What's there to live for?
Who needs the Peace Corps?
Think I'll just drop out
I'll go to Frisco, buy a wig
and sleep on Owsley's floor
Walked past the wig store
Danced at the Fillmore
I'm completely stoned
I'm hippy and I'm trippy
I'm a gypsy on my own
I'll stay a week and get the crabs
And take a bus back home
I'm really just a phony
But forgive me
'Cause I'm stoned
Every town must have a place
Where phony hippies meet
Psychedelic dungeons
Popping up on every street
Go to San Francisco
How I love ya, how I love ya
How I love ya, how I love ya, Frisco
Oh, my hair is getting good in the back!
First I'll buy some beads
And then perhaps a leather band
To go around my head
Some feathers and bells
And a book of Indian lore
I will ask the Chamber Of Commerce
How to get to Haight Street
And smoke an awful lot of dope
I will wander around barefoot
I will have a psychedelic gleam in my eye at all times
I will love everyone
I will love the police as they kick the shit out of me on the street
I will sleep ...
I will go to a house
That's what I will do
I will go to a house
Where there's a rock and roll band
'Cause the groups all live together
And I will join a rock and roll band
I will be their road manager
And I will stay there with them
And I will get the crabs
But I won't care
- F. Zappa
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Monday, June 09, 2008
Asshole on assholes:
In a way trees have assholes but you can't find them, they just drop their leaves.
- Charles Bukowski
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
The National Anthem
Polski Hymn Narodowy
Poland is not yet lost:
We are still alive.
What the foreigners have taken from us,
We shall take back with the sword.
March, march Dąbrowski,
From Italy to Poland.
Under your leadership,
We shall unite the nation.
We shall cross the Vistula,
We shall cross the Warta,
We shall be Poles.
Bonaparte has set an example,
Of how we are to conquer.
March, march ...
Poland is not yet lost:
We are still alive.
What the foreigners have taken from us,
We shall take back with the sword.
March, march Dąbrowski,
From Italy to Poland.
Under your leadership,
We shall unite the nation.
We shall cross the Vistula,
We shall cross the Warta,
We shall be Poles.
Bonaparte has set an example,
Of how we are to conquer.
March, march ...
Friday, March 28, 2008
Golden Freedom
[1654]
"Progress was defeated at each turn by the selfish interests of magnates who preached that they were acting thus to defend their Golden Freedom, and in a sense they were.
They were defending their freedom to neutralize the king; they were defending their freedom to keep the newly built towns subservient to their country areas; they were defending most strongly their freedom to keep their peasants in a state of perpetual serfdom as opposed to the liberties which were being grudgingly won in the western parts of Europe; and they were doing everything reactionary within their power to preserve the advantages they had against the legitimate aspirations of the growing gentry. The Golden Freedom which the magnates defended with every bit of chicanery and power they commanded was the freedom of the few to oppress the many, the freedom of a few grasping magnates to prevent a strong king from arising."
- Poland, James A. Michener
The Polish Immigrée's Phrasebook
Chapter One:
At the Paszport Biuro
Jak długo trzeba jeszcze czekać? – How long does one have to wait?
Jest zimno. – It's cold.
Trzeba czekać. – One must wait.
Nie trzeba się gniewać. – You shouldn't be angry.
O co chodzi? – What's the problem?
Trudno! – It can't be helped!
Co mam robić? – What am I supposed to do?
Tak źle i tak niedobrze. – It's bad whichever way you look at it.
To jest do niczego. – This is useless.
Zegarek nie nidzie. – My watch has stopped.
Wszystko strasznie. – Everything is terrible.
Nie chcą słuchać. – They don't want to listen.
To nic! – Forget it!
Mam dosyć tego. – I've had enough!
Co to ma być? – What is this supposed to be?
Gdzie idziemy? – Where are we going?
Widzę, że nie ma telefonu. - I see that there isn't a telephone.
Już nie wiem gdzie jestem. – I don't know where I am anymore.
Martwię się. – I'm worried.
Nie wierzę w Boga. – I don't believe in God.
To jest dla żony. – This is for my wife.
At the Paszport Biuro
Jak długo trzeba jeszcze czekać? – How long does one have to wait?
Jest zimno. – It's cold.
Trzeba czekać. – One must wait.
Nie trzeba się gniewać. – You shouldn't be angry.
O co chodzi? – What's the problem?
Trudno! – It can't be helped!
Co mam robić? – What am I supposed to do?
Tak źle i tak niedobrze. – It's bad whichever way you look at it.
To jest do niczego. – This is useless.
Zegarek nie nidzie. – My watch has stopped.
Wszystko strasznie. – Everything is terrible.
Nie chcą słuchać. – They don't want to listen.
To nic! – Forget it!
Mam dosyć tego. – I've had enough!
Co to ma być? – What is this supposed to be?
Gdzie idziemy? – Where are we going?
Widzę, że nie ma telefonu. - I see that there isn't a telephone.
Już nie wiem gdzie jestem. – I don't know where I am anymore.
Martwię się. – I'm worried.
Nie wierzę w Boga. – I don't believe in God.
To jest dla żony. – This is for my wife.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Recently Discovered Record Collection
(burlapgrain kitchen table included for much-needed perspective)
Boney M.
Tercet Egzotyczny
Janos Sarkozi - Gypsies Songs
P Ohio
Rodowicz - The Polish Madonna
The Ubiquitous Abba
Morton Downey, J ...
Dorin Anastasiu
Men Without Hats. Men Without Scarves. Men Without Black Stonewashed Jeans. Men Without Yellow Cardigan Sweaters. Men Without Hands Down Their Pants. Men Without ...
The Santa Maria, a claymation donkey, a Soviet-era cassette player, and Pana Kleksa - they're back from space
and they've brought down a record.
Smurfs
The Singular Grażyna Świtała,
whose name means something in Polish.
Caution: Diffident when veiled!
Creedence
Dorin Anastasiu
and they've brought down a record.
whose name means something in Polish.
Caution: Diffident when veiled!
Sunday, February 24, 2008
From A Retired Teacher's Notebook
by Anton Chekhov
IT is argued that family and school should work hand in glove. Very true, but only if the family is a respectable one unconnected with trade or shop-keeping, inasmuch as proximity to the lower orders may hinder a school's progress. On grounds of humanity, however, one should not deprive shopkeepers and the wealthier tradesfolk of their occasional pleasures - such as asking teachers to a party, shall we say?
The words 'proposition' and 'conjunction' make schoolgirls modestly lower their eyes and blush, but the terms 'organic' and 'copulative' enable schoolboys to face the future hopefully.
As the vocative case and certain rare letters of the Russian alphabet are practically obsolete, teachers of Russian should in all fairness have their salaries reduced, inasmuch as this decline in cases and letters has reduced their work load.
Our teachers try to persuade their pupils not to waste time reading novels and newspapers since this hampers concentration and distracts them. Besides, novels and newspapers are useless. But why should pupils believe their mentors if the latter spend so much time on newspapers and magazines? Physician, heal hyself! As for me, I am completely in the clear, not having read a single book or paper for thirty years.
When teaching science one should above all ensure one's pupils have their books bound, inasmuch as one cannot bang them on the head with the spine of an unbound book.
Children! What bliss it is to receive one's pension!
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Jupiter Mission
I took a film course a few years ago. Dr. D. encouraged us to bring in our favorite scene and play it for the class. I didn't, because I was still going through puberty at the time. But if I could go back, I would play this, my favorite scene in any film, ever:
Speculation?
Speculation?
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Kamp Kielce
My apartment block looks like a camp, and not the Bible vacation kind.
They call it Barwinek, the Polish word for the vinca flower, whose name derives from the Latin vincire: to bind, fetter.
The apartments are grey, concrete compounds. The compounds are rectangles with five stories worth of square windows that, despite lacking any characteristics other than squareness, still manage to look sad. The Communists, the Nazis, whichever regime inflicted these prefab ruins upon the Poles, arranged the apartments three compounds to a block with only one end left open, either in mimicry of an Italian courtyard or to discourage escape.
All of the compounds are numbered in the Korean style, so you don't forget where you live. My compound is number five, but they go as high as 37. Numbers 25 through 37 are painted the same color as the deep end of a public pool. Numbers one through 25 are not painted at all, except by local graffiti artists. On the side of my compound, my translator tells me, they have sprayed "You will always have a place in my heart!" and "Hello!" Other compounds are less fortunate.
The apartment square is crisscrossed by cement paths. When the sun is up, tens of Poles can be seen traversing these paths in their own peculiar ways: with a buggy, with a cane, with a limp, with a whole lot of vegetables, swaggering drunk. Even if it is unusually crowded, probability dictates that no one path is ever likely to have more than one person walking it at any given time. This fact, in tandem with the new automatic check-out counters at the grocery store, grants almost total isolation to anyone who seeks it. On the grass islands between paths stand some battered playground structures, most frequently utilized by fierce-looking teenagers and napping drunks. There is a low, dissatisfied murmur in the air at all times. The apartment square has the feel of a prison exercise yard. But if you're young and spry with a spring in your step, as I sometimes am, you can walk these paths and pretend that you're the front-runner in some needlessly complex Olympic speed walking event.
There are dogs. Having lived only in societies where canines are kept under the nylon yoke of Man or cut up in His soup, I have never before experienced the pleasures of watching what dogs do when granted total emancipation: they act like humans. The Wild Dogs of Barwinek dart about with absent looks on their mugs, as though they are immersed in some unending task which demands 70% of their brains. They follow a scent with much enthusiasm for a few minutes at a time, then get bored and look for something else. They ignore humans like we are some minor species of rodent who sometimes gets in the way. They don't often sniff each other's rumps as you might expect: they tend to ignore other dogs, unless it's urgent. They do, however, lift their legs/squat and pee on all manner of phallic structures. You will sometimes see a dachshund and a much larger dog at play, the dachshund getting repeatedly tangled and smooshed under the larger dog's tires, the Poles gathering around to watch, the dachshund tumbling end-over-end like a fumbled football.
Along the southern fringe of the complex are some shops. There is a general store called Kolporter, a word that means "distributor" in Polish, no intended connection to the great Cole Albert Porter, American songsmith of Peru, Indiana. There is a lingerie shop, little more than a glazed window in a yellow shed, before whose sexy red UV lamp the hot matkas bask, babushkas tilted skyward.
The Barwinek vegetable monger is a cheat. The other day you eked out the word for "carrot" and he gave you some brownish dildo-shaped things. You handed him the money and he claimed the cash register was broken, or that he didn't have any change, or something, i.e. he was screwing you over and you both knew it. But as a chronic foreigner, you've learned which wars to wage and when to nod politely, bow, and say thanks, Pan Vegetable Monger, for the kick in the teeth. So you gathered your bruised mutant fruits and veggies, stuffed them into your inkstained messenger bag, and ducked out the door, forging into the cold, cruel headwind of an unkind exchange rate ...
They call it Barwinek, the Polish word for the vinca flower, whose name derives from the Latin vincire: to bind, fetter.
The apartments are grey, concrete compounds. The compounds are rectangles with five stories worth of square windows that, despite lacking any characteristics other than squareness, still manage to look sad. The Communists, the Nazis, whichever regime inflicted these prefab ruins upon the Poles, arranged the apartments three compounds to a block with only one end left open, either in mimicry of an Italian courtyard or to discourage escape.
All of the compounds are numbered in the Korean style, so you don't forget where you live. My compound is number five, but they go as high as 37. Numbers 25 through 37 are painted the same color as the deep end of a public pool. Numbers one through 25 are not painted at all, except by local graffiti artists. On the side of my compound, my translator tells me, they have sprayed "You will always have a place in my heart!" and "Hello!" Other compounds are less fortunate.
The apartment square is crisscrossed by cement paths. When the sun is up, tens of Poles can be seen traversing these paths in their own peculiar ways: with a buggy, with a cane, with a limp, with a whole lot of vegetables, swaggering drunk. Even if it is unusually crowded, probability dictates that no one path is ever likely to have more than one person walking it at any given time. This fact, in tandem with the new automatic check-out counters at the grocery store, grants almost total isolation to anyone who seeks it. On the grass islands between paths stand some battered playground structures, most frequently utilized by fierce-looking teenagers and napping drunks. There is a low, dissatisfied murmur in the air at all times. The apartment square has the feel of a prison exercise yard. But if you're young and spry with a spring in your step, as I sometimes am, you can walk these paths and pretend that you're the front-runner in some needlessly complex Olympic speed walking event.
There are dogs. Having lived only in societies where canines are kept under the nylon yoke of Man or cut up in His soup, I have never before experienced the pleasures of watching what dogs do when granted total emancipation: they act like humans. The Wild Dogs of Barwinek dart about with absent looks on their mugs, as though they are immersed in some unending task which demands 70% of their brains. They follow a scent with much enthusiasm for a few minutes at a time, then get bored and look for something else. They ignore humans like we are some minor species of rodent who sometimes gets in the way. They don't often sniff each other's rumps as you might expect: they tend to ignore other dogs, unless it's urgent. They do, however, lift their legs/squat and pee on all manner of phallic structures. You will sometimes see a dachshund and a much larger dog at play, the dachshund getting repeatedly tangled and smooshed under the larger dog's tires, the Poles gathering around to watch, the dachshund tumbling end-over-end like a fumbled football.
Along the southern fringe of the complex are some shops. There is a general store called Kolporter, a word that means "distributor" in Polish, no intended connection to the great Cole Albert Porter, American songsmith of Peru, Indiana. There is a lingerie shop, little more than a glazed window in a yellow shed, before whose sexy red UV lamp the hot matkas bask, babushkas tilted skyward.
The Barwinek vegetable monger is a cheat. The other day you eked out the word for "carrot" and he gave you some brownish dildo-shaped things. You handed him the money and he claimed the cash register was broken, or that he didn't have any change, or something, i.e. he was screwing you over and you both knew it. But as a chronic foreigner, you've learned which wars to wage and when to nod politely, bow, and say thanks, Pan Vegetable Monger, for the kick in the teeth. So you gathered your bruised mutant fruits and veggies, stuffed them into your inkstained messenger bag, and ducked out the door, forging into the cold, cruel headwind of an unkind exchange rate ...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)