoi

/ Stories / Theme / Music&Art /

1960s the Cold War still lingers. We fought the Russians, we didn’t share. We had Gershwin, they had Tchaikovsky: we had baseball, they had the Bolshoi Ballet.

Bolshoi Swan Lake
thanx Bolshoi

They loved their ballet; we called them sissies, faggots.
Miracle of miracles, the Soviets decided to let us filthy capitalists sniff their treasure: the Bolshoi. All that female scatch, covered with white satin, set off my white tulle-net pin-wheel tutus.

Dancing what? the most popular ballet, of course: Swan Lake!

Where? Where you can fit the most people all at once, of course: Madison Square Garden!

Hilary and I got tickets, cheap seats, way up in the nosebleed rafters.
I wasn’t a big Tchaikovsky fan in the 1960s: but oh that D Minor!
(Now I play the main theme on the keyboard regularly. (I didn’t learn how till my fifties! But, yes, I did know what I was missing!))

Madison Square Garden wasn’t exactly sold out for this enemy visitation, but a lot of people poured in. The old Garden would hold 15,000, 20,000 people, depending on the exhibit.
Never mind, get straight to the heart of the story:

The orchestra plays that deep D Minor.

The acoustics at the Garden … Wait a minute, pk: there are no acoustics at the Garden: certainly not in the Garden of the mid-1960s. It’s a visual arena, for bedlam, for team sports: basketball: dunk! Hockey: smack! Crunch!

the Garden
the New Garden
thanx nycgo

The orchestra plays that deep D Minor. The best of Romanticism is encapsulated right there. The ballerinas enter: tip toe, flash snatch, tippy-toe …
When from high on high, up with us, among the nosebleeds:

‘ey Louis
Wha’ja have for lunch?

The orchestra, the dancers, soldiered on. The audience too tried to grit their teeth, to ignore the vulgar sabotage, to pretend not to hear, or smell, the fart in church. Beat, beat: Louis’ answer came:

Liverwurst
a liverwurst sandwich.

You don’t reserve the Garden without anybody knowing. Somewhere high up in the kleptocracy’s hieratic democracy more than one committee had approved the Commies’ visit. But not every faction had been consulted: the union that opened the doors, swept up the litter afterwards, oiled the seats of the bolted-in-place folding chairs periodically, whatever, didn’t wholly endorse this way-pre pre-Perestroika.

These workers: Would they have tried to drown out Eisenhower as he gave his inaugural address?
(Maybe they would have for Obama.)
Would they have committed a comparable vulgarism at midnight Christmas mass in St. Patricks?
What? Would they have shrill-whistled? have held a mic to their ass to amplify that sacrilegious fart?
(No. No more than they would have rooted for Jack Johnson while watching John L.)

Which of those above committees considered the veto power of the unions?

The Times forecast the event, the Times covered the event; but not that detail!

The soul of the thing is in the details, all of them.

There. That sure is different from yesterday’s botched resurrection. Better, for sure. Some of that botch may yet bleed back in.

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Racial Screwings

Recreating (and advancing) pk’s censored domains: Macroinformation.org & Knatz.com / Personal / Stories / Themes / Racial /

2005 02 21 Shortly after meeting Jackie I set up my apartment with Myron. We added a roommate to lower the rent: Tony. Then Myron’s bass player, Bernie moved in. Then my old friend Brian joined us. Bill Love moved in at his own invitation. The place was like Grand Central Station, so who could notice?

Bernie was a junkie from Jamaica. Black junkie, that is, Jamaica, Queens. Every single one of his rent checks bounced.

Bill Love was a black from … Tennessee? Kentucky? Bill Love it turned out was a veteran bad check passer.

Myron’s checks didn’t bounce. Myron never gave me any checks. If I’d realized that my beloved friend, the jazz pianist, was himself a junkie, and a pill head, and a codeine freak, maybe I wouldn’t have been so happy to set up house with him.

Anyway, Myron screwed me. Bernie screwed me. Bill Love screwed me. (Bill Love screwed everybody.) (In fact, junkies also tend to screw everybody.) Anyway, I believe I’ve said enough to establish a theme here:

I have never been close to a black who didn’t wind up screwing me.

(If there’s an exception or two, then I screwed them: I still owe [the great] Romare Bearden a few hundred dollars!)

Romare Bearden
Romare Bearden graphic
thanx Nelson-Atkins Museum

(I’ll foreshadow here: I’ve never been close to a Jew where I didn’t get also screwed; unless I did the screwing.) (There’s one friend where I think it went both ways.)

2006 06 30 A thousand apologies: times passes, I never got back here to explain, expand, modify the above. Or, be generous, modify it yourself in your own mind.

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