tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76056242024-02-19T17:44:31.672-08:00Peter H. CropesPeter H. Cropeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053886713786214874noreply@blogger.comBlogger59125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7605624.post-50541439494043460042016-10-14T00:29:00.000-07:002016-10-14T00:29:27.728-07:00It is Difficult to Talk About...Buttholes.<br />
By this title, I do not mean to suggest that I personally have any difficulty in speaking of the Butthole. Oh, no.<br />
<br />
It is just that I notice how many people fidget and squirm away from both this word, and this topic. They try to use such replacement phrases as "pucker" [Téodor, who curiously "oralizes" the concept] and "knuckle-sucker" [Ray, who lightens things with humor you are forced to visualize] as they look for any way at all to avoid saying Butthole. It is as though the Butthole were an unstable dictator in their lives, and they did not dare address it by name, so as not to awaken its ire.<br />
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<i>As you have noticed, and to make things more comfortable for you, I capitalize it. As though it were just, "our friend Dave." I want you to know that I will be using this word a lot tonight. This, </i>Butthole<i> word.</i><br />
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We may train our faces to lie for us. We may master their reflexes. We may control our breathing, and heart rate, so that we can defeat the polygraph tests which seek to wrest us from our path. But there is one feature of the body which is no liar. There is a part of us which, if we were to seek its counsel, and place it hard against the mirror, would always show us our true self.<br />
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I was first drawn to consider the fantastic power of the Butthole by an airplane mechanic named Jurgen. He was an old gray German man who lived in an RV on a dusty mechanic's lot on down by Harvicchio Way, which ran past the local airstrip. He slept in his dirty bibs and took his liquor upon rising, as a fresh baby screams for aid. I would collect hood ornaments for him, and he would give me a nickel apiece, and it wasn't long before I was something of a fixture around his yard. It was nice to know the sensation of appreciation for skilled work given on faith.<br />
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Jurgen described to me, one time, an incident in which high winds over a shoreline nearly caused the light aircraft which he was piloting to crash to the ground. He said, in his sharp German accent, ...<br />
<br />
<i>[...and forgive me, as I try to recreate his accent in words, here. I have a, "tin ear" for accents... —Ed.]</i><br />
<br />
...He said, "Ven I felt the plane drop ten feet, I felt my asshole clench!"<br />
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I had never considered this involuntary "tell" before—this idea that the Butthole was of the same honest stuff as our heart. My mind latched onto it like a chigger on a mud-drowned dog. After that, whenever I could, as a part of my learning about others, I made it my job to picture not how someone's face behaved, but how their Butthole might be behaving. To this day, thanks to experience, I can sense the inverse relationship between forced laughter and a clenched Butthole. And I can make many decisions based upon that.<br />
<br />
But first we must abolish the stigma of talking about this amazing, "oracle," if you will. Here are some suggestions of how we might change the way we talk in order to create that future.<br />
<br />
<i>Just imagine...</i><br />
<ul>
<li>Folks could do a world of good for themselves if they would say—to use a construct from daylight television programs—"talk to the Butthole because the face is a scaffold of lies." [In this scenario, I imagine the speaker turning from their combatant, bending at the waist, and presenting them with the full wide view of their derriere.]</li>
<li>If folks were comfortable asking a friend, "What does your Butthole say about these new drapes, Marvin?"</li>
<li>On a complex subject, one could say, "I am of two Buttholes about Jared's latest necktie." (I picture this said, over brandy, in deep leather club chairs, by men whose thick, beautifully-dressed hair is uniformly but gently drawn back, with good and healthy spacing, like the feathers of an eagle.)</li>
</ul>
I wish to put my stake in the sand, with these time-stamped thoughts. May unashamed Butthole awareness guide a new generation of study of the mind. May we cease to demonize this omnipresent resource, this, "consigliere and confidante." May serious concern with it no longer be branded a lack of genius.<br />
<br />
Peter H. Cropes<br />
Alcanuñez, NV<br />
tmp<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7605624.post-47148061198722651732015-11-14T00:24:00.000-08:002015-11-14T00:26:18.071-08:00Return of the Sports Car.<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
As you may recall, <a href="http://peterhcropes.blogspot.com/2006/02/second-car.html">some while back</a> I was much taken by this Sports car, which I had seen during a walk: </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A car suitable for "making a statement."</i></td></tr>
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At the time I was about to advance handsomely in the Publishing industry, with the release of my new volume, <a href="http://www.achewood.com/honorclub/a_wonderful_tale.pdf">A Wonderful Tale</a>. Dreams of operating within the society of the "see and be seen," the "cognoscenti," if you will, were mine, and this dashing car would suit my new lifestyle. But it was not to be. The public was not ready to enjoy my masterpiece. At the time, if they wished to read anything, it was the story of a wizard-boy who got banged on the head by the devil and became the friend of thousands of owls. The tastes of the public are surprising, to be sure, but they cannot be resented. It is simply the job of the Artist to sit and tide until he hits the gusher of public consent. </div>
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Today while I was on an errand to the hardware store for a new hacksaw blade, I again saw the Sports car! I take its reappearance in my life to be a great omen. Perhaps an agent, working late into the night in his cramped Los Angeles office—surrounded by towers of unusable screenplays and failed pitches—has finally discovered my manuscript, ripe as it is for film adaptation. Perhaps I am about to write again—this time a blockbuster about a child who sings fire into being. It cannot be said; all that I do know is that this symbol of my dreams is alive and well again: </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The Sports car reappears, this time at the hardware store. </i></td></tr>
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The car was guarded by a large dog, but he did not make too great a fuss as I drew close to capture this image. In fact, the creature seemed to bear pride in his station: </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I have witnessed the sin of Pride in many forms, but when demonstrated by this simple dog it seems harmless enough. </i></td></tr>
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I drove home elated, considering what a good turn things had taken on an otherwise plain day of errand-making and simple meals taken standing. What could make this day better? </div>
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Why, the appearance of this "beach model" version of my van! I saw it parked near a store that sells second-hand clothing for wealthy children. O how I did picture myself cruising up along a sandy stretch of popular beach, sunglasses calmly resting on my face, a Hawaiian-print shirt indicating that I was right at home. How I could watch the surfers work out their difficult social dynamics among the waves, and notice those who did not make their cut, forced back to shore. How I could wait in the dunes, ready with an easy smile and a few kind words. </div>
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Ah, I see it is "National Novel Writing Month." That seals it. I shall begin my new tale tonight, so I can enjoy the spoils of fortune, of dreams. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The Ford Econoline "Beach Model." Note the many alluring windows, which invite like a jewel-box of delights. </i></td></tr>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7605624.post-90972583398369551722015-10-30T10:38:00.002-07:002015-10-30T10:38:53.091-07:00In the End, I Do Not Know If Anyone Actually Died.<div>
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<i>This could get rid of a lot of trouble</i></div>
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O how the dawn wind did chase itself through the trees with the double-backs of breeding creatures; thick and greasy was the rainwater on the windshield of the old van. I was on my way to get a new favorite pastry at Gillie Tillie Mae's, a modern bakery frequented by thin women and weak men. They produce marvelous, tender delights without the benefit of wheat flour, and I am lately much at the mercy of their walnut scone with Meyer lemon curd thumb-print.<br />
<br />
Would you, "look at me now," as the famous saying goes.<br />
<br />
It was at the recommendation of Pat that I try this bakery, as I had been telling him perhaps too richly of my Autumn digestion. I must say that to this end he was on the mark, which is unusual for him when it comes to foods that others will enjoy.<br />
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As the van pulled its way up New Grammond, a major thoroughfare I often use, I noticed the blinking antlers of a highway trooper in the parking lot of a Safeway supermarket. At first I did assume there had been thievery, as the area is one of cadaverous men lurching perilously across the roads in mid-block, but then the sirens of an ambulance whined their way toward the scene, causing the plot to thicken somewhat. I imagined an old man—his flat yellow-white hair many years out of trim, his jeans the size of a circus tent, housing great and pallid unwashed loins—collapsed in the aisle by the Google Play gift cards, his agonic growl bearing the fury of his knotted heart. Perhaps a kind soul knelt by him; more likely, no-one wished to engage the disgusting spectacle. </div>
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I was made to consider that typically at this time of day I am still in the comfort of the living room easy chair, taking in the radio news or working through a mystery. Today, though, I was reminded that the world thrashes on about its day without cease, great drama always at one's elbow, the limit of earshot just the beginning of the action. It was good summons to more often be out and about in this world, for, "You never know who will be dying at Safeway."</div>
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I am tickled by this new line I have coined, and I expect to get much use from it. It has a lasting ring, much like the bite-sized wisdoms of Ben Franklin or Carl Sagan, if you will allow it. </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7605624.post-51124226269155921482013-10-06T00:58:00.002-07:002013-10-06T00:58:49.192-07:00FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE<br />
<br />
(Achewood, CA) Hot on the heels of <i>Thief of Graves</i>, FRAN.CE has released their second hit single to the world, "Dance Night." "A haunting night of Dance will transport the listener into realms of cyber intrigue and heart-stopping beats," said a representative.<br />
<br />
FRAN.CE, Europe's hottest band, is slowly weaving their success in America, one hit at a time.<br />
<br />
<i>This is the first hit single by FRAN.CE to be "pre-mastered" by Téodor Orezscu, who worked backward to the original files by tracing down the artist's recording process and exposing the rare, raw tracks. FOR ADVANCED LISTENERS ONLY. </i><br />
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<a href="http://achewood.com/Dance_Night.mp3">Dance Night</a> MP3<br />
<a href="http://achewood.com/Dance_Night.m4a">Dance Night</a> M4A (pre-Mastered by DJ Tre-Odor)<br />
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# # #Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7605624.post-31372240713652970482013-10-05T23:48:00.004-07:002013-10-05T23:59:04.712-07:00It is now...FRAN.CEI have noticed a great silence, following the release of my Classical music. At first I was angry, because I had worked so long, and shared so much. The work is fine, calculated against its own measure and balanced in the manner of the great masters. The top half dances across the bottom half, like a marionette of an ice skater in the hand of a child, the <i>cantus firmus</i> of its blades touching down in stretches and swirls above the providence and planning of a somber, paternal frame. It is Music. It is all-piano. It is Classical. I know this to be true.<br />
<br />
Then it struck me: Classical music is never appreciated until long after its creators are dead. Beethoven went insane in his own time, never seeing a penny, dying in a cold apartment with only oats and their gravy in his stomach. Mozart--plopped into the anonymous gutter of souls, only so that his corpse would not attract vermin, not so that it could be honored. Schubert, with his venereal diseases.<br />
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To pep myself up again, I give you the first release by FRAN.CE, my digital band. I imagine them to be of European extraction, in their crisp white coveralls, golden silk gloves on their fingers as they stand on a glass stage at their "Digital Audio Workstations." Their hair is fluffy, and of the fashion. All dance, all are entranced, as the steady beat and whirling, unrelenting melodies snake into their veins. There is man-made fog. The pleasure is note-to-note, in the moment, and vanishes quicker than the smoke and sugar-fed bodies...<i>Is electricity the enemy of music? Or is it the future? FRAN.CE</i><br />
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<a href="http://achewood.com/Thief_of_Graves.mp3">Thief of Graves - FRAN.CE</a><br />
<i>"Their First Single"</i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7605624.post-10723142813810610432013-09-18T23:50:00.001-07:002013-09-18T23:50:05.165-07:00Behold, I have written Classical Music.Hello.<br />
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Although the reception of my Piano Music has not been much to speak of, I am undaunted. That is how I operate, and perhaps I have learned to work best this way. My many novels also languish on the shelves of history, unread and uncared-for, perhaps to be discovered by the Smithsonian or some other clearinghouse of repute. In time folks will see the effort I have made, the hours I have spent.<br />
<br />
After hearing a stretch of <b>Classical Music</b> in the van the other day (I believe it was an Italian fellow who played under the name of Giganto, but the reception was not altogether perfect), I was inspired to write some of my own. Apparently people don't do that any more, but no matter. I listened to several Classical pieces, with the pretty piano "lines" that sound as though they are echoing in a glistening, white marble hall (all surfaces in Classical music must be imagined as glistening, never matte - that is one of my "tricks"), likely a hall where everyone has either died or is outside marveling at handsomely-curried horses. Perhaps it is Austria, in the famous mountains where white men eat fine chocolate as they march along flagstone streets, or perhaps it is ancient and forgotten Boravia, the wealth of which impresses no one any longer, the smiles of its children forgotten by all.<br />
<br />
I must hold myself back. Please, here, enjoy this piece of Classical Music. It will remind you of glossy, airy marble halls, or I have not done my job. <br />
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<a href="http://achewood.com/Behold_Classical_Music.mp3">Behold, Classical Music</a> (mp3 format audio file, or "iTune")<br />
<i>Peter H. Cropes, Programmer of the Piano</i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7605624.post-69439049033692362662013-09-13T23:10:00.004-07:002013-09-13T23:10:54.602-07:00I have shared a second song, "Peach Titus."<br />
In the joy of haste, and O in the joy of growing familiar with this tape recorder and its frailty, I have released my second "single," Peach Titus. Those who do or don't know can read here that Peach Titus is a Southern tea, meant for correction but just divine as-is. It is my companion on many drives, in hot weather, humid, among the sleepy Acadians and Baptist-Huguenots (funny people, those) both. It is the beverage of a passive state, between works, a drink to be earned.<br />
<br />
There is a slight error in the recording of this song, and I apologize for it. You will notice it, but you will forgive the early embarrassments of floating my music into a great and unknowable sea of blank faces.<br />
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<a href="http://achewood.com/Peach_Titus.mp3"><b>Peach Titus</b></a> - <i>Peter H. Cropes, Programmer of the Piano</i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7605624.post-74496582479783545842013-09-13T21:42:00.004-07:002013-09-13T21:48:33.405-07:00Hello, I am a Band now. Good Evening. It has been some years since I have spoken with you, since we have shared words. I have been on a magical journey—to use the words of a showman—and I would like to tell you about it.<br />
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I am a band, now. Perhaps I am several bands, it is hard to say. This is how it happened.<br />
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There was a boy who thought well of himself, and he was quite fond of the latest, flashiest technologies. His iPhone, that Judas's cradle of the modern world, that bearer of hollow crux and vinuous grasp, came into my possession one day. On it was a harmless-looking computer program, and when, on a lark of sorts, on a long drive, I opened it up—it allowed me to place small blocks in a grid, and those blocks became sounds. They became music, they became tunes, through the machine<a href="http://www.apple.com/ilife/garageband/">ry of m</a>en who work in Cupertino, California. It sounds like a false place of fallen orchards and glass, but their perversion has created something useful to me.<br />
<br />
I was immediately taken with this easy ability to put down the tunes in my head, and change them over time to suit the knowledge I was gaining. Wikipedia.org, that great website, taught me of "circles of fifths," and "counterfeit modulation." Such lofty terms. So, <i>fancy</i>. But they are useful, hard-won things. They ride unto us on the shoulders of madmen, of lunatics who died from their exertions in the service of music, strangled upon the tether from which they hung by the heavens. Beethoven. The mournful Russian Rachmaninoff. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (diminutive coprophiliac and giggler). <br />
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I am quite likely several bands. They suit my many moods.<br />
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1. FRAN.CE<br />
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I have found kin in that plastic instrument, that lipstick, the synthesizer. I do not know why, but its tones soothe me. Perhaps the precision of its "attack" and "decay" can be specified so cleanly, it is therapeutic. Please, enjoy the music of FRAN.CE.<br />
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2. Piano Dan<br />
Perhaps you might say, he is my "alter ego." Or just a character I have schemed up. A "piano-loving friend" who diddles all the night and day on his keys, creating the most delightful—or perhaps the least delightful—simple piano melodies. I imagine him as serious, silent, leaving when he is done, walking up round the fertile berm of the lane that wound from home to the world beyond.<br />
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3. Downtown Mammal<br />
This is something I don't know that I do.<br />
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ENGINEERING NOTE<br />
As you have been aware, I am not of an ease with computers. This "iTunes," with its crazy spelling, is something I simply cannot make known to me. To hear Téodor say it, the songs become one in the air, and appear on devices which have an understanding placed in them by the wealthy. I will have none of it. In my world, music is a good old thing, listened to on cassettes, and easily shared in that way. Because I can not e-mail you all a cassette, however, I played my iPhone into my tape recorder, then played my tape recorder at a computer's microphone. From there it was a hop-skip to share my first song with you. If you enjoy it, please hold your own tape recorder to your computer's speaker, and then carry it with you wherever you go.<br />
<br />
MY FIRST SONG<br />
<a href="http://achewood.com/Orris_Root_Tango.mp3"><b>Orris Root Tango</b></a> - <i>Peter H. Cropes, Programmer of the Piano</i><br />
This little tune may be considered how it feels to drive at night, down the furrowed hard-clay lanes of Parish Amortane, Louisiana, between the orris fields and the fragrant sassafrass, knowing it was time to do what you had felt building inside you for many days.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7605624.post-75419068525982033872008-05-04T21:01:00.000-07:002008-05-04T21:49:15.922-07:00"Quizno's."A new sandwich company has opened its doors just a few blocks from Pat's house. It is called "Quizno's," perhaps named for an Italian fellow, and their claim to fame is that they heat up all of their sandwiches, guaranteed. This intrigued me, as I have a very good memory of a hot sandwich at a road house late one night while driving across the country. Oh how the roll was toasty but soft, and oh how the cheese did melt into a fine soft sheet atop the many meats. I did not ask for the free fresh-sliced onions, because I did not want to cool down the sandwich with vegetables.<br /><br />My sandwich at Quizno's was quite tasty. After some time in considering the large menu, I asked the female for a Bacon Chipotle Club, and I agreed to the larger size (one foot). It was served open-faced, and I allowed for a squirt of pink-colored "chili" mayonnaise. I am glad that I did. The sandwich bites came alive and sang once inside my lips. I ate and ate, the pleasure of each mouthful growing like a fire inside me. Saliva squirted inside my mouth with abandon, like a car wash. That sandwich was literally treated to a car wash inside my mouth...<br /><br />I was so pleased with the sandwich that I pored over all of the literature available about Quizno's, but could find no company history. This must mean that it is a corporate invention. That is fine, if they can produce such a tasty product, but I would like them even better if they had a good story to them. Once home, I sat myself at my desk and began to pen the tale of Giugliacomo "Johnny" Quizno, my imaginary founder of the chain. A good, stout boy from Italy, he boards a steamship for Brooklyn in 1909, and makes his bones the old-world way, in a time of murder, prostitution, hard liquor, and the foods that stood up to it. He has a large belly all his life, but this is shown as seeming trustworthy rather than unpleasant. Anyhow. I am typing all of this up, and even drawing a portrait of Johnny, to mail to the corporate headquarters. It is an exciting time, for I know they will welcome this clever idea.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqIle0QfRzvRbd190CNv6x1Mn3oES3BmDCPt3TSvHmWbIvLxx5rXd4ExY93p-Q3B5Rv5fbJXZpSw6YpjHGwrVy-N2rBS4etLBl-dMIHAwuakolewVeCRiwGq37ZM5q1uF3xNjy/s1600-h/g_quizno.gif"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqIle0QfRzvRbd190CNv6x1Mn3oES3BmDCPt3TSvHmWbIvLxx5rXd4ExY93p-Q3B5Rv5fbJXZpSw6YpjHGwrVy-N2rBS4etLBl-dMIHAwuakolewVeCRiwGq37ZM5q1uF3xNjy/s400/g_quizno.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5196749879562639410" border="0" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7605624.post-64174171642587183232008-01-02T17:28:00.000-08:002008-05-04T18:52:19.174-07:00Where Rachael Ray Lives.A little while back I mentioned that I was not happy with Rachael Ray, a famous television personality, because of the way she spoke low of perch. I guess I never told you how my "visit" to her went. Well, it is the holidays, and I finally have some time to myself, so here is that story.<br /><br />I had read on-line that Rachael Ray lives in the woods outside of New York City, so I hopped in the van and got going. I figured I could do research here and there on the way, in various "hobo cafes" where there is Internet (I could also call a few colleagues). Things went well, and I made it to New York in about fifty hours. Once in New York, I had a pretty good idea of where she lived, so I headed "upstate" to the quiet rural community she calls home.<br /><br />It's a nice enough town, with pines and cedars lining the road. The air is fresh, and the last yellow silt from pollen season lines the creek beds. An old general store advertises daily specials on medicine or cloth, and tired men in honest caps walk dogs that have real problems. Two women chat as they enter what is clearly a beloved hamburger restaurant.<br /><br />I like where she lives; it is a good place. This is why I do not like that she lives there. It is as though she does not Get it. She tries much too hard to please. A good country person waits to be pleased. Poverty cannot afford to dance.<br /><br />After some eavesdropping behind a newspaper I hear a local man mention where her house is to a new pizza delivery boy. I start the van and head there. The light is growing dim, and I have sulfured eggs to distract her dogs.<br /><br />I make a few wrong turns, out on the foggy pine forest roads, but it isn't long before I know I've found the place. I ask you, what good country family has three matching PT Cruisers. Why would she need three. I know she is married, but it just seems terrible. It makes me angry. She should not make her husband drive a PT Cruiser. No matter who he is. (Although, I have to admit, my opinion on that will soon change.)<br /><br />I park the van six miles down the road, to ward off suspicion, then sprint back to their property. As I had read, there are large dogs prowling about. I reach into my fanny sack and throw two sulfured eggs as far as I can from the house. The dogs hear the cracks and sprint away. Perfect. I've injected the eggs with Haxall's Pandemonium Chlorodyne.<br /><br />Now it's time to get up and look in the windows. The first thing I see, unfortunately, is her short husband using the bathroom. Before I can duck away I learn the awful truth: he is sweating, and he has jazz butt. The window is open, so I am spared no detail, no matter how quickly I try to creep away. Oh god how awful, how awful to live with Rachael Ray. How awful to watch what happens. How awful to eat what happens.<br /><br />Soon I have crept around to the back deck and I see the small husband, an Italian fellow, walk delicately into the large dine-in kitchen. Rachael is there and, away from the cameras, she wears Mickey Mouse clothing from head to toe. Even her house slippers have things on them which make it clear they are a Mickey Mouse product. She stirs a large pot of something I cannot see clearly; I hear her tell the little husband that it is her "Astronaut Turkey Smackers." I do not know how something called a "smacker," or meant for astronauts, can be prepared in a large pot. It seems that outer space demands special, careful foods. I feel lost. The husband, too, has the same feeling. He sneaks off to the driveway and takes a big sip of Amstel from a hidden place in the back of the third PT Cruiser. He has done this before.<br /><br />Soon the pizza delivery boy pulls into view, but he stops a hundred yards down the road. He leaves a pizza box near a fencepost, picks up a rock, and removes what looks like cash. The husband does not look in his direction, but when he has heard the boy's engine fade away he sprints to the pie and ravenously consumes several slices. He then hides the box beneath large dried cedar branches, perhaps for later. It is a gamble, as animals may eat it, but it looks to me that he lives by playing at odds. He wipes wet leaves and pine needles on his mouth, on his tongue, to hide the smells.<br /><br />Rachael steps out to the front porch and yells, "<span style="font-style: italic;">JAAAAHN?</span> JOHN-BOY? YOU OUT THERE?"<br /><br />The husband panics, and yells back, "I...I was chasing a rabbit! It looked like it was hurt!"<br /><br />"Well, was it?"<br /><br />"I guess not, Rach, 'cause he sure got away fast!"<br /><br />"Get back in here! I just got an idea for Hobgoblin Turkey Gobblers! You know, kind of a Halloween thing!"<br /><br />"Sounds awesome, Rach! What's...what's in it?"<br /><br />"I'll figure that out later! Come in here and try the Smackers, and quit makin' me yell. You know I'm doin' twelve shows tomorrow!"<br /><br />He whispers his reply: "<span style="font-style: italic;">Sure thing, Rach!</span>"<br /><br />"WHAAAAAAT?"<br /><br />"Sorry, Rach! Be there in a sec!"<br /><br />The dogs finally start to howl and convulse in the woods behind the house, so they run off to see what is the matter. I am disgusted with them both; I do not want to confront this terrible situation as much as I thought I did. I want to be gone, away from these two. It is all I can do to go into the house, make myself sick on a plate, and leave it by the stove. "Amateur hour," I know.<br /><br />Not too long after that I am back in the van, headed for home. I am disappointed, and it takes me a good sixty hours to reach California. When I turn on the television, there is Rachael Ray, serving a meal of Astronaut Turkey Smackers. A telltale stain of iodine shows just past the cuff of a long shirt sleeve: she has been bitten by a crazed dog.<br /><br />In a way, I have communicated with her, but I would not call it a conversation.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7605624.post-33744281047721560842007-11-08T16:15:00.000-08:002007-11-08T18:44:27.168-08:00Cold Noodles.There are not many foods which I can eat in common with Pat, as he is quite particular. There is even a name for his style of peculiarity, but it escapes me at the moment. Something like Rogaine, although you and I both know that Rogaine is a gentleman's hair recovery salve. Anyhow. My point is, Pat and I both enjoy noodle meals.<br /><br />We also enjoy my home-crafted "tater tots," but that is not on topic. Heh. I guess I just say it to brag. Oh how I love that old recipe.<br /><br />Tonight's noodle meal was to be divine. Pat cooks some special Oriental spaghetti-type pasta and then coats it with "organic" peanut butter. The idea, the combination, is lunacy, but oh how delicious it is. It is truly...an amazing food. He often sprinkles it with coriander leaf and sesame "bushotto." Oh how it is filling. Oh how it sates. When he makes it lately, we even refer to the dish as "lunatic noodles." It is a joke among men. It is good. <br /><br />I was very late getting home after my trip to the secret redwood patch (one of the roads had gone out after the first rain and I needed to shore up a section with a fill wall — even added a French drain for good measure) so my noodles had gone cold. I was polite and said I was sorry I had been late, but Pat continued to watch his television show about dancing. I put the noodles in the microwave cooker but this caused the peanut butter to separate into oil and an unpleasant mealy paste, and the noodles went clumpy. To honor Pat's commitment I ate it, but it was horrid. Every bite was an eternity. Every swallow was to vomit oil and glue into my own stomach. At the end of the meal I was ill, mad at Pat (although I honored him), and there was no fun in the house. I sat alongside the car in the dark garage for a few hours until my body had processed the terrible nutrition, and then went to the corner store for a pickled chorizo and a box of Saltines.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7605624.post-15326293020949782802007-08-14T22:12:00.000-07:002007-08-14T22:29:55.737-07:00A great sneezing besets me.I do not mean great in that I am<span style="font-style: italic;"> pleased</span> with the ceaseless sneezing I have experienced in the evening lately. I mean it is out-of-bounds, unacceptable, painful in the extreme. For the last few months, at ten o'clock in the evening, I have had outbursts of this kind, and violent ones — ones that leave me retching.<br /><br />Typically at ten o'clock PM I have my "rudders true" through a History Channel program about magnificent ships, as there has been a Series lately (<span style="font-style: italic;">"Empire of the Wind"</span>). I admire fine old ships. Though of near-ancient ways, their power knew no equal. Meaningless men in creaking hammocks swung from the ceiling come night. Terrible food full of maggots and ash sustained them. Their punishment: the stockade. Oh, how many men screamed their way to the bottom of the sea in the stockade, bereft of even the ability to float hopelessly upon the surface, to talk while they died, before committing themselves, in final desperation, to the same "briny deep."<br /><br />I cannot enjoy my show any longer, for all this sneezing. I must find a pill, or antidote, or a reason that I can do away with. I will start with Pat and his new friend. I will not put a name to him. The friend is the latest change to our home. Perhaps he wears some cologne, or dresses a persistent wound in some herb of succor, which upsets me so.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7605624.post-16910669392151772212007-06-26T22:55:00.000-07:002007-06-26T23:24:14.069-07:00A good sun-caught perch.When I was a boy, it was always a good day when we could land a few sun-caught perch down at the ox mine sinkhole. Daddy would smack them across the head with his old special Carter wrench, and fillet them quicker than they could die. I remember good fish so fresh the fin on the side was still risin' up and down in the pan. We fried them in honest butter and put lemon alongside, that was meal enough for us.<br /><br />Yet here I see on Food Television that a woman named Rachael Ray has claimed that perch is low, and says to get a fish by the name of "ahi" instead. Ahi looks red and wicked, like a steak cut from a man's thigh. It is said to cost great sums, much greater than meat. I don't like this woman, and I understand she lives in the woods. Well, I know woods. I see she has dogs. Well, dogs are of low persuasion and easily distracted by sulfured eggs.<br /><br />Maybe next time she goes on television, she won't have the same low opinion of simple sun-caught perch.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7605624.post-3556445449497950002007-04-17T08:30:00.000-07:002007-04-18T08:32:35.692-07:00I cooked a TV Dinner.Call me low, but I do enjoy a good old-fashioned TV Dinner. I cooked one tonight, while Pat was away with his new fellow. Guess I'm going to be doing a lot of cooking on my own for at least a while. That is good, I can get by. I can turn on an oven with the best of them, I like to kid.<br /><br />Tonight's dinner was a Swanson Hungry Man Classic Fried Chicken dinner. It was on sale at the Bell, two for one, and to wash it down I chose good, cold milk. Oh how my meal was fine. The lengthy cooking time was a temptation of agony, but at last I could peel the cover off and eat. Oh how I dined. Oh how salty the meat, how perfect the mashed potato compartment with its yellow area where the picture-perfect square of margarine had melted. The corn I did not care for. Oh how sweet and sticky the delicious berry crumb dessert. And I have one left.<br /><br />I am only worried at my insatiate behavior after I finished the meal. I was in a salt-lust and ate an entire jar of peanuts. I will walk for a few hours, and drink orange juice, to help break down the nuts. The walking will help rock the sea in my stomach and erode the food into a fine, fine sand.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7605624.post-63398764132843548012007-03-19T21:56:00.000-07:002007-03-19T22:16:19.738-07:00I have been on a Book Tour.Oh this was not the fancy kind of Book Tour with plane tickets and gleeful "paparazzi" and a smiling greeter at the airport. It was more of a tour of my own design. Late one night, while rifling, I was able to find the addresses of every customer who had purchased my books through Achewood, and after a fashion I was able to copy them down into a list. It took a good many hours, but fortunately rain was coming so everyone slept soundly as I did my work.<br /><br />After that I plotted them all on free maps from the American Automobile Association, and fueled up the van. I watched through many windows as my customers read my books, and I have to say the results weren't half bad. It pleased me to see that folks generally were respectful while reading, and only one fellow shook his head at the end. We talked about that, he and I (in my mind). Since he had given money for the book, I had no claim over him, but all the same I did feel that his after-act of painful criticism justified the fire I set while he slept. That was my, "criticism," of him, if you will. <br /><br />There were many long, hard nights on the road, but I believe I did visit all of you. I have to say that some of the college campuses are awful hard to navigate, and that made me angry, but I was pleased to see about the shared showers in many places. It kept my mind alive on the long roads between. The drain grates were enormous, and the water pressure superb.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7605624.post-1166261757020656592006-12-16T01:24:00.000-08:002006-12-16T01:35:57.033-08:00What is plastic? No one will say.For the life of me I can not get a straight answer about what plastic is. Some say it is a petroleum product, but what on earth happens to the petroleum (good, simple gasoline) to make it plastic, no one will say. One fellow tried, but he talked too long and made me feel of low mind. The next fellow who tried said it was made of small pellets which were melted down as needed at a "destination factory." Needless to say that only made me angrier. By the time the third fellow tried to explain plastic to me he could barely open his mouth before I brought my pink lunch tray down on his head so hard that it (his head) hit the table and actually bounced back up against my tray and then down again (like a basketball dribble). From that point out barely anybody in the hof brau was listening to each other and so I fired up the van and left. I feel worse than ever that I am surrounded by this basic material that I can not understand.Peter H. Cropeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053886713786214874noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7605624.post-1164695289069754782006-11-27T22:10:00.000-08:002006-11-27T22:28:09.106-08:00My new novel is released.I did not expect to finish my second novel, <span style="font-weight:bold;">A Hilarious Comedy</span>, as quickly as I did. The first novel was a marathon of hate and anguish and endless paste-up, and I vowed many times I would never put a book together again. This time it was different. Based loosely on what I ended up having to do with the coquettish sandwich fellow, the story came together in mere Nights. I would sit and type feverishly at the computer -- oh, that is the main thing. I have learned to use Microsoft Word for novel making. Oh how it does ease the process. And there is no paste-up. The new book is spic-and-span and so professional. This time instead of taping down my drawings to the paper, I "put" them into the Microsoft Word page. I would tell you more but I know you must find my advances dull. <br /><br />I have put forth my "sophomore" effort. It is done and though there are no reviews yet I feel that I can begin to term myself a "writer." It is a curious mantle to wear. At once it seems arrogant and high-brow, but again Homer was a blind wanderer and Chaucer had been a prisoner. I do not think you will find anyone of value who tinkers with their merits to spite their low ways.Peter H. Cropeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053886713786214874noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7605624.post-1160021097082173362006-10-04T20:26:00.000-07:002006-10-04T21:04:57.593-07:00A complicated gay man sold me a sandwich.I have seen some good old hospitality for the first time in a long while. It came in the form of a fellow who dressed and cut sandwiches at a place which is rumored to be all the rage in town. I would not have gone there but over the course of things I heard Téodor mention that they really dress them nice there, and because of an owner's background, they have a special scrapple sandwich, with the scrapple crisped fine and savory, among chilled lettuce and a zesty mayonnaise. I love to get a scrapple when I can, as I miss it from many hard nights on the road, from my days back East. <br /><br />I got in the line where the people agreed to wait, and before too long I was up at the front. I had had plenty of time to be certain that scrapple was on the menu, and I knew what I wanted alongside: a soda. The sandwich cutter looked up at me: he smiled. I reported that I would like the scrapple sandwich on a fine sweet roll and he smiled perhaps more; I sensed that he too knew of the pleasure of scrapple. He was a gay fellow, and as gay fellows do he had prepared his hair and clothing well. Some call it coquetry, and it is not much practiced by men. <br /><br />I do not want to make much of this, as it was straightforward. He prepared the sandwich well and something about him fascinated me. He wore his jeans in the modern low style where there is a hint of backside, and I was interested in that. I did not know how much he meant to show me, and that raised questions. You will know what I mean when I say that the sandwich is not where I will stop knowing him. I want to know what he meant by those pants and that coquetry. I think he meant quite a great deal, and I think he was out for adventure.Peter H. Cropeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053886713786214874noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7605624.post-1158739044331481042006-09-20T00:45:00.000-07:002006-09-20T00:57:24.343-07:00I am Infected.Living out West has infected me. I am a slave of the advertisements and the shameless style of spending money. I have a good car, yet I want a separate car, of a different shape, for those times when I feel a different way about myself. I even want a third car, of a third shape, for a time in my future, that I should hope for, when I feel a third way about myself. And oh the colas. They are never content with their colas. They add cherry, and vanilla, and then coffee flavor, and they take away the sugar, like a magician pulling away the tablecloth, and change the logo artwork, and keep you ever dancing, dancing, like a madman on a red-hot conveyor belt to hell; if you don't dance in place and always buy more strange new soda then you'll fall on your side and be whisked off to the scalding white-hot pits of brimstone and sulphur. That is what it is like to get out of bed each day in California.Peter H. Cropeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053886713786214874noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7605624.post-1155798637498326632006-08-16T23:56:00.000-07:002006-08-17T00:10:37.510-07:00CampingOh, how it would be fine to go camping. The dog days and locust nights are nearly past and now once again a body can lay out under the stars without worry of mosquitoes or toads. Maybe I will pack up the old cooler and bedroll and find some time to myself out in the open. Heh if you can believe it I am even mildly paranoid that Casper Jim Middritch will come drive an axe into my guts even though he has been dead ten years, oh how he used to do that. Camping is a time when we agree with no-one that we are safe, and people who don't care about that have maps to campgrounds.Peter H. Cropeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053886713786214874noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7605624.post-1154586144261083212006-08-02T22:19:00.000-07:002006-08-02T23:22:24.300-07:00I cooked a chicken this evening, which is new to meAs many of you may have guessed, I am not a cook of much interest to others. I suppose you can tell this through my shy manner and plain meals of pan-top trout or bread. Tonight though I saw a cooking show by a man called Tyler Florence. It was on Food Network Television, a channel you can find on cable. I happened to see it while I was flipping around aimlessly. Something about Tyler Florence caught my eye. He is clean and handsome, and probably mostly hairless. Men like this interest me. Of course this is not to say that the hair on the top of his head was not quite good. It looked quite fine and full, but soft and easily changed. <br /><br />He cooked a simple baked chicken with someone else, and showed them the basic ideas. I don't know why, but I wanted to cook a chicken after I saw Tyler Florence do it. I bought one at the store, not a frozen one but one ready-to-go. I put it in the baking pan but something did not seem right. I was not dressed like Tyler. I went upstairs and put on a fancy ski sweater, then I felt right. I felt different. I turned on the oven. I poured salt on the chicken, then some inside. I cut a lemon in half, but in my excitement, I forgot it. The chicken went into the oven at room temperature and then in an hour, as Tyler had mentioned, it was cooked. I felt fantastic. I pretended I was showing it to someone. The person in my pretending was Tyler. He touched the cooked chicken in a few places and then announced casually that it was perfectly done. I said well how about that, and he chuckled a good chuckle and mentioned that it was time to dig in. I hit him as hard as I could across the back of the head with a ladle and he had only about five seconds of primal fight response in him before his senses petered out. I guess I got some signals crossed, even in my pretending. <br /><br />Anyhow, I ate healthily from the bird and when I had had my fill I went out in the van and put the carcass in a black mailbox, being sure to lift the red flag on the side. I hadn't done that in a while, it felt good.Peter H. Cropeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053886713786214874noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7605624.post-1150347217973645502006-06-14T21:38:00.000-07:002006-06-14T21:53:38.006-07:00Plum season is almost hereOh but how fine is plum season. Ripe delicious plums are such a treat. Their flesh is almost like a jelly when the ripening is complete, almost clear and oh how sweet. For dessert a plum is finer than any meat. <br /><br />This brings me to a good question. How does any one know when words are a poem vs. a paragraph? Is it only to do with hitting the RETURN key at surprising times? I have looked at many poems, and that is my only guess. As far as I can tell from looking through MAX BAERSON'S EXPANDED MODERN POETRY ANTHOLOGY I may be the first man to write his rhymes in paragraph form. I looked and flipped and read through the pages and as I continued to fail to find paragraph poems my excitement grew. Soon it was at a pitch, and I realized I had made a great breakthrough. I type this here now because Pat tells me that "Google" (a massive computer two stories high and then some) records everything that is put on the Internet, with a time stamp to prove you wrote it first.<br /><br />As far as I know this is a free automatic service but just to be sure I will attempt to summon the Google computer: <br /><br />Hello Google<br />Please read my words Google<br />Computer Computer Google<br />Who invented you Google<br />You beautiful thingPeter H. Cropeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053886713786214874noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7605624.post-1147325808678535842006-05-10T22:25:00.000-07:002006-05-10T22:36:48.713-07:00Finally my book is shipping.I do not know what Heaven feels like, and I do not Expect to, as my good works are not quite so great as my Sins. But I imagine I know a Heaven, now that I have seen copies of <span style="font-style:italic;">A Wonderful Tale</span> roll off of the shipping line at the Achewater Publishing Fulfillment Building. It is a small building, and I was given a no-sugar soda, but still the thrill was great in my bones and flesh. I saw how it "works." There were clear bags for the books to go into, and "ridgid" paperboard envelopes to protect them, and finally they went into a large strong paperboard envelope which provided even more protection from bending and careless spray. A professional label was "slapped" onto them by a worker, and then they went into a bin direct to the post office. DO NOT BEND. DO NOT BEND. I am proud that my work can bear such a label. <br /><br />Hopefully you will read this book soon. In it, you will find a "teaser" to my next book. I am not going to write this next book, not for a while, because I HATE, I DEEPLY HATE the publishing process. I have been horribly betrayed by everything from the machines to the people. I may not even make a dime. <br /><br />You may want to read this brief teaser and then wait a couple years, is my advice, because I am too furious to finish the next story right now.Peter H. Cropeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053886713786214874noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7605624.post-1143790287414171482006-03-30T23:22:00.000-08:002006-03-30T23:31:27.426-08:00Book very close to reality.My publisher, Chris, had to talk with his printer this week about the finer details of the book production process. He had to negotiate, and at times he made large decisions. I know he talked about saddle-stitching, and scoring, and many other complicated printing concepts, such as resolution. Resolution is not what you would think. It is a quantity of dots, and my work does not have enough dots. Much of it is not even "half-tone," and if that is a slur on my heritage or mind I will cut and I will carry. <br /><br />But if "half-tone" is in fact an honest term of the trade then I will try to make it right, or full-tone. If that can be done with what I have made. I know I am not a real writer, but paper is paper and all men should have access.<br /><br />I hate making this book, but in hate the mind is new.Peter H. Cropeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053886713786214874noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7605624.post-1140936506596386722006-02-25T22:39:00.000-08:002006-02-25T22:54:08.196-08:00A second car.Chris Onstad says we may publish my book, <span style="font-weight:bold;">A Wonderful Tale</span>, very soon. Apparently he had quite a few irons in the fire but now things have calmed down a bit and he has got his mind back. <br /><br />When we do finally get the book out into the public I have considered that I will get a second car, a Sports car. My van is all I need but I understand that to make certain impressions upon meeting with reviewers, columnists, and screenplay-adapters, a Sports car is desirable. <br /><br />Good thing for me that while out on a walk recently I saw a great Sports car for sale. It seats two, and has very fast lines. I will approach this person about the title and registration. If everything is good and the sales of the book have gone well, I will get it. I will tell you more then. <br /><br />Here is a photograph of it:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3700/476/1600/sports_car.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3700/476/400/sports_car.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>Peter H. Cropeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053886713786214874noreply@blogger.com