If I had a coffeehouse, this would be my motto:
“A frightened clientele is an obedient clientele.”
Or perhaps:
“A nervous clientele is a loyal clientele.”
I’d spray my customers with hormones as they
walked through the door.
To mark them.
I’d control the colors they wore.
I’d make the colors dance for me.
Dance pretty colors, dance!
The lemonade would always
be out of season.
Author: admin
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If I had a coffeehouse
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The Deathmarch to the Lighthouse, Week 2
Welcome to Week 2…. Looks like we’ve got an excellent bunch of ‘marchers onboard. And yes, a part of me fears I’ll be bankrupted by all them magnets. But then I’m reminded of that old wax devil math. Good old math.
Since some folks are new, here’s a quick word about what to post when: At the start of a new thread, post about the previous week. That is, you’d post about the first week’s reading right here. As the week and the thread roll on, people tend to start posting about the current week’s reading. And that’s fine too. Really, there’s no hard and fast rule about this. We’re all just just trying to avoid dropping accidental spoilers by jumping ahead of the pack.
That bit o’ business aside, let me say: golly I enjoyed this week’s reading. This is my first brush with Woolf. I expected there’d be leaping in and out of people’s heads. But I didn’t expect anything as goofy-great as Mr. Ramsay’s heroic efforts to conquer R. Or anything as vivid as that selfsame Mr. taking his leave “with a movement which oddly reminded his wife of the great sea lion at the Zoo tumbling backwards after swallowing his fish and walloping off so that the water in the tank washes from side to side…” All this and the repeated refrain from Tennyson’s Charge of the Light Brigade — “stormed at by shot and shell, boldly we rode and well….”
I’m sold. It’s a great start, and I’m looking forward to seeing where it takes us. See ya on the trail,
-Cecil
Next Wednesday: One more relatively short hop, and then we’ll start to pick up speed. Let’s meet at the end of Chapter XVI where we can “assemble in the dining-room for dinner.” -
Nibble groove
Crickly crack.
Warm mice
pop spin slice.
Crickle.
Are
eating
my crickly.
Eating my
crickly
music.
music.
music. -
Lego my Torah
My 6-year-old son’s having a playdate right now. There are clinking noises and murmurs coming through the open door to his room. And then I hear my son say this: “I’ll trade you a Jewish Bible.” A what?!
You heard right, he’s trying to trade his friend a Torah, that ancient fount of sacred wisdom. “What are you gonna trade for?” I call out, hoping it’s a Koran or The Book of Mormon or somesuch — something we can use. But no, it’s for Lego pieces.
And that’s what the world’s come to, my friends — 6-year-olds trying to trade their Torahs for Lego pieces.
This never would have happened when Bill Clinton was president. -
A little wahoo
Shampoo was nice enough to publish/post one of my poems this week in Issue 28 (under my so-called “real name”). It’s an excellent issue, including a poem by Rodney Koeneke, one of my favorite living Americans. If ya get a chance, checkitout.
This little wahoo got me to add a Published category over on the left side o’ the screen. Nine pieces in there now, so that leaves literally hundreds of pieces still available for purchase at reasonable prices….
-Cecil -
The Deathmarch To the Lighthouse, Week 1
Welcome to “The Deathmarch to the Lighthouse” — a group read of Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse.
I think we have something like 15 or 20 people planning to read this go-around — a nice solid number. Simple math, however, tells us only that two will finish, and I won’t be one of of them. Still, as my Italian nanny used to say: “il per la matematica è una cosa della cera ed i numeri sono fatti della cera.” Which means (roughly) “math is a wax thing, and numbers are made of wax.” She was a crazy old coot.
For anyone new, here’s how it works: every Wednesday I post an entry saying how far we’re reading that week. Folks drop by and comment over the next seven days.
But Are There Prizes?
Yes! There are prizes! Finish the book and comment each week, and you’ll receive a genuine To-the-Lighthouse-themed talisman hand-imbued with a fractional sampling of the raw power wielded by Magneto, Master of Magnetism. (on the off-chance we get more people than we’re expecting, let’s cap that at 30 hand-imbued talismans)
Be sure to shout out in the comments (click on “Whaddya Think” below) if you’re on the ‘march, both to stay talisman-qualified, and so’s we can get a headcount. Don’t sweat it if you fall a little behind on the reading — “I’m so far behind!” actually counts as a legitimate comment. And of course, If you’ve read the book before, try to keep comments from getting ahead of the weekly reading.
And that’s it. Mostly, it’s just a chance to read a great book, share thoughts and questions, and shake a fist at that old wax devil, math, by making it through to the end.
See ya on the trail,
-Cecil
Next Wednesday: We meet at the end of Book 1, Chapter 7, where someone’s about to say nothing and take opium. -
Stalin’s Sexy Man-Apes: Ivan!
Last week we proudly launched our exclusive look at Stalin’s Sexy Man-Apes — the enigmatic ape/human hybrids who’ve set tongues a-wagging from Manhattan to Monaco. Our first stop was Denver, for some q-time with Sergei. Next up: Louisville, Kentucky to meet Ivan, widely rumored to be the sexiest of the four Stalin’s Sexy Man-Apes. This made me nervous — after all, there’s such a thing as too sexy. But Ivan quickly put me at ease.
At his side was Svetlana Stepanova, a 6 foot 5 platinum blond who’s both Ivan’s handler and his business partner. Shortly after Ivan’s release from the Office of Man-Ape Debriefing, the pair purchase a promising thoroughbred. Now they spend day and night together, training their horse for the Kentucky Derby. It’s a busy life, but they graciously made time to meet me at a cafe down by the track, where we sipped Mint Juleps and talked about horse names.
Ivan: The Sexiest of the Four ‘Stalin’s Sexy Man-Apes’
CV: Wow, you really are quite sexy.
Ivan: Yes. Thank you.
CV: I mean, not just the way you look. Even how you smell.
Ivan: Yes.
CV: You even, uh, you even smell sexy.
Ivan: You said this already.
Svetlana: Ha! Does my Ivan leave you flustered?
CV: No, I, er…
Svetlana: He does!
CV: So Ivan, why horses?
Ivan: Well, since was baby man-ape, Ivan dream of going to world-famous “Churchill Downs” for drinking of “Mint Juleps.” Is home. Ivan finally find home.
CV: Tell me how you chose the name for your horse.
Ivan: Ivan name horsie “Sergei Is Lesser Ape.” At first, was going to name horsie “PS I Love You (Pony).” Or maybe “I Have the Trotskys.” [laughs]
Svetlana: I wanted “St. Petersburgh Surprise Packet.”
Ivan: Then “Little Ivan, ” he say: “You should name horsie ‘Sergei Is Lesser Ape.’” And I say: “OK! Let’s do it! ” Because Ivan want to show world he can be sexy and funny and man-ape.
Svetlana: And you showed them, darling, you showed them all!
Ivan: [roars]
Svetlana: [roars]
CV: That’s a great story.
Ivan: Thank you.
Svetlana: [roars]
Ivan: “Little Ivan” is funny man-ape too. Just not so sexy. You meet him, yes?
CV: Later this week.
Ivan: You will see. Not so sexy.
Svetlana: Not half as sexy as my Ivan.
CV: Svetlana, I’ve been meaning to ask —
Svetlana: What?
CV: Well, it’s just, you two seem pretty close. For a human and a man-ape.
Svetlana: You’re not judging us are you? Don’t judge us.
Ivan: Cecil, are you judging?
CV: I’m not judging. I was just asking.
Svetlana: You know what, darling? I think Cecil likes you.
CV: I don’t.
Svetlana: I think he’s jealous.
CV: I’m not.
Ivan: Look — you are right! He is blushing like some kind of red veg-e-table!
Svetlana: Like a tomato!
Ivan: Sorry blog-man. You are not my type! [laughs]
Svetlana: Are you OK Cecil? Do you need a paper towel?
CV: I’m fine. I just sweat a lot.
Ivan: Your whole head is wet all of sudden.
Svetlana: Have you talked to a doctor?
Ivan: Ivan get paper towel.
CV: OK. Well, thanks so much to both of you for your time.
Next: Dmitri! -
$19.80
Buying sushi tonight, the bill comes to $19.80, and the nice guy at the register laughs “1980! — that was a good year!”
“Yeah!” I sez. “Yeah.” And I hand him my credit card.
“You had hair down to your ass!” he says to me, “I bet.” And this gives me pause. Where exactly did that come from? Down to my ass?
“No, I had big puffy hair,” I correct him. “My hair doesn’t grow down, it grows sort of out and up. Like Art Garfunkel.” And I show him what I mean with my hands, using the universal gestures for “big” and “puffy.”
“Oh,” he says. I think he may be a little sad now, around the edges. But he picks himself back up pretty fast. “You wore high heel shoes!” he says.
And I say, “No, no I didn’t.
“We all did!” he says.
“No,” I say, a little more firmly. “I was 13. I had braces.” I don’t tell him this, because I don’t want to bum him out, but I’m pretty sure I was wearing wallabies back then, which are almost the exact opposite of high heels.
“Oh,” he says, and hands me my card back with a receipt to sign.
He’s tried so hard to turn me into some sort of heavy metal call girl, back in 1980. Like maybe one of the secondary prostitutes in Risky Business. But he’s failed. He can’t change the past.