Cass was the most beautiful girl in town by Charles Bukowski
(with a few minor lyrical adjustments...)

Cass was the youngest and most beautiful of 5 sisters.
Cass was the most beautiful girl in town. 1/2 Indian, 1/2 supple with a
strange snake-like body, her fiery eyes simply stared you down
like a cobra; into a trance that spelled romance...


Cass was the most beautiful girl in town.
She was fluid flaming movement. She was like a spirit stuck
in a form that would not bridle her. Her hair was dark and long and silent
and whirled about as she did her dance. She was some kind of crazy.
She was some kind of wonder girl, living in a wonderful world

The dull ones said that. The dull ones would never understand Cass.
To me she was everything, to men she was simply a sex object and they didn't care
whether she came or not. As long as she sat on their lap
Cass danced and flirted, kissed many men, but except for an instant
She had painted herself into a corner with her beauty

Cass had somehow slipped away, eluded the men.
Her sisters accused her of toying with them, of not using her mind enough,
but Cass had both mind and spirit; She painted, she danced, she flirted,
she played with things made of clay, and when people hurt her in spirit or flesh,
Cass felt a deep grieving for them.

Her mind was simple not practical. Her mind was simply different;
Her sisters were jealous because she attracted their men,
and they were angry because they felt she didn't make the best use of them.
Cass had a habit of being kind to the uglier ones; the so-called
handsome men revolted her- "No guts," she said, "no zeal. They are riding on
their perfect little earlobes and well- shaped hats...all appearance and no guts..."

Cass had a temper that came close to sass, she had a temper that some
call insanity. Her father had died from alcohol poisoning and her mother had run off
with a bone headed guy from Utah, who promised her salvation
leaving the girls alone to fend for themselves. Cass was the youngest and
most beautiful of 5 sisters. The girls went to relatives who placed them in a convent.

The convent had been an unhappy place, more for Cass than the sisters.
Cass was the youngest and most beautiful of 5 sisters.
The girls were jealous of Cass and she often offended them, but they insisted
that Cass be submissive; Cass fought to fend them off. She had razor marks
all along her left arm from defending herself in two fights. There was also a permanent scar
along her left cheek but rather than lessening her beauty, only seemed to heighten it.

I met her at a bar fight, never get between a girl and girl fight, bar none;
Bar several girls after, they may scratch each other’s eyes out, but they will never
come to no harm. Being the youngest, she was the last of the sisters to be released
from the convent. She simply came and sat down next to me. I was probably the
ugliest man in town and this might have had something to do with it.

"Drink?" I asked. -- "Sure, why not?" I don't suppose there was anything unusual about that,
It simply lay in the feeling that I could tell her anything and I wanted to say nothing.
She had chosen me, plain and simple. No pressure. No man in a hat. She liked that
Whiskey straight up. She loved her drinks and had a great number of them.
She didn't quite seem of age but then who’s askin’? Perhaps I should have, but I didn’t.
She was with me. And Cass was the most beautiful girl in town.

Anyway, each time she left to the restroom and came back and sat down next to me,
I did feel some envy. Cass was the most beautiful girl in town.
She was not only the most beautiful woman in town but also one of the most beautiful I had
ever seen. I placed my arm about her waist and kissed her once.
"Do you think I'm pretty?" she asked. "Yes, of course”, I siad, “but there's something else...
there's more than your looks... there’s your spirit" -- "People are always accusing me of being pretty.
How do you feel about that?" -- "Pretty isn't the word, it hardly does you fair."

Cass reached into her handbag. I thought she was reaching for her handkerchief. She
came out with a long hatpin. She said “You see this? This is what the other men get,
men with hats,” and before I could stop her she had run this long hatpin through
her nose, sideways, just above the nostrils. I felt disgust and horror. She looked at me
and laughed, "Now you think I’m pretty? Well do you, man?" I pulled out the hatpin and held out
my hand with the handkerchief over the bleeding pin. Several people, including the bartender,
seen the act and thought that I hit her...

"Look," he said to me and Cass, "you act up again and you're out. We don't need your bloody act."
"Oh, fuck you, man!" she said. -- "Better keep her straight," the bartender said to me.
"She'll be all right," I said. -- "It's my nose, I can do what I want with it."
"No," I said, "it hurts me." -- "You mean it hurts you when I stick a pin in my nose?"
"Yes, it does, I mean..." "All right, I won't do it again. Cheer up. I promise I won't do it again."

She kissed me flat, right there and then, rather grinning through the kiss and holding
the handkerchief to her nose. I fell for her. Then, we left for my place at closing time.
I had some beers and we sat there talking. It was then that I got the perception of her
as a person full of kindness and caring to men. She gave herself away without knowing it or them.
All the same she would leap back into a wildn dance or talk in incoherences.

Schitzi. A beautiful and spiritual schitzi. Perhaps some man, something, would ruin her forever.
I hoped that I wouldn't be that man. We went to bed and after I turned out the lights Cass asked me,
"When do you want it? Now or in the morning?" -- "In the morning," I said with a groggy head.
In the morning I got up and made a couple of coffees, brought her one in bed. She laughed and said,
"You're the first man who has turned it down at night." -- "It's o.k.," I said, "I dont need it."

"No, wait, I want to now. Let me freshen up a bit." Cass went into the bathroom. She came out shortly,
looking quite done up, her long brown hair hung silently, her eyes and lips glistening, her glistening...
She displayed her body soft and calmly, as an offering. She got under the sheet.
"Come on, lover man." I got in. She kissed with abandon but without haste. I let my hands
run over her body, through her hair. I mounted her. It was hot, it was tight. I began to
stroke her with slow caresses, looking into her eyes, I wanted to make it last.

Her eyes looked directly into mine. "What's your name?" I asked.
"What the hell difference does it make?" she asked. Cass was the most beautiful girl in town.
I laughed and then went down. And on ahead, and hung in space without a sound
Afterwards she dressed and I drove her back to the bar but she was difficult to forget.
I wasn't working and I slept until 2 p.m. then got up and read the paper.
I was in the bathtub when she came in with a large ear- an elephant leaf.
"I knew you'd be in the tub," she said, "so I brought you something to cover that thing with, nature boy..."

She threw the elephant leaf down on me in the bathtub. "How did you know I'd be in the tub?"
"I knew." Almost every day Cass arrived when I was in the tub. The times were different but she
seldom missed, and there was the elephant leaf. And when we'd make love. One or two nights
she phoned and I had to bail her out of jail for drunkenness and fighting.
"Theose sons of bitches," she said, "just because they buy you a few drinks they think theyown you."

“They think they can get in your pants” -- "Once you accept a drink you create your own trouble."
"I thought they were interested in me, not just my body."
"I'm interested in you and your body. I doubt that most men can see beyond that."

I left town for 6 months, bummed around, came back. I had never forgotten Cass, but
we'd had some type of argument and I felt like moving anyhow, and when I got back I
figured that she'd gone, but I had been sitting in the West End Bar about 30 minutes when
in walks Cass and she sat down next to me. "Well, bastard, I see you've come back."
I ordered her a drink. Then I looked at her. She had on a high- necked dress. I had
never seen her in one of those. And under each eye, driven in, were glass heads on 2 pins.
All you could see were the heads of the pins, but the pins were driven down into her face.

"God damn you, still trying to destroy your beauty, eh?"
"No, it's the fad, dad."
"You're crazy."
"I' missed you," she said.
"Is there anybody else?"
"No there isn't anybody else. Just you. But I'm hustling. It costs ten bucks. But you get it free."
"Pull those pins out."
"No, it's the fad."
"It's making me very unhappy."
"Are you sure?"
"Hell yes, I'm sure."
Cass slowly pulled the pins out and put them back in her purse.
"Why do you haggle your beauty?" I asked. "Why don't you just live with it?"
"Because people think it's all I have. Beauty is nothing, beauty won't stay. You
don't know how lucky you are to be ugly, because if people like you you know it's for youself."
"O.k.," I said, "I'm lucky."
"I don't mean you're ugly. People just think you're ugly. You have a fascinating face."
"Thanks."
We had another drink.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Nothing. I can't get on to anything. No interest."
"Me neither. If you were a woman you could hustle."
"I don't think I could ever make contact with that many strangers, it's wearing."
"You're right, it's wearing, everything is wearing."

We left together. People still stared at Cass on the streets. She was a beautiful
woman, perhaps more beautiful than ever. We made it to my place and I opened a bottle of
wine and we talked. With Cass and I, it always came easy. She talked a while and I would
listen and then I would talk. Our conversation never stopped, it simply went along without strain.
We seemed to discover secrets together. When we discovered a good one Cass would laugh
that laugh- the way that only she could. It was like joyful fire. Through the talking we kissed and
moved closer together. We became quite heated and decided to go to bed. It was then that
Cass took off her high -necked dress and I saw it- the ugly jagged scar across her throat.

It was large and thick. There was a tragic beauty in it.
"God damn you, woman," I said from the bed, "god damn you, what have you done?”
"I tried it with a broken bottle one night. Don't you like me any more? Am I still beautiful?"
I pulled her down on the bed and kissed her. She pushed away and laughed, "Some
men pay me ten and I undress and they don't want to do it. I keep the ten. It's very funny."
"Yes," I said, "I can't stop laughing... Cass, I love you bitch...stop destroying yourself;
You're the most alive woman I've ever met."

We kissed again. Cass was crying without sound. I could feel the tears. Her long hair
lay next to me like a flag of death. We enjoined and enjoyed one another’s body
for hte first time agian; She felt somehow different, like absence could change her,
made slow and somber and wonderful love. In the morning Cass was up making breakfast.
She seemed quite calm and happy then. She was singing. I stayed in bed and enjoyed her happiness.
Finally she came over and shook me, “Up, bastard! Throw some cold water on your
face and pecker and enjoy the feast!"

I drove her to the beach that day. It was a weekday and not yet summer so things were
splendidly deserted. Beach bums in rags slept on the lawns above the sand. Others sat on
stone benches sharing a lone bottle. The gulls whirled about, mindless yet distracted. Old
ladies in their 70's and 80's sat on the benches and discussed selling real estate left
behind by husbands long ago killed by the pace and stupidity of survival. For it all,
there was peace in the air and we walked about and stretched on the lawns and didn't say
anything. It simply felt good being together.

I bought a couple of sandwiches, some chips and drinks and we sat on the sand eating.
Then I held Cass and we slept together about an hour. It was somehow better than lovemaking.
There was flowing together without tension.
When we awakened we drove back to my place and I cooked a dinner. After dinner I suggested
to Cass that we shack together. She waited a long time, looking at me, then she slowly said,
"No." I drove her back to the bar, bought her a drink and walked out.

I found a job as a parker in a factory the next day and the rest of the week went to work.
I was too tired to get about much, but that Friday night I did get to the West End Bar.
I sat and waited for Cass. Hours went slowly by. After I was fairly drunk the bartender said,
"I'm sorry friend, about your girlfriend."
"What is it?" I asked.
"I'm sorry, didn't you know?"
"No."
"Suicide. She was buried yesterday."
"Buried?" I asked. It seemed as though she would walk through the doorway at any moment. How could she be gone?

"Her sisters buried her."
"A suicide? Mind telling me how?"
"She cut her throat."
"I see. Give me another drink."
I drank until closing time. Cass was the most beautiful of 5 sisters,
Cass was the most beautiful girl in town.
I managed to drive to my place and I kept thinking, I should have insisted
she stay with me instead of accepting that "no." Everything about her
had indicated that she had cared. I simply had been too offhand about it, lazy, unconcerned.
I deserved my death and hers. I was a dog. No, why blame the dogs? I got up
and found a bottle and drank from it heavily. Tears welled in my eyes.
Cass the most beautiful girl in town, was dead at 20. Outside
somebody honked their automobile horn. They were very loud and persistent.
I sat the bottle down and screamed out: "GOD DAMN YOU, YOU SON OF A BITCH,SHUT THE FUCK UP!"
The night kept coming and there was nothing I could do.

Charles Bukowski with a few minor adjustments...

Sunset Gun--Love is a Doc From Hell - Who Is Charles Bukowski?
http://burroughsman.livejournal.com/5446.html

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Tags: charles bukowski
Current Location: lonely bar
Current Mood: tragic
Current Music: mamas and the papas

Arena - William S. Burroughs Part 1 a video perspective
Conceitedly possessed by genius..
"Kim remembers his father's last words - Stay out of churches son, and don't ever let a priest near you when you're dyin'; All I got a key to is the shithouse.. and swear to me you will never wear a policeman's badge.." -- We don' need no stinking badges, Naked Lunch in violent shithouses. "I'd rather see a son come home dead than drunk" - Grandmother
Violence and shithouses
"Nothing here but the smell of empty years.. I wonder what ever happened to Otto's boy who played the violin, and he told me that Harold had died in 1952, but not how he died.."
Big Daddy - "Bull"
The characters of Junkie, Ginsberg, Kerouac, Herbert Hunkie, "Adios muchachos, companiaros!" songs of boy scout morality. "When she said opium gave you sweet dreams, so I thought get me summa dat.." - a sedate looking gentleman.. "He's probably only guy I know that was really just full out junkie, who managed to come back and kick it in the soul"..
Dr. Benway and the CIA
- I wanted to be a doctor, I studied for over a year in Vienna, that was one of my alternative professions if I hadn't of been a writer.. The other career I was interested in was espionage... "The bathroom has been locked for two hours solid, I think they might have changed it to an operating room.. Did I ever tell you about the time I performer an operation with a rusty can? .. send the boy out to fill this RX on the double !! " - Dr. Benway

"One time she said - You're supposed to be a faggot, you're as good as a pimp in bed." - Joan Adams. "Then I said to Joan, it's about time for our William Tell act.."
A William Tell Act

The "hombre invisible" - Kiki
"If you see her, say hello, she might be in Tangiers.." - Bob

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Tags: rip - william seward burroughs
Current Location: six feet under
Current Mood: naked
Current Music: I wonder what ever happened to Otto's boy who played the violin

The Black Rider Documentary Part 1 - Tom Waits, Robert Wilson, William S Burroughs
Our fathers wish us to become hunters, we are Monsters!

Documentary following the production of The Black Rider/Der Schwarze Reiter stage musical. Part 2;

Part 3; Wilhelm, a file clerk, falls in love with a huntsman's daughter. In order to marry, Wilhelm must prove his worth as a hunter and gain her father's approval, but, as "a man of pen and ink", his shot is lousy and his hopes of marriage worsen. That is until he is offered magic bullets by the devil, Pegleg - who assures him that his bullets will always have a sure shot. "Six are yours and hit the mark, one is mine and hits the dark." - Don't listen to the devil !

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Black_Rider_(album)

Tags: the black rider, tom waits, william burroughs
Current Location: sins of the fathers
Current Mood: informed
Current Music: Just the right bullets

Brion Gysin (1916-1986) - Self-Portrait Jumping (MTM Vol.33, 1993)
This is what I love about community, we are all more together than we are separate..
Divide and be conquered.. if you haven't yet, you should check out this lj community;
http://community.livejournal.com/burroughs_w_s/
- Do not confuse. Let your love enter into it and impregnate as the godly lubricant, in comparison with which K- Y or lanoline will seem by emery paper. These are quite mucous, thin, tender lubricant of all those existing and forthcoming, amen”/[Berrouz] [U]. [Prizr]/. - Gay Klux Klan

Brion Gysin (1916-1986) - Self-Portrait Jumping (MTM Vol.33, 1993)
All compositions by Brion Gysin (words) and Ramuntcho Matta (music).
Tracks 1-6 recorded in 1982, 7-9 in 1992.

01 Kick
02 Junk
03 Stop Smoking
04 Sham Pain
05 V.V.V.
06 Baboon
07 All Those Years
08 Dreamachine:
8a Dreamachine
8b Page 3
8c Flies
8d I Am That I Am
8e Off The Ground
8f The Initiate
09 Somebody Special
10 The Door
.
Bass, Guitar - Yahn Leker (tracks: 2, 4, 5, 6)
Drums, Percussion - Frédéric Cousseau (tracks: 2, 3, 4, 5, 6)
Guitar, Keyboards, Piano, Percussion, Vocals - Ramuntcho Matta
Mixed By - Ramuntcho Matta (tracks: 1, 3, 9)
Producer - Ramuntcho Matta
Vocals - Brion Gysin
enjoy

Tags: brion gysin
Current Location: self
Current Mood: jumping
Current Music: dreamachine

If you have watched too many movies as a child you are probably MK Ultra and will kill on command when Mickey Mouse says, "Disneyworld"..

You should watch this over and over again... The Telephone Book 1971

http://burroughsman.livejournal.com/19616.html

Maybe this one would rate..
Teenage Mother

Born to Love, Dressed to Kill..

You may take this with a grain of SALT
http://www.thedivareview.com/Salt_Movie_Review.htm



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Tags: salt the movie, teenage pregnancy, writer's block
Current Location: the telephone book
Current Mood: preggo
Current Music: mickey mouse

Cate Blanchett from Cigarettes & Coffee, sultry and silent.. Lonely women are an easy mark for, The Obscene Caller!!


The Feminine Mystique by Betty Friedan, circa 1963
Ed Wood Jr. Glen or Glenda
The Feminine Mystique is profound and penetrating in that it questions a state of affairs so many of us take (or have taken) for granted. The book appeals to reason. You won't find any "masculine logic" vs. "feminine logic" stuff here; Just logic: The book is a systematic expose of the problem, its toll on women, and its toll on the rest of the family -- men and children. The book is humane and compassionate in dealing with human suffering: It doesn't place men and women on opposite sides of some battle of the sexes, but rather places all of us on the same side -- the side of the victims -- of some really bad ideas that have been dominant in society for a long time.

It's common wisdom to think of the Feminine Mystique as a classical feminist text. This is perhaps the case, but I would like to argue that it is so much more than that. The book examines what society tells women about their lives -- education, career, family, sexuality, goals, values, and anything else. The book discusses what society tells women, who exactly promotes these views about femininity, out of what possible motives, and what toll do these views have on women, their family and their children. The basic thesis of the book is that femininity has been mystified, manipulated, and taught back to women, in their homes and schools and churches, in the novels and magazines they read, etc -- that this mystification of femininity is a monsterous distortion of a person's life, resulting in emotional problems, marital and family tension, stifled careers, and general unhappiness... That we -- society -- have been living in denial of the condition women have been manipulated into, and therefore have been ineffectual in our help. That there are good reasons why things are the way they are -- it's embarassing to discover just how economically profitable this distortion is.

The book is frightening, as it challenges our social conditioning, the magnitude and scope of women's suffering takes on a new meaning. The book is liberating, because having read it, you realise the mistakes you've made in your own life -- how you may have contributed to the problem, and you have a pretty good idea as to how to go about changing things -- your own life, and the way you deal with others.

This is a well-documented and well-reseached book that discusses the problems faced by many American housewives. It was written in the sixties, when women were returning to their homes after the sexual revolution and the woman's right movement, when they were proudly filling in forms with "Occupation: Housewife" once again. These women were told by psychoanalysists, who mostly based their findings on Frued's theories, that a woman's sex life and happiness was ultimately found through living her life soley for her husband and children. The women Freidan studied and interviewed for this book were usually surburban wives, living in nice houses with their executive husbands who made a lot of money. These women had done everything right. They had married young: some barely finished or didn't finish high school, others dropped out of college, all for the goal of marrying their sweetheart and fulfilling the perfect image of the feminime mystique. These women had had many babies by natural childbirth, they sewed all their clothes and washed all their dished by hand, they had breastfed them all, they had doted on their childrens' and husband's interests and goals so much that they lost sight of their own. And even though these women were living by the perfect standards set by the "feminine mystique", they were dreadfully unhappy. So many were seeing pscyhoanalysts without positive results, so many were harboring resentful, depressing thoughts, and contemplating everything from an extramarital affair to suicide. And the most common problem of all came to be known as "chronic fatique syndrome". The women with this problem experienced listlessness and wrestlessness. They were always tired no matter how much they slept. Their joints and bones ached. They could not stayed interested in or concentrated on one subject for a long period of time. They were physically with their children all the time, but never really there in spirit. And so, based on these findings, Freidan studied these women more, interviewed them more, and wrote The Feminine Mystique, in which she published her theories. I found most of her ideas to be extremely well thought out, and I can imagine how much the american housewife of the sixties, and later, really needed these ideas. For instance, Friedan comments on how "housework expands to fit the time available", noting that the house of the working women was always clean, even though she had a limited amount of time to clean it in, while the housewife who was perpetually cleaning and recleaning everything could never seem to "get anything done". Friedan also studied the ways in which these mothers affected their children, and most grew up to be dependant and irresponsible. The men looked for girls to marry who would take the place of their mother, who did everything for them, and the girls grew up to be stuck in the same trap as their mother, being a mother not only to their children but to their husbands as well, since their husbands had grown up under the feminine mystique and expected his wife to act as his mother had. Many times, the mothers try to live the dreams they never got fulfilled because of early marriage and motherhood through their children, and this is never good.

The most important thesis in this book, in my opinion, is the way in which Friedan pleads for women to become their own individuals. When a girl marries at seventeen, before she has even grown up herself, and has children of her own, her growing and learning process is stunted and she never finds out who she really is or what she really wants. When a woman waits on her family night and day, she loses such a big part of herself that she begins to feel like all she does for everyone else is useless and taken for granted. Freidan implores women to follow their own interests and not let the feminine mystique stunt their growth. She gives findings of women who finally went back to the desires and goals they had in their youth, as well as women who never left them but were the rare minority who combined motherhood with a career, and showed that they were no less women then the ones who stayed at home. In fact, having a life of their own improved the woman's marriage, family and sex life drastically when compared with the women whose worlds revolved around other people.

Although Friedan is very advanced for her time in suggesting freedom and independence for women, she was very descriminative against homosexuals. She spent the first half of her book refuting Freud's theories about women and stating how he was a bad pscyhologist with unexamined and biased theories when it came to this area. However, she backs up her thesis about "weak" homosexual men being drawn to the love of other men because of the relationship they still desire with their mothers with all of Freud's theories. I don't think she should tear Freud's theories apart when it is in her favor and use the same person to back her up when she is talking about a different subject. Also her book is still sexist in the sense that she always expects women to do the housework and, if they choose to have a career, manage it along with the housework, when what she should do is suggest that if the man and the woman are both working, the man and the woman should both help out with the housework. However, since her views were so revolutionary at this time I am sure she did not want to press it by suggesting men actually do "woman's" work, since her very suggestion that women can and should do "man's" work was already taking things far.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Feminine_Mystique
If you can't find a copy, go here..
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0393322572?ie=UTF8&tag=thepainteskey-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=0393322572

Fashionable, Notorious, Lovely
Three more movies about the Feminine Mystique
http://2or3things.blogspot.com/2007/08/our-most-fashionable-notorious-lovely.html

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Tags: coffee and cigarettes (2003)
Current Location: coffee house
Current Mood: sultry
Current Music: Black Coffee

In a manner of Cigarettes and Coffee, by Jim Jarmusch starring Tom Waits and Bill Murray, with cameos by numerous other cult figures, this deeply psychological film exposé "The Telephone Book" explores human contact in an Ed Wood sort of way. Starring familiar yet virtually unknown actors Margaret Brewster, Roger C. Carmel and David Dozer, the film is interrupted by Ed Wood style "interview" footage from an ex-obscene phone caller. These confessional monologues are peppered throughout the entire picture, often in places too inappropriate to have been randomly chosen. They shred the pacing of the story for some decent laughs, and are possibly meant to satirize the clunky pseudo-documentary style of Mondo and sexploitation films..
"My mother never used to let me smell her pants..."
(Despite the flick's obscurity, it is very probable that at least one of the actors will seem vaguely familiar to you...) The writer/director, Nelson Lyon, is particularly mysterious; He was a writer on the '81-82 season of SNL, and was one of the people consuming epic amounts of cocaine with John Belushi on the night of his death. Other than that, it is as though The Telephone Book was created in a vacuum (or was at least dropped from the heavens by magical pixies/extraterrestrials).. The story of a day in the life of a lonely, sensitive, exhuberent, attractive, young woman. Her exploits, encounters, and frustrations as she attempts to find a "special" someone, a caller who has "class", as she puts it.

The opening quickly establishes a style and mood somewhere between Soviet Montage and a 16mm student film, (minimal camera movement, clever editing) as a young woman rolls around on an American flag bedspread in a loft apartment wallpapered with pornography. The bubbly, helium-voiced Alice (Sarah Kennedy) could quite possibly be the physical embodiment of cuteness, especially while wearing the world's largest goggles and little else. Her initial idleness is interrupted by a call from John Smith, a self proclaimed master of the obscene telephone call, who seduces her with smooth talk of unorthodox applications for hot fudge sundaes. The audience (to protect our fragile minds) is spared full exposure to his call through the careful use of sound editing and subtitles adding to the mystique, but Alice is so enamored that, when he calls back later, she demands to see him in person. While reluctant, the mysterious, trenchcoated figure eventually agrees to meet in the flesh, provided she can track him down... in the book. Thus begins a manic quest to call every John Smith in the phone book. But before Alice can begin........................
http://www.videoupdates.net/2009/02/telephone-book_09.html

See The Telephone Book.. Alice is colourful in black & white

The Telephone Book is a film that has to be seen to be truly believed. While its (literally) X-rated nudity and frank discussion of sexuality are hardly shocking in the 21st century, the offbeat humor and profound strangeness seem amplified by the decades. Beyond that, there seems to be a very intelligent undercurrent to the madcap randomness.


Video Excerpts from The Telephone Book (1971) | Director: Nelson Lyon
Music: Unlock My Door by Linda Van Dyck

The New York Stock Exchange - Greed is Sexy
You should watch this over and over again... The Telephone Book 1971


If you liked The Telephone Book, you might also like this..
Dimentia 13
The mystery of the enigmatic..

Watch Dimentia here;
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c0ukfVt3d5Q&NR

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Tags: the telephone book (1971)
Current Location: Phone
Current Mood: Silent
Current Music: Call me

Rectify the Economy ~ Here's the answer to that...

Ron Paul Congressional Cookbook; Colonic Cleansing for the Global Economy; Publisher Price Waterhouse 2009
price; US$ - an exhorbitant number of pesos

A non-Aristotelian economy/ Une économie non-aristotélicienne

(In gold we don't trust ) William S. Burroughs

Animation: Pierre Belouin : APO 33
http://www.geocities.com/Athens/Crete/9445/economy.html

Definitions : Where the balance lies in supply and demand...
What do I mean by non-Aristotalitarian economy ? One can understand it comparatively to an Aristotelian hierarchical economy based on a horse before the cart principle of set property and limited resources. An Aristotelian economy rests on Aristotle's logic: principle of identity, contract of contradiction and by property of third (mind) excluded. (See the details in the article "Les différentes étapes de l'évolution de l'Occident : Aristote, Descartes, Korzybski : trois visions de l'homme et du monde" lessez faire - essentially consumerism
http://www.geocities.com/interzonelibrary/dptsg1ADK.html

This system has shaped the vision of the world and the relations between humans since more than 2000 years. It rests on the following postulates:

- the belief in the value of money as something real, in economical rules gifted with a real existence, independant on its users,

- the postulate according which the only way to get money would be to take it from somebody else,

- a structure of relations based upon exclusion,

- relations of competition, of conflict, between included and excluded, the rich and the poor,

- a strategy based upon intelligence of strength relations to get money.

This system rests on parasitism, on the plundering of the resources, and consists in sawing the branch on which one sits: once the resources have run out, there is no resource left and the system collapses.

So comparatively, a non-Aristotalitarian economy is based upon : Abundance with shared property in balanced distribution of goods and services. The law of acceptance, essentially creativity.

- a concept of money as "a symbol of exchange between humans, the value of which rests on a common agreement between its users" (Alfred Korzybski: see Science and Sanity: "On symbolism" )

- the postulate according to which it is possible to earn money without taking it from somebody else,

- a structure of relations based upon inclusion of all the elements in the same set ("A structure is the set of the relations between the elements of a same set" (Henri Laborit: "La Nouvelle Grille")

- relations of non competition, complementarity, interdisciplinarity and informational openness, similar to the structure of living species (Henri Laborit), leading to a higher result than the sum of the parts (1 + 1 > 2, mathematical principal of non-additivity, applied to writing by W. Burroughs and Brion Gysin as "the Third mind")

- a strategy based upon strength of intelligence relations,

- enrichment of ALL the partners

We have here the new prospect of emotional quotient, creativity and intellectual property ! Personal human worth and growth in accordance with Desiderata.

So as in Monopoly, who gets to be the banker? Until the cash runs out...

Tychoonopoly - Where only one player gets to own Boardwalk or Park Place or Interzone

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Tags: congressional cookbook, economic cookbook, in god we trust, in gold we trust
Current Location: william tell, the big apple
Current Mood: lousy
Current Music: overture

On the Road ~ Jack Kerouac

or "How to Write a Book in One Easy Sentence..."
A writer by the name of James Breslin who chronicled Jack Kerouac's visit to Brooklyn College in March of 1958. Curious as to whether this Breslin was the Pulitzer Prize-winner who later wrote under the byline Jimmy Breslin, I asked the Voice's Tom Robbins about it. And he put in a call to the man himself.
It's not the same Breslin. But, as you might have guessed, Jimmy had a little something to say about Jack:
"It is not me. I knew Kerouac he lived in Richmond Hill, on 134th, near 101st.... The Philadelphia Inquirer, gave him the whole roll of UPI [teletype] paper so he could just keep typing. I should've given him a fucking box of periods. Taught a whole generation how to write run-on sentences. A disgrace!"
http://blogs.villagevoice.com/runninscared/archives/2008/04/jimmy_breslin_o.php

Roll Out "The Road" Across the Miles

Rolling out the scroll that is On The Road ~ Using a manual typewriter in a New York City loft, Jack Kerouac produced the original manuscript of On the Road during a three-week period in the spring of 1951. Fifty years and one month later, Colts’ owner Jim Irsay purchased the widely-acknowledged icon of the Beat Generation at a Christies auction in New York, less than a mile from where it was created. Kerouac produced the continuous scroll by taping pages of semi-translucent paper together to feed the typewriter and write without interruption. The text is single-spaced, without paragraphs, and edited in pencil by Kerouac.
On the Road Scroll Tour
http://www.ontheroad.org/
Excerpt
http://downloads.newyorker.com/mp3/071001_excerpt_kerouac.mp3

Canonization ~ Concatenating a Coherent Sentence for Victims of Society
With the publication of On the Road: The Original Scroll (Viking), Jack Kerouac takes a step beyond canonization toward beatitude itself. The scroll manuscript of this 1957 novel is one of the sacred artifacts of the Beat era, and conflicting stories about it have circulated among the acolytes for years: that rolls of drawing paper had been taped together to form the scroll (true), so that a Benzedrine- (false) and caffeine-fuelled (true) Kerouac could type at speed with no need to pause after each page; that a dog had chewed one end (true). This codex version of the scroll is prefaced by an astonishing one hundred pages of front matter, including no fewer than four separate introductions: a formidable bulwark protecting the novel from its readers. The most obvious difference between the manuscript and published versions is Kerouac’s use of actual names throughout (Neal Cassady later renamed Dean Moriarty, Allen Ginsberg becoming Carlo Marx, and so on). Sex scenes were toned down for the initial publication, and much of Kerouac’s reflexive misogyny was softened or removed. The manuscript itself was sold at auction in May 2001 for more than $2 million, to Jim Irsay (owner of the Indianapolis Colts), who promised to “give people an opportunity to enjoy it.” An exhibit featuring the scroll has been criss-crossing the usa since 2004; in fall 2007 it was on display at the New York Public Library.

On the Road: The Original Scroll By Jack Kerouac
http://www.geist.com/books/road-original-scroll

On The Road ~ Uncensored and Unplugged

Angus Hyland, with design assistant Masumi Briozzo, has designed the UK edition of On the Road: The Original Scroll, a sumptuous edition of Jack Kerouac’s seminal ‘Beat’ novel which is being released to mark the 50th anniversary of the book’s original publication on 5 September 1957. On the Road: The Original Scroll is a complete and unexpurgated transcription of Kerouac’s original manuscript, written during a marathon three-week session onto a 120-foot roll of paper, which Kerouac created by taping the individual sheets together before feeding them through his typewriter. This publication is the first time Kerouac’s unedited text has been made available to the general public. Along with the restoration of previously censored passages, the text also reveals the real-life characters, such as Allen Ginsberg and William S. Burroughs, that became the protagonists of the novel. The book is one of the top five bestsellers from Penguin’s Modern Classics series of 20th century novels and continues to sell over 35,000 copies a year in the UK alone.
New Work: ‘On the Road: The Original Scroll’ at Pentagram
http://blog.pentagram.com/2007/08/new-work-on-the-road-the-origi-1.php

On the Road ~ The Great Depression (circa 1935)
Photograph of Families on the Road With All Their Possessions During the Great Depression of 1930's
ENFORCED IDLENESS MADE MEN TAKE TO THE road;
Depressions doubled and trebled the number of homeless; industrial accidents could turn workers into street beggars. During the Gilded Age and Progressive Era, many middle-class commentators failed to understand these facts of economic life. “The labor union ‘recognizes’ the tramp as ‘the victim of our present economical [sic] system,’” the New York Times proclaimed pompously in 1886, “instead of recognizing in him, as other people do, the victim of a violent dislike to [sic] labor and a violent thirst for rum.” To those who viewed the new homelessness of the post–Civil War decades in this manner, the issue was simple: there were some people who simply did not want to work. By the 1890s some critics were beginning to acknowledge a relationship between depressions and the increase in the number of vagrants. The main point, however, John J. McCook argued, was that tramps were drunkards and poor workmen—that was why they were the first to be let go during a depression. Labor unionists, reformers, and socialists strenuously objected to these arguments. Henry George and Terrence Powderly, speaking from their own bitter personal experience, viewed tramping as a harsh necessity forced upon unwilling workers.
Farm Security Administration: Families on the road with all their possessions packed into their trucks, migrating and looking for work. (Circa 1935)
http://history1900s.about.com/library/photos/blygd42.htm
Homeless in American History
http://www.questia.com/library/book/down-and-out-on-the-road-the-homeless-in-american-history-by-kenneth-l-kusmer.jsp

On the Road Again ~ Boulder In a Land Down Under, Not Boulder Colorado

Black & White is timeless, colour tells all time...


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Tags: concatenating scat, jack kerouac, on the road, run-on sentence, scroll unrolled
Current Location: somewhere to call home
Current Mood: on a roll
Current Music: on the road

Secret Hobo Ingredients ~ Twenty Two Secret Hobo Herbs & Spices


Allen Ginsberg First Blues ~ Going to San Diego/ Ginsberg Address

In 1971, Bob Dylan heard Ginsberg improvising song lyrics at a reading. Impressed, he suggested recording together, which they did over two sessions in November of 1971 at the Record Plant in New York City. Ginsberg spent the first session getting comfortable with the setting and the musicians. The second session produced "CIA Dope Calypso" about covert government drug trafficking in Southeast Asia, "Going To San Diego" about Richard Nixon and the upcoming Republican National Convention, "Many Loves" about some of the men with whom he had had relationships, and "Whozat Jimmy Berman." Two takes of "September on Jessore Road," a song inspired by Ginsberg's experience of poverty in India, were also recorded. But much to his disappointment, neither track was usable. It didn't look like the other tracks would fare much better though. They went into a can and sat on a shelf for years before they were finally released.
Allen Ginsberg First Blues Going to San Diego
http://chrisgoesrocks.blogspot.com/2008/12/allen-ginsberg-first-blues-1971-83-rare.html
http://expectingrain.com/discussions/viewtopic.php?f=6&t=33053

In 1976, Ginsberg gave tapes of the 1971 sessions, along with a copy of his book First Blues, to John Hammond, the producer at Columbia who had discovered Leadbelly, Robert Johnson and scores of other brilliant musicians. Hammond liked what he heard and organized a session in June. The album they made included eight new songs along with three from the sessions with Dylan. Columbia executives were upset with Ginsberg's explicit references to homosexuality in some of the songs, however, and refused to release the record. The record, First Blues, would eventually be issued in 1983 on John Hammond's own label. Confusing Ginsberg's discography, Folkways released a completely different album in 1981 under the same title. That record was recorded by ethnomusicologist and eccentric, Harry Smith, in his room at New York's Chelsea Hotel in the mid-1970s. Ginsberg's song writing tailed off in the 1980s, but he remained interested in the latest pop music trends. Attracted by their radical protest songs, Ginsberg visited the Clash backstage before one of their shows in New York in 1981. When they asked him to read a poem to the crowd, he offered instead to sing a song he had written with them. They spent ten minutes rehearsing then performed "Capitol Air," a song in which Ginsberg rejects both capitalism and communism. He was pleased at the enthusiastic response he got from the crowd. Six months later he visited the Clash again, this time in the studio, and was asked by Joe Strummer to look over and tighten up some of their new song lyrics. Ginsberg also provided the "voice of God" which appeared on the song "Ghetto Defendant" on the Clash album Combat Rock. Although he was not writing songs as much as he had earlier in his life and his recording had petty much stopped, Ginsberg never stopped singing, accompanied by his harmonium, at readings. He would also recruit local talent as back-up musicians when he traveled. The arrangement led to a recording of "Birdbrain" with the Denver band the Gluons, which was released in Colorado in the mid-1980s. Despite his personal enthusiasm for music, Ginsberg had often gotten mixed reactions from audiences when he sang or chanted at readings. His voice was ordinary at best, and his harmonium provided just a simple background drone, not a true musical accompaniment. Preparing for his 1989 release The Lion For Real, Ginsberg asked friends, poets and musicians, how to approach the project. According to Michael Schumacher, vocalist Marianne Faithfull suggested "Maybe you shouldn't sing...." In response Ginsberg returned to a strength he had developed over the years, reading his poetry. Shorter works from all phases of his career are accompanied by musicians like Arto Lindsey, Bill Frisell, Marc Ribot, and G.E. Smith. Martha Bustin, writing in Rolling Stone, called The Lion For Real "an artful, affecting presentation of Ginsberg's work.... a virtual Ginsberg primer" proving once again that God is a degenerate hobo.
Allen Ginsberg Biography
http://www.musicianguide.com/biographies/1608002391/Allen-Ginsberg.html

God is a Degenerate Hobo From Hoboken


Train Spotting


"Do Not Shit or Piss on Trains" ~ Number One Hobo Rule


Pissing on Trains ~ American Graffiti

The train in Spain stays mainly on the plain..."

Arthur Kills a Hobo For His Clothes ~ Obviously Inspired by First Blues


A Voice From The Gutters ~ The Great Depression 2009

Right-click to open video in new window:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t1JIa5r5nkE

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Tags: allen ginsgerg blues, first blues, going to san diego, the great depression 2009
Current Location: hoboken new jersey
Current Mood: blue
Current Music: going to san diego