Archive for December, 2009

Greer Garson Saith!
December 25, 2009

She’s acting, she’s acting! Oh, isn’t it swell?

But–

Her compatriot should have been Gable!

AND the rose shall be stiled: “Mrs. Miniver”!

AND if Greer Garson herself saith, “Richard, the Lion-Hearted”, in the person of Mrs. Miniver!, why–

She certainly must be quite right!

And so, my dear friends,

That, nevermore, is a thing for contention!

I Wouldn’t Mind Very Much, a Composition, in English
December 25, 2009

I wouldn’t mind a few cars in the hundred-dollar bracket, since the “drive” is so vast, and they tend to go wrong.

But I’m still hoping to melt darling Lydia’s heart; aren’t I?

Oh, well, I have time to abandon hope later, perhaps the next year, now things thaw, for the nonce.

Who would have suspected she’d like my stuffed grape leaves, accepting them out a tub, so un-sealed! — and with three Spanish olives, canned artichoke heart?  And sit here beside me to sup, clearly pleased, and in this place (my humble abode)!

Twice, twice, I “you’re welcomed”!

—–

Shall I take up her son, on his offer, unbidden, a rather late-model Mercedes sedan?

It is gratis! (hesitating)

Mais non! They’re so dreadfully heavy, I doubt it, indeed!

Light cars suit me. They quite appropriately — rather — set off, my light-of-weight shoes. That’s what I think.

I see her point: considering, I mean.

How not I hallucinate, truly?

—–

(stop) In this mood, I might as well… confess to faggotry(!) were it meet so to do. But lackaday, ’tisn’t!

(resuming) For such dearly sweet friends I do bend with most gladly, but never, but never, beyond a firm point.

Thereat, I brake; ra-ather firmly.

It’s true.

I do.

I would mind very much.

What if His Name Were Guilty Jones?
December 25, 2009

The first time I heard Bill Moyers’ guest’s name, I thought it was a very clever stage name, but it isn’t, or at least, I doubt it’s as catchy as “Guilty Jones”!

His guest, of course, is Bill T. Jones, and this “Journal” will go down in history, celebrating “Fondly and Fervently” (my nickname for “Fondly do we Hope, Fervently do we Pray”), a bit of dance theater evidently worth our attention and applause.

(Ah, now for a Greer Garson movie, which follows, to be enjoyed once more.)

Never wrap up with that hostile curve, the “parenthetical” mark, accusing your work of insignificance, what, what?

Credit the Significance of Obama
December 25, 2009

That’s right, credit it! Never again, after turning this page on lousy, patchy, unregulated, greedy health care, may our nation be as bad as it heretofore has been.

Not since slavery, perhaps, or the ages of “robber barons”, prohibition, rampant organized crime and union corruption, the Dust Bowl, homophobia, racism, or “acceptable sexism”, has such a blot on our history been so soundly abandoned. Obama has triumphed, to the benefit of all. We still have a way to go, but never backwards, I feel certain.

Agreed?

Whitman was Pan-Sexual
December 25, 2009

I never heard that word before, but Abe Lincoln had an appreciation in common with me, beside how advertising ought to be done: for Whitman the Great!

Listening to Andy Williams Sing
December 25, 2009

Andy Williams, to put it plainly, knew how to sing. Singers have forgotten today.

I heard him make a mistake, opening an “attack” with a glottal stop, but I’m sure he wouldn’t, except by accident. The line started “All”, and he opened it that way, with a stop.

But he didn’t take breaths during phrases, unless there’s a punctuation mark. Today I hear breaths taken mid-word!

He didn’t demonstrate how carelessly he could miss notes, gliding closer after hitting them wrong. Avoiding that takes work and concentration, and he did whatever it took, as a matter of course. So did they all, in that era.

He had very good breath control, a lost art. And he always sang “from the diaphragm”, of course, not letting his belly hang out like a fat slob who can’t stand properly. Luciano had great breath control.

He inhaled quickly, easily, throat-openly, and silently, as any decent singer should, not trying to emote anything by sucking in air noisily, or sloppily doing it at the very last instant, as if having lost control of himself, or lazily, without opening up.

He was neither breathy nor forced, which is right, and he didn’t bother ornamenting stuff to “make it his”.

That’s what really rubs me the wrong way today!

Now a choir of young boys is singing as if it mattered, not to show off how incompetent (hence what? young? cutish?) they can be at that age!

Donny Osmond, in an interview, is now demonstrating how he caroled as a kid. He did it in an off-hand way, but didn’t miss the right notes!  Why?  He’s good, and knows it. That’s how I demonstrate melodies mid-speech.  Not singing wrong notes for the sake of appearing to be in a casual mood.

How rare an experience this is, to view a program celebrating the age when people sang well!

“One-take Bobby” Osmond was like me and my father. We liked to get it right once, without rehearsing. I loved rehearsing, and so did Dad, I’m sure, but we’d both rather not need it. Give us the music, let us onstage, and let ‘er rip!

Only once in my life did I ever resent that attitude. It was during the recording of my solo, “Set Down Servant” (the capitalization and punctuation of song titles is a sort of non-art!), when I flubbed a consonant. Mr Donald Bryant, our choral music director, and Decca Records, absurdly over-pricing its studio time, wouldn’t permit doing it over! Sure, it was my fault, but didn’t the Columbus Boychoir even care to spend another three minutes getting it right?  No?!

Where were the attitudes of the days of Herbert Huffman, the previous and founding music director of 1940-55 or thereabouts, whom Mr Bryant praised most highly, having been his right-hand man for years?

The “Boychoir” had made movies, distributed press releases and publicity photos, got into the paper any way possible, taken “goodwill cultural ambassador” tours abroad on behest of the State Department, put on all sorts of publicity events, gotten written up all over the place, showed off the school, the bus, the uniforms, both “concert” and casual, invited celebrities to join them everywhere, struggled to land gigs in great venues, performed under the batons of all the great conductors, with famous philharmonic orchestras, showed up regularly in Hollywood, on Broadway, at Carnegie Hall, with other, even more famous, choirs, including all the decent boys’ choirs, declining to show up the poorer ones.

Oops! I just heard Andy Williams, who’s been singing a lot, make a boo-boo, hitting a note instantaneously a bit flat, correcting it immediately, but noticeably to me. And on “peccatoribus”, he was a bit overly casual, if you ask me. Oh, and something else there, a noisy breath and a hesitation, darn it! But he tried; he must’ve been a bit over-worked at that dreadful moment in TV history. How nasty of them to replay it for us, unless they didn’t have a better showing of Ave Maria for us.

And on “They know that” (“Santa’s on his way”), he let me down a bit. He certainly lacked Nat King Cole’s verve, alacrity, and care. But he was one of the best of the best.

It’s a little disappointing (to me) that he made no effort to stylize the songs a bit, sounding just the same on every one. I wouldn’t sing “Set Down Servant” at all like “Largo al Factotum” (which calls for a Caruso or nowadays, Luciano imitation, as perfectionistically as possible) or “O Holy Night!”, which calls for something very competent, etherial, soaring, and carefully enunciated as possible, and not only impresses, but must be impressive, and always is, if it’s done right, like the chorus of “Shepherds we have heard on high”, the title of which escapes me. Different songs call upon different skills, and ought to do so, and the occasion must be risen to! That arising matters.

I was impressed briefly with Josh what-his-name when I thought he might go somewhere, but he hasn’t. Groban. It’s a very disappointing age, I tell ya.

No great tenor, no great soprano, except Elizabeth Caballero, in my humble opinion, nobody worth listening to, except maybe for a laugh, but even there, I’m at a loss for any name.

I’d just as soon hear John McLaughlin (on now) try to carry a tune.

Where’s Pete Seeger and Mark Russell when we need them? Where’s Woody Guthrie’s son, Arlo? All of them know what I mean.  They try. I find Joan Baez and Judi Collins disappointing, but it’s because they can’t sing well, not that they don’t care. Jolson, Price, Cole, Mathis, Day, Ronstadt, Madonna, M Jackson, Jellyroll, Satchmo, Calloway, Ford, Osmonds, Beatles, Rolling Stones, Procol Harem, King Crimson, Mitch Miller (there were so many great singers whose names I never noticed, never memorized, or forget), (who was that “champagne” guy, not to mention Lombardo, whose team were all good? Welk!) all were quite, quite impressive. Kelly, Astaire, and Bennett never were! Even Sinatra once, occasionally. All decent singers have crept into woodwork, including the opera singers and Broadway people, all but a few. Tommy Tune I like. And a few others, who don’t sound too blatant and hammy. Nobody I know of now on Broadway, unless it’s my niece Liz Larsen (whose photo says that, but whose autograph appears to have an o in the last name!) and perhaps her hubby Sal, whom I haven’t heard yet! I’m even disappointed in my elder sister. She comes across too show busy and over-the-top for me, which, unfortunately, is just as she pleases. She’d rather impress the madding crowd than me. 😦

One thing I must confess — no, celebrate. Modern dance, perhaps all dance, is getting better and better all the time. And rap has taken a turn for the better. So too, has country, which I never liked much.

I fear infatuation with a celebrity. I shun it, and I know it’s not fair, but I don’t want to declare my appreciation of somebody who might disappoint me. Right now, it’s Elizabeth Caballero, whom I’ve heard only once. (I don’t consider recordings, just appearances in person.)

Just the very true art of singing well is lost, though probably only temporarily. A future great will arise. But I’ve been waiting a long, long time.

You know whom I miss most? Eartha Kitt and Rita Rivera! And Hershel Bernardi, quondam Tevye. And Yale Marshall and Mary Evelyn Bruce, once my friends. I only met Eartha once, but oh, what a thrilling privilege, when she joined Liz Larsen in performance and me outside the stage door.

Many amateurs have impressed me, but few pros on Broadway. Not any more.

How Pleasant it is to Recall a Good Name
December 25, 2009

How pleasant it is to recall a good name (three consecutive dactyls, with upbeat and stomp!), and which letters are doubled, as in “Randall” and “Duntemann”, especially among those (people) of the living.

Broccoli isn’t like that. Who remembers which consonant to d’bubble? Seed package labble dezinners? (Wouldn’t it be neat if ravioli weren’t only pronounced like “ravished in bed” in French, something rarely profitable to know but at St. Tropez, but had letters to be doubled? But I have enough problems with all these ragazzi (di strada), graffitists, and paparazzi swarming about, all properly spelt. Not to mention doubling airtime minutes, but only once. A terrible disappointment, especially with no promotional codes, active or not, in my billfold, and none active momentarily at present anyway! But perhaps I diverge or something, go off along a semitangential straight ray, like stone for Goliath from Gath.)

Randall Hyde and Jeff Duntemann aren’t the only goodies; there are lots. But for assembly language programming (the m of which is a rule-breaker), they’ll get you started flying high. Entenmann’s good for pastries and such.

Somebody somewhere must be pondering Marshall Price of Miami, and why “marshal” ‘s not right for me, but good for arrangements on a tarmac, enforcing crowd control, sharpshooters, fire department signage, etc.

Where would we be without “marshaling” (folowwing the rule) yards? All deceased long ago, perplexèd, along with the Teamsters, longshoremen, and stevedores, that’s where, quayside, exquisite corpses rotting on quays, sans apology to my old friend, Codrescu.

It’s too late, alas, to make good on my promise to send in that analysis of the Times‘ mentioning of prominent Russian names, or anecdotes of New Orleans, but the dialog is still going strong towards me, bless his little widely broadcast soul, poured out for art, and all.

“Andrei Codrescu” goes in one ear and out, unless you’re tuned in for genius, or visit exquisitecorpse.org, a redirect to corpse.  Since 1983.

From Books and Books, you may step east or south. Either way, it’s good times.

The Air Above Iran
December 25, 2009

Just think of the power lost in the air over Iran, now that they can afford it. It’s not like Afghanistan. Think of all the airwaves that aren’t captivated by antennae, escaping dutilessly off into the ether.

If only we could recruit them somehow, to do good, or make money, or save the planet, O clever ones!

And those that are captured aren’t quickly deleted from the Internet, the broadcast studio, one’s cellphone, etc. They’re never missed — just, quite exceptionally, put to their intended use, or discarded, “filtered” out, either into a grounding wire or not, saying “Hi, World!” to no-one, less heralded than nematodes, which are ex-topic to me now.

Self-Correcting Body
December 25, 2009

I once swallowed this notion of a “self-correcting” body. What a mistake! Put that right out of your mind, or it’ll lead to mental mischief. Your body can heal itself, it can close up wounds, it can fight off disease, it can grow new tissues and organs, it can strengthen its bones and its muscles, it can rally its forces in many ways, but it cannot self-correct, by any means.

Instead, it has, over the years, evolved many ways to cope with troubles. If it hadn’t, one of your ancestors, also without such a trait as you lack, would have died too young to enable you to exist today.

It possesses a truly marvelous collection of coping techniques, but no way to make everything “just so”.

Never allow that rumor to spread; squelch it. Your body contains no blueprint at all of how it ought to be, and toward which it strives.

(If you’re uncomfortable in any way, do something about it. Cut your hair, clip your toenails, take a shower or a pill, roll off of that pressure point, massage your leg. Your “body” itself isn’t going to do it.)

If anything, you, like Arnold Schwartzenegger, must “correct” it purposefully, the way you want it. With iron, food, or scalpels, needles, and thread.

It’s false rumor. Sloppy reasoning. Misleading wordplay. Hogwash.

A Good Voice
December 24, 2009

The great, or near-great, voice of a choir boy can only last a year at most. I had one, but you don’t have to, to know that. Oh, it’s okay to fall in love with one, as I did with a Vatican one (They don’t give a hoot about the choirboys, not in the Vatican choir, where any boys are off-topic, not just women!) but it’ll never last, not like Elizabeth Caballero’s. Enjoy it for all it’s worth; it’s dreadfully ephemeral.

Girls’ voices don’t get much respect, regardless. That stinks!

It stinks, too, that they never (or very, very rarely) get ranges of four or five octaves, much less more, like me.

I like girls a lot. A whole lot.

Who are the real lovers of choral singing, if not girls? Boys? Boys’ mothers? Fathers? Of course it’s girls! Ask one, if you dare.

Quirinius was governor of Syria when Christ was born (not conceived), they say. Who doesn’t know that? Everybody’s heard it over and over again, once per Christmas, at least, but you just ask ordinary people you meet on the street, even around Christmas. They aren’t paying attention to Bible lessons, and Quirinius had an easy name. They’re fed up with the Gospels, all whatever-it-is, four?, of them. Who’s even read Luke past the beginning, which wasn’t his name (you know, the suspected Greek poetaster or medicaster, not medi-caster, though he might have done that a bit, and indeed may have, probably did, casting meds), by the way? (Probably, even, scrip-casting. No prob. No, probly. In pen and ink, or abrasions or markings, on real paper or not.)

Who knows bees have no egos? Do they even have analysts? Not me, now. Why even speculate or enquire?  A word Firefox wants spelt “inquire”. It doesn’t even recognize any old “spelt”.  “Spelled” and “smelt” are fine, probably another past tense of “smell”, even, whatever you like, passes, and real smelt, but not “spelt”, not even for the creativityful of creative writers’ writings. Don’t ask or “go there”, quoting many. Many people, they are, (or “that is”) not else. Has spelt ever smelt? Smelt smelt, but I doubt it ever, or never, spelt like I do, at least most allst.

Bill Swink, a Bible-reading Catholic, of all things, doesn’t even think I’m right about John having been written first, who does?, not to mention Who the Great wrote it, or even in His lifetime, or that “Son of Man” mayn’t mean “God”!  Whoever heard of a Catholic reading the Bible, much less considering Barbara Thiering’s theoretical musings? At least Firefox gets “mayn’t”; mightn’t, too, a good, but inexpressing, possibility. Guess about “inexpressing”. You know the diff. And diff, even it gets.

Know what “theoretical musings” means? It’s not musings that aren’t real, or musings that are “theoretical” somehow — but yes, it IS the latter, because it’s musings on the subject of one or more theories, or incipient ones, which is rather important, quite so.

Jesus wrote that book to be read, and correctly, not so much the wrong way!

Did you think He’d die before writing a single book for posterity?

After a Crucifixion, Descent into Hades, Resurrection, showing off his stigmata, eating fish, the “among us” apostles and other folk, and all that?!

Why would He leave!, leaving nothing behind but cryptic impressions and rumors of something incomprehensibly “special” about Him, and with those utterly incredible “miracle” stories, to boot, only to make flames on folks heads, and glossolalia in their mouths some time later?

And after telling everybody, not just followers, but everybody, including you and I, that there was some thing hidden in all those parables (and travel stories, miracles, etc.).

And that we’d never get it, not in a million years, not without thinking quite a lot about it, which nobody ever got around to till just recently.  We Americans never bother to learn the Greek alphabet, not to mention pick up His Book. Search your “Bible stores” for a Greek original version. It’s not as if there’s been a letter altered from the original, or we can’t find it anywhere.

(I chanced upon mine in the trash somewhere, along with a dictionary for it, Liddell & Scott 26th Ed., 8th printing in 1927, but abridged, darn it. Try to avoid this abridged one, with it’s “scholarly” Latin and English; you need the unabridged, and a Biblical, not modern, Greek grammar book, to get anywhere, but any old modern Greek language learning book for Anglophones will help, I’ve found. Even Barnes & Noble, Borders, and others, has those, at least, so there’s no excuse for not studying a Greek Bible, what it actually says there, as “God” wrote it Himself, letter for letter, in plain Greek, not an unfamiliar language, right?)

Some people still think the miracles happened, and that there were “mysteries” involved in such things as His conception, not to mention his birth. They forget he was supposed to have been conceived, not by that “Father” (“God”, the Real God, acc. most people’s way of thinking, but including the others, including Himself–can’t forget about that), but by that Paraclete! Just the “Person” often considered most feminine of all, as if God needed testicles, but not a vagina or breasts!, for some unknown reason, to create “us” males in his image!

Think about it, ladies, and speak up. Truth needs you now.

Sure, but I won’t touch upon that. Maybe another day, but not likely.

Some people think he just took off (upwards) for heaven (or Hell) again, without saying anything worth mentioning. They call themselves “Christians”.

Even I have been that ignorant and thoughtless myself. Yeah, been there, done that. The church show-off, all piety and Godly. It’s just how I felt. Godly, that is, if less than perfectly pious, but I tried to be that, too. Godly was easy; it’s the perfection-in-every-way-in-everyday-life bit that’ll kill you, if not drive you to a seminary, to be surrounded by guys (but now gals, too) who are similarly lost, and know it, but don’t talk much to their teachers about it, except when contemplating suicide, or celibacy, and all that.

Mustn’t we dwell upon this?

“Put it out of your mind”, says a very smart Jesuit person, soon.

And when that kid sings, pay attention carefully, critically; he might be quite good, you know, which you’d never know listening as you listen to ordinary TV or radio musicians, who can never hold a candle to good singers. You think they care about pitch? He does.

He’s proud of it, and he can hear it a whole lot better than anybody over 18 or so.

A good choirboy could probably do a fair job tuning a piano by ear, just by attending to the pitches, without a clue what he’s doing. So don’t listen uncritically as you usually do, just “appreciating” some music.

Appreciate what he’s actually doing, live, in front of you.

Darn! Had to hit the mute just then, when some non-good choirboy opened his mouth on TV! He sang “Happy birthday, Jesus”, and was a little youngish, but he couldn’t hit a single note or breathe, nor did he try, and whichever sounds were coming out, they wavered like crazy.  On PBS, just now, at 11:50 Christmas Eve.

It’s a crime against the nation, its culture, and art.  They destroy the ears of all of us, and make us think excellence doesn’t really matter all that much — not to succeed before our good old American public, that is. We can have fun “listening” to crap. It’s only another spoiled, misleading Christmas for one nation. Who cares if our youth’s hearing or we ourselves are spoiled when nobody respects us anyway?

Has anything good come out of the USA recently? No, not even the currency or the “high” technology. I listen to music running VLC, from French amateur programmers who are very ignorant and careless, and don’t think very well, just better than our highly paid American professionals, who are barely (but just barely), literate. Sure, they could get through a magazine, if it were something up their alley, and so on, but they couldn’t make much of a contribution to it. They think they understand “Wired”, for instance, most of the time, and trade zines, and pop stuff. They subscribe to “Scientific American” and think they “get” it, even “High Technology” and games zines, which they don’t in the least, pouring through them as if the words they don’t get are meaningless, and only the most notorious trademarks and acronyms really matter.

They speak ANSI C, at least, and the difference between a track and a channel. Audio is “songs”, right? A buck apiece. It’s all “categorizable” rightly or wrongly, another word Firefox has never heard of, whereas “stridden” is.

There’ll never be a Bell Telephone Hour again in my lifetime, nor anybody to perform on one.  Nor will our cultural ambassadors get any respect, nor, to say the most, not any valid.

Your children, at least, have ears, which could be used and trained well. They could appreciate music some day, if only you cared about them. But you don’t, I accuse. My parents didn’t much, but they sent me to school for that, and somebody cared a lot about my ears.

And the brief excellence of my singing, too, for a year. Even several years, though most disappointed them and me, but I excelled, at least, even then. I could hear! Can’t you imagine hearing, really hearing? Is it any wonder I could never stand the piano?

I heard it too much, and it was never decent; it never got close, not even after a “fine” tuning.

And they expected me to practice on that, and enjoy myself doing it?!

I couldn’t even fix that rather respectable, but intolerable tuning, hard as I tried.

Thank Goodness, I tried, and learned to like, tuning a piano. Think of the many lives I’ve enhappied over the years.

[Shut UP, you Fire-foxy so-called “spell-checker”. I’ll heed you as often as I displease, got it? So just stet unenhappied. “Enhappied” has its applications; include it even.]

I know, too many “even’s”; I can’t even write that right, “evens”, as in the “even Stephens” ones, perhaps.  At least I went where I was going this time.  Too many “at leasts”, too?  What about “toos” and “Ies”?  Don’t tell me “usses” is better, or do I mean are better?  No, I meant the usage of “usses”, dubious as they are, and I of them, and of their usage, for that matter.

I’m new to this writing business; gimme a chance.

I’ve only blown it before, getting, not earning, As in school. I never got any good, like a writer, even a hack. Better a hack, then creativityless.

Firefox! Down, boy. I like it, like it or not. Do I have to be adequately thrilled with it to put it in the dictionary?

Please direct your inquiries to me, “I”, the editor hereof. I’m even the author; I like and approve of it; it’s MY style, and not even for sale, much less profit. Did you think I asked you to read it?

Why, I’d authorize Emily Dickenson, if she wanted!  I’d rip off her bodice and do her portrait stark naked, she’s that good. I might even attempt a sonnet, but my mind’s fancies must be Italian or Shakespearean for that; I’m no Milton yet, not by a long shot. You could write the king’s laws in Latin and get them all legalistic(al)ly more perfect than anybody else in the realm?

Okay, Mr Milton, slap ’em right here on the virtual desktop in front of me, and I’ll peruse them, but that’s all I can promise, when I get around to them. It might be different if your agent were pretty and made me home-made cookies, and my secretary. And she sneaked them to the next-to-top of the stack, like Cannell’s. If a lawyer can give me a cookie, and the VA a lollipop, please don’t hold out on me, I need a pat.

I put them piano keys right down, con brio. It’s what I do best. A pat? One measly pat?

Firefox said “measly” doesn’t need any more es anymore. If it’s right, I’m right now, so don’t blame it on me. I know “measley” might be left out accidentally, but “measly’s” fine with me, even with apostrophe-s within quotation marks, along with the rest of it. But it’s a measle, not a beagle, isn’t it? Nobody taught me beagly in elementary school, but it’s probably right, notwithstandingly.

Yeah, Firefox caught that. Again.

I just love this “blogging” capability, and I don’t care who reads it!

Did you realize Jacques Pepin can make bread in a pot, on a stove or off, with a handle or not?  I bet he knows what nabemakiudon is, and nabe, maki, and udon. Just had some yesterday. Polished the pot off at home, or half its contents. Yummy. I brought my own napkin, but no spoon, and forgot my hashi were in my bag, what a waste!  I just used their disposable chopsticks, improperly splitting them, and declining to polish them by rubbing them together. Down the counter, a guy used a rubber band and rolled up piece of paper placemat to fix his little daughters fat hashi ends together. Clever. I’m even taking an anonymous tip I observed the day before yesterday and carrying a pen in my sock. Funny and clever. No stick-up artist is looking for a disposable pen, anyway. Or rubber band, which Georgie Price wore around his wrist, or rolled-up piece of placemat, for that matter. Firefox balks at placemat, because there’s “place mat” for that of course me dummy. Even a lot of Japanese decline rubbing disposable hashi together, even those who don’t (the bastids) decline to use them. Just because there’s a paper napkin there doesn’t mean it’s not a crime to “just” take it. It’s wasteful, as long as you’ve brung (Guess what!) your own anyway, who doesn’t have a hanky, (Guess what again!) a cotton one, in your pocket, whatever pocket, though the left hip pocket is the conventional. Japs are very nice people, just queasy about “Jap”, for no apparent reason. Get the gist? Why? WWII? No, Hollywood’s version of WWII, and they rightwell oughta be, but over it soon. Veritas? (Vrai, nicht wahr?) Be bold, avant garde, my Jap friends. Jap’ll see the light of day; it’s better than Yug for Yugos, isn’t it? And it’s snappy, with verve, a hard-to-translate American English concept. It’s like vim that way or vimmish. (By now, don’t even guess; you got the Firefox spellcheck thing. It even balks at spellchecking, verb, noun or adjective. Not to mention spellcheckingest, which is plain English for what it is, or could be, if they thought ahead and planned for you and me. If you didn’t approve of spellcheckingest, you’d have left years ago.)

Never wind up ending on a right parenthetical marker-thing, or -thing (with a space there). What do you think it is, a parenthesis, or curved “bracket” of some sort? A parenthesis only ends there. Parentheses only go within the parentheses, and all brackets are square ones. Curly ones are braces. Anglish ones are “greater than” or “less than”, Unicode notwithstandingly opposed against such réalités, if that’s le mot juste at all. What I meant is stylized “realities”, the Francophile way, but I know réalités is– how the heck do I get out of these Italics, anyway? I tried, and tried bolding, too, and clicking and reclicking the slanted i button, but nothing everything fails now, and even “Path” stays “em”, and “em” plus “em”, gosh.
I had to go into the HTML to fixit, with two “</em>s”! And guess what my {Home} key’s doing now. Jumping back to the beginning of the second réalités, that’s what, which is surrounded by a pair of identical <em>s, and nary an </em>, but works okay, at least for me. I’ll be darned if I can figure out any of this WordPress stuff. (Yeah, Firefox balks at “WordPress”, unless I teach it not to. While “word-press”, it has no problem with; forget “word-pressingly”, etc. No, “word-pressingly” it considers perfectly all right, but not wordpressingly, despite teaching it WordPress myself. I’ll just stick, for the nonce, with “word-pressingly” expressingly saying wrong what I mean. Yeah, it doesn’t like expressingly; I simply must say “expressively”, of course.) They let you highlight a word before pressing the Italics button, but if you’re done, it don’t know, no matter how much you try and strike it down, or must I say “to” now. No. It didn’t even try to try and stop me. It’s no grammar-checkinglike thing. And again, surely, or not so, you mustn’t ask about that, or even the logic. Dare I say “thereof”? Well, I did it, didn’t I? Moreover-ishingly, there’s nothing wrong, but sometimes, there is. I mean -ishsomely, if anything at all, and even that’s not quite acceptable, and I didn’t mean “quite”, I just typed it in there, never giving it a (second) thought, and so stet it. Or leave it stet. Or leave it anyoldway, and so, [stet], with which it’s satisfied. It’s even taking anyoldway, now, at least the former one, not the latter. Any(old)way, too.

Whew.

I’m just the composer, or is it composition-worker. I don’t actually work at it, as readers must.

I’m just demonstrating I can get away with it, and from, so, Bye! Be of good cheer, now, early Christmas Day morn.

It’s beddy-bye for me.