Click on the headline to link a YouTube film clip of Van Morrison performing his classic Into The Mystic.
CD Review
The Best Of Van Morrison, Volume Two, Van Morrison, Polydor, 1993
The basic comments here have been used, used many times, to review other Van Morrison albums from various points in his long and honorable career.
Apparently just now, although this time rather accidentally, I am on something of an outlaw country moment tear, again. I have mentioned on previously occasions when I have discussed county music, or rather more correctly outlaw country music, that I had a very short, but worthwhile period when I was immersed in this genre in the late 1970s. After tiring somewhat of Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings and other more well know country outlaws I gravitated toward the music, eerily beautiful and haunting music, of Townes Van Zandt whose Steve Earle tribute album Townes I have recently reviewed in this space. As I noted there, as well, while this outlaw country thing was short-lived and I scrambled back to my first loves, blues, rock and folk music I always had time to listen to Townes and his funny mix of blues, folk rock, rock folk, and just downright outlaw country.
And that brings us to the album under review, The Best Of Van Morrison, Volume Two l, and another “outlaw” country music man, the Belfast cowboy Van Morrison. Wait a minute, Van Morrison? Belfast cowboy? Okay, let me take a few steps back. I first heard Van Morrison in his 1960s rock period when I flipped out over his Into The Mystic on his Moondance album. And when I later saw him doing some blues stuff highlighted by his appearance in Martin Scorsese PBS History of Blues series several years ago I also flipped out, and said yes, brother blues. But somewhere along the way he turned again on us and has “reinvented” himself as the “son”, the legitimate son, of Hank Williams. But Van Morrison is no one-trick pony as his long and hard-bitten career proves.
If you do not believe me then just listen to him ante up on his cover of Bob Dylan’s It’s All Over now Baby Blue, a classic folk bluesy number; the thoughtful Sense Of Wonder; the pathos of Real Real Goner; the song I’ll Tell Ma; and, something out of time,Hymns To The Silence . The Belfast cowboy, indeed, although I always thought cowboys wore their emotions down deep, not on their blues high white note sleeves.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Friday, September 16, 2011
Out In The Be-Bop Be-Bop 1960s Night- The Heart Of Rock ‘n’ Rock: 1960-61, Take Two- In The Time Of Donna Blanchard’s Time- With Elvis Presley In Mind
Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Mark Dinning performing his 1960s teen angst classic, Teen Angel
CD Review
The Heart Of Rock ‘n’ Roll: 1960-61-Take Two, various artists, Time-Life Music, 1997
Scene: Brought to mind by one of the snapshot photos that grace each CD in this series. Doc’s Drugstore and Soda Foundation (not shown), located in the heart of the North Adamsville shopping streets, and most importantly, just a few minutes walk from North Adamsville High School. The soda fountain counter area is complete with a dozen single stools, a speckled faux-marble formica countertop with assorted pastry trays, candy boxes, pie cabinets and various condiment combinations for Doc’s ‘greasy spoon” hamburgers and hot dogs. Said single stools are strictly for losers, girl friend-less guys (or once in a great while a girl just trying catch a quick soda on the way home) or old people waiting for Doc to fill their ancient medicines prescriptions. They are no factor, no factor at all in this teen-worthy world. No, less than no factor. Every once in a while, however, one of Fritz Cullen’s corner boys takes his foot off the wall in front of Doc’s and enters to get a take out Cherry Coke, the de riguer drink of Fritz’s boyos.
But the fountain is strictly for food and drink, food and drink that is also strictly secondary to why Doc’s is a teen-worthy heaven. The real draw is the quiet booths that line both corner walls and are only for after school boy-girl couples, four-some girls looking for guys to dance with, and at night, mainly school year weekend and summer every nights, Fritz’s Cullen’s corner boys when they tire of holding up Doc’s wall out front (or more realistically when the hour is late and the girl prospects have dimmed). But the booths mean nothing by themselves except as “resting” areas after some fast dance coming from Doc’s super-charged juke box, complete with the very latest records straight from Pete’ Platters Record Shop so you know the are hot.
Right now, just this very teen ear minute, one can hear the sassy sound of The Drifters This Magic Moment in the background as we fix on a boy and girl taking a break from deep conversation (deep conversation related in teen world to either sex, setting up dates, analyzing the state of their eternal relationship, or some combination of all three) and taking a straw sip from their shared Cherry Coke. The Cherry Coke automatically means that rank and file Doc’s corner boy Harry “Red” Radley is present on one of the straws. On the other Donna Blanchard, one of the hottest sixteen year old sophomore girls at North Adamsville High, with a nice shape, a sweet smile, and a “come hither” look that has had more than one boy moony-eyed for her affections. But no dice, no dice at all. In this autumn of the year of our lord nineteen hundred and sixty Miss Donna Blanchard only has eyes, and whatever else she has to give, for one Red Radley. Let’s listen in as the eminently forgettable Booby Vee is droning on in the background about some lost love (and rightfully so, if the truth be known) on Take Good Care Of My Baby.
*********
“What the matter, honey, don’t you want me like that, “ murmered Donna Blanchard after being told for the fifth or sixth time by our corner boy Red Radley that, if you can believe this, no he was not ready for heavy sex (meaning of course, in the language of the young, some variety of “going all the way”). It seems that last Saturday night down at Adamsville Beach, the local “parking” heaven where one and all went to see the ”submarine races” in the local teen code parlance Donna, making no bones that she was ready, more than ready, to go all the way with Red got turned down. Turned down flat. Fortunately for Red Donna, embarrassed by such a fool for a boy friend, had “neglected” to mention this hard fact of life when the obligatory Monday morning Girls’ “Lav” talk got around to the subject of the weekend scorecard. In short, who did, and didn’t do it. Right now Red and Donna are trying to sort things out as a strangely ironic song by Cathy Jean and the Roommates, Please Love Me Forever, spins on the juke box.
What? A member in good standing of Fritz Cullen’s corner boys, corner boys who have, publicly anyway, notched up (went all they way with) more North Adamsville girls than maybe there were girls in North Adamsville turned down a chance at paradise. And turned down a certified fox like Donna Blanchard. No way. Moreover, Red, displaying he not uncommon teen male bravado had lied to his fellow corner boys and said that he had had already “gone all the way” with Donna. Jesus. Did our Red have a medical problem? No. Did he have some religious scruples about pre-martial sex? Hell, no. Our Red, as it turns out was a virgin and was terrified when Donna, a virgin herself but ready for the time of her time, came on so strong. Especially when she went wild on Saturday night when the local 24/7 rock and roll station, WMEX, played a medley of Elvis tunes including his latest, Surrender.
Some times things end right in the teen universe, sometimes they don’t. This time they didn’t. Well, at least for Red. After their little conversation at Doc’s Red and Donna agreed, but mostly Donna agreed, that they should see other people. That’s teen code, and maybe universal code, for “breaking up.” So now one sees the fetching Donna Blanchard riding around in Jimmy Jakes '59 cherry Chevy, and sitting very close indeed. Moreover she has that look, that certain look like she now knows a thing or two about ways of the world. Well, after all it was the time of her time, wasn’t it? As for Red, well, Red is seen more and more occupying one of those single stools at Doc’s counter sipping a Cherry Coke and endlessly throwing nickels, dimes and quarters in the juke box playing Elvis’ It’s Now or Never. Enough said.
CD Review
The Heart Of Rock ‘n’ Roll: 1960-61-Take Two, various artists, Time-Life Music, 1997
Scene: Brought to mind by one of the snapshot photos that grace each CD in this series. Doc’s Drugstore and Soda Foundation (not shown), located in the heart of the North Adamsville shopping streets, and most importantly, just a few minutes walk from North Adamsville High School. The soda fountain counter area is complete with a dozen single stools, a speckled faux-marble formica countertop with assorted pastry trays, candy boxes, pie cabinets and various condiment combinations for Doc’s ‘greasy spoon” hamburgers and hot dogs. Said single stools are strictly for losers, girl friend-less guys (or once in a great while a girl just trying catch a quick soda on the way home) or old people waiting for Doc to fill their ancient medicines prescriptions. They are no factor, no factor at all in this teen-worthy world. No, less than no factor. Every once in a while, however, one of Fritz Cullen’s corner boys takes his foot off the wall in front of Doc’s and enters to get a take out Cherry Coke, the de riguer drink of Fritz’s boyos.
But the fountain is strictly for food and drink, food and drink that is also strictly secondary to why Doc’s is a teen-worthy heaven. The real draw is the quiet booths that line both corner walls and are only for after school boy-girl couples, four-some girls looking for guys to dance with, and at night, mainly school year weekend and summer every nights, Fritz’s Cullen’s corner boys when they tire of holding up Doc’s wall out front (or more realistically when the hour is late and the girl prospects have dimmed). But the booths mean nothing by themselves except as “resting” areas after some fast dance coming from Doc’s super-charged juke box, complete with the very latest records straight from Pete’ Platters Record Shop so you know the are hot.
Right now, just this very teen ear minute, one can hear the sassy sound of The Drifters This Magic Moment in the background as we fix on a boy and girl taking a break from deep conversation (deep conversation related in teen world to either sex, setting up dates, analyzing the state of their eternal relationship, or some combination of all three) and taking a straw sip from their shared Cherry Coke. The Cherry Coke automatically means that rank and file Doc’s corner boy Harry “Red” Radley is present on one of the straws. On the other Donna Blanchard, one of the hottest sixteen year old sophomore girls at North Adamsville High, with a nice shape, a sweet smile, and a “come hither” look that has had more than one boy moony-eyed for her affections. But no dice, no dice at all. In this autumn of the year of our lord nineteen hundred and sixty Miss Donna Blanchard only has eyes, and whatever else she has to give, for one Red Radley. Let’s listen in as the eminently forgettable Booby Vee is droning on in the background about some lost love (and rightfully so, if the truth be known) on Take Good Care Of My Baby.
*********
“What the matter, honey, don’t you want me like that, “ murmered Donna Blanchard after being told for the fifth or sixth time by our corner boy Red Radley that, if you can believe this, no he was not ready for heavy sex (meaning of course, in the language of the young, some variety of “going all the way”). It seems that last Saturday night down at Adamsville Beach, the local “parking” heaven where one and all went to see the ”submarine races” in the local teen code parlance Donna, making no bones that she was ready, more than ready, to go all the way with Red got turned down. Turned down flat. Fortunately for Red Donna, embarrassed by such a fool for a boy friend, had “neglected” to mention this hard fact of life when the obligatory Monday morning Girls’ “Lav” talk got around to the subject of the weekend scorecard. In short, who did, and didn’t do it. Right now Red and Donna are trying to sort things out as a strangely ironic song by Cathy Jean and the Roommates, Please Love Me Forever, spins on the juke box.
What? A member in good standing of Fritz Cullen’s corner boys, corner boys who have, publicly anyway, notched up (went all they way with) more North Adamsville girls than maybe there were girls in North Adamsville turned down a chance at paradise. And turned down a certified fox like Donna Blanchard. No way. Moreover, Red, displaying he not uncommon teen male bravado had lied to his fellow corner boys and said that he had had already “gone all the way” with Donna. Jesus. Did our Red have a medical problem? No. Did he have some religious scruples about pre-martial sex? Hell, no. Our Red, as it turns out was a virgin and was terrified when Donna, a virgin herself but ready for the time of her time, came on so strong. Especially when she went wild on Saturday night when the local 24/7 rock and roll station, WMEX, played a medley of Elvis tunes including his latest, Surrender.
Some times things end right in the teen universe, sometimes they don’t. This time they didn’t. Well, at least for Red. After their little conversation at Doc’s Red and Donna agreed, but mostly Donna agreed, that they should see other people. That’s teen code, and maybe universal code, for “breaking up.” So now one sees the fetching Donna Blanchard riding around in Jimmy Jakes '59 cherry Chevy, and sitting very close indeed. Moreover she has that look, that certain look like she now knows a thing or two about ways of the world. Well, after all it was the time of her time, wasn’t it? As for Red, well, Red is seen more and more occupying one of those single stools at Doc’s counter sipping a Cherry Coke and endlessly throwing nickels, dimes and quarters in the juke box playing Elvis’ It’s Now or Never. Enough said.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Waiting For That One High White Note Moment- “As It Is In Heaven”-A Film Review
Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for the Swedish film, As It Is In Heaven.
DVD Review
As It Is In Heaven, Michael Nyqvist, Frida Hallgren, in Swedish, English subtitles, 2004
The overwhelming number of film reviews in this space in the recent past has been about film noir classics, especially crime noir classics from the 1940s and 1950s. The exception has been a couple of the films in the Swedish crime novelist Steig Larrson’s trilogy and now this Swedish film (with English subtitles) film, As It Is In Heaven, starring the same male performer who was a lynch pin for those other films, Michale Nyqvist. Here he plays the same understated role, with plenty of studied bewilderment which seems to be his specialty (and coolness under duress as well). Although his trials and tribulations are central to the plot this is more of an ensemble cinematic operation.
A little plot summary is required to motivate that last statement. A hard-driven, world-renowned symphonic conductor is on his last legs physically after pushing his career envelope in search of that perfect musical sound. What is called in jazz reaching for that "high white note." In order to get back to his old self (or just live his life out) he needs rest and no more world-historic reaching. So naturally, naturally for a Swedish audience I assume, he goes go back to his boyhood township to get back to his roots, or to find some peace since this place is definitely off the main road, the mainly snowy main road. Of course, as described via flashbacks, his roots were rather attenuated with the town since he had left originally under duress, his and his mother’s, at an early age in order to become something in the musical world.
Here comes the ensemble part. His old home town is nothing but a hell’s broth of broken people, thwarted love, unkindness and the like. I thought immediately of something out of Peyton Place or the now dwindling day-time American television soap operas. But this town also had a church-based chorus, as many towns in this world do. So put together one world-renowned conductor trying to find his roots, love and that high white note that has eluded him in earlier days and one motley group of choral wannabes with every social and physical pathology an isolated small town can produce and of course you will in the end uncover that high white note, literally. A nice film, a nice foreign film, a nice change of pace vehicle for Nyqvist (although I don’t have to see his studied whatever for a while which means holding off on watching that third part of the Larrson trilogy that has just come out).
DVD Review
As It Is In Heaven, Michael Nyqvist, Frida Hallgren, in Swedish, English subtitles, 2004
The overwhelming number of film reviews in this space in the recent past has been about film noir classics, especially crime noir classics from the 1940s and 1950s. The exception has been a couple of the films in the Swedish crime novelist Steig Larrson’s trilogy and now this Swedish film (with English subtitles) film, As It Is In Heaven, starring the same male performer who was a lynch pin for those other films, Michale Nyqvist. Here he plays the same understated role, with plenty of studied bewilderment which seems to be his specialty (and coolness under duress as well). Although his trials and tribulations are central to the plot this is more of an ensemble cinematic operation.
A little plot summary is required to motivate that last statement. A hard-driven, world-renowned symphonic conductor is on his last legs physically after pushing his career envelope in search of that perfect musical sound. What is called in jazz reaching for that "high white note." In order to get back to his old self (or just live his life out) he needs rest and no more world-historic reaching. So naturally, naturally for a Swedish audience I assume, he goes go back to his boyhood township to get back to his roots, or to find some peace since this place is definitely off the main road, the mainly snowy main road. Of course, as described via flashbacks, his roots were rather attenuated with the town since he had left originally under duress, his and his mother’s, at an early age in order to become something in the musical world.
Here comes the ensemble part. His old home town is nothing but a hell’s broth of broken people, thwarted love, unkindness and the like. I thought immediately of something out of Peyton Place or the now dwindling day-time American television soap operas. But this town also had a church-based chorus, as many towns in this world do. So put together one world-renowned conductor trying to find his roots, love and that high white note that has eluded him in earlier days and one motley group of choral wannabes with every social and physical pathology an isolated small town can produce and of course you will in the end uncover that high white note, literally. A nice film, a nice foreign film, a nice change of pace vehicle for Nyqvist (although I don’t have to see his studied whatever for a while which means holding off on watching that third part of the Larrson trilogy that has just come out).
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Poet’s (And Songwriter too) Corner- Van Morrison’s “Rave On John Donne”
Poet’s (And Songwriter too) Corner- Van Morrison’s “Rave On John Donne”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H_EqDDqo3Uw&feature=related
Click on to the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Van Morrison performing his Rave On John Donne.
Markin comment:I have been mad for John Donne’ s poetry ever since I read his poem Death, Be Not Proud. Yes, I know that he was a metaphysical poet (the two-hearts business) but he “spoke” to me and still “speaks” to me. Fortunately, we communists are indifferent to a person's personal likes (and dislikes) in music, poetry, literature and art or I would be in big trouble with touting Brother Donne. Thankfully he is long gone and cannot, reasonably, be cited as an active counter-revolutionary and therefore a person we would have to do something about. Whee! Put the subject John Donne (and other poets, mad men Whitman and Yeats) in a song done by Van Morrison and you have something that catches my attention every time. No question.
******
Rave On John Donne lyrics by Van Morrison
Rave on John Donne, rave on thy Holy fool
Down through the weeks of ages
In the moss borne dark dank pools
Rave on, down through the industrial revolution
Empiricism, atomic and nuclear age
Rave on down through time and space down through the corridors
Rave on words on printed page
Rave on, you left us infinity
And well pressed pages torn to fade
Drive on with wild abandon
Uptempo, frenzied heels
Rave on, Walt Whitman, nose down in wet grass
Rave on fill the senses
On nature's bright green shady path
Rave on Omar Khayyam, Rave on Kahlil Gibran
Oh, what sweet wine we drinketh
The celebration will be held
We will partake the wine and break the Holy bread
Rave on let a man come out of Ireland
Rave on on Mr. Yeats,
Rave on down through the Holy Rosey Cross
Rave on down through theosophy, and the Golden Dawn
Rave on through the writing of "A Vision"
Rave on, Rave on, Rave on, Rave on, Rave on, Rave on
Rave on John Donne, rave on thy Holy fool
Down through the weeks of ages
In the moss borne dark dank pools
Rave on, down though the industrial revolution
Empiricism, atomic and nuclear age
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H_EqDDqo3Uw&feature=related
Click on to the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Van Morrison performing his Rave On John Donne.
Markin comment:I have been mad for John Donne’ s poetry ever since I read his poem Death, Be Not Proud. Yes, I know that he was a metaphysical poet (the two-hearts business) but he “spoke” to me and still “speaks” to me. Fortunately, we communists are indifferent to a person's personal likes (and dislikes) in music, poetry, literature and art or I would be in big trouble with touting Brother Donne. Thankfully he is long gone and cannot, reasonably, be cited as an active counter-revolutionary and therefore a person we would have to do something about. Whee! Put the subject John Donne (and other poets, mad men Whitman and Yeats) in a song done by Van Morrison and you have something that catches my attention every time. No question.
******
Rave On John Donne lyrics by Van Morrison
Rave on John Donne, rave on thy Holy fool
Down through the weeks of ages
In the moss borne dark dank pools
Rave on, down through the industrial revolution
Empiricism, atomic and nuclear age
Rave on down through time and space down through the corridors
Rave on words on printed page
Rave on, you left us infinity
And well pressed pages torn to fade
Drive on with wild abandon
Uptempo, frenzied heels
Rave on, Walt Whitman, nose down in wet grass
Rave on fill the senses
On nature's bright green shady path
Rave on Omar Khayyam, Rave on Kahlil Gibran
Oh, what sweet wine we drinketh
The celebration will be held
We will partake the wine and break the Holy bread
Rave on let a man come out of Ireland
Rave on on Mr. Yeats,
Rave on down through the Holy Rosey Cross
Rave on down through theosophy, and the Golden Dawn
Rave on through the writing of "A Vision"
Rave on, Rave on, Rave on, Rave on, Rave on, Rave on
Rave on John Donne, rave on thy Holy fool
Down through the weeks of ages
In the moss borne dark dank pools
Rave on, down though the industrial revolution
Empiricism, atomic and nuclear age
“Ain’t Got No Time For Corner Boys, Down In The Streets Making All That Noise”-The Mean Streets Of Working Class Times- “The Fighter”- A Film Review
Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for the sports biographical film, The Fighter.
DVD Review
The Fighter, starring Mark Wahlberg, Christian Bale and Melissa Leo, Paramount Pictures, 2010
I know the mean streets of Lowell, Massachusetts, although of late that geographical reference point would center on a more literary sense of the place around the figure of 1950s beat novelist/poet Jack Kerouac. I do not, by the way, mean that I know Lowell from actually growing up in that old-time textile mill town that has seen better days, mainly. I mean I know Lowell because I know the double-deckers, the triple-deckers, the seedy bowling alleys, the back lot gyms, the mom and pop variety stores, the ethnically-tinged bars, biker hang-outs, and flop houses that dot that working class town and form the backdrop to the cultural life of that place. I grew up on the southern side of Boston in North Adamsville. That past its prime working class town (formerly a shipbuilding center rather than Lowell's textile but they shared the same ethos) had its full compliment of tight housing, rundown stores, sparse entertainment possibilities and cramped view of life’s prospects just like Lowell.
I know Mickey Ward (Wahlberg) and, more importantly, I know Dickie Eklund (Bale) and their mother Alice (Leo). I do not mean that I know any of them personally but I know their ilk. See North Adamsville also had its fair share of club fighters (or other sports king wanna-bes), working out of some third floor back door gym that smelled of tiger’s balm and other liniments, looking to make it out of the dead-end town and on to the big tent, whether they actually left North Adamsville or not. And most didn’t and most did not even get a shot at hitting someone like Sugar Ray Leonard down on some matted ring floor like Dickie did. Frankly, I spent most of my time as a youth being attracted too but ultimately trying to run, run very hard, away from the Dickie guys, the street-wise corner boys who fall sort of catching the brass ring. While they may be street-wise corner boys, unlike in this film, they are strictly bad-ass cut your throat for a dime characters best left behind. That was hard lesson to learn back in the day, and as the film makes clear, now too.
That said about the social realities of working class life what is there not to like about a film that highlights, Mickey Ward, one of our own getting out from under by sheer perseverance, wit, and his own sense of street smarts, mainly on his own terms. And to be a bloody stubborn Irishman to boot. Some of the stuff concerning his family connections, his eight million family connections, the “us against the world (you do not air your dirty linen in public, period)” while hard to take at points rang true. As did many of the confrontation scenes with Mickey’s high-flying girlfriend Charlene, when she tried to break her man out of the family’s grip. Finally, the acting from Wahlberg’s conflicted (between family and career, between being a “stepping stone” and a champ) boxer, to Bale’s mad monk ex-boxer who had gone a long way down from those Sugar Ray days (a not uncommon fate for those who are just not good enough to wear the crown, whatever the crown might be) to Leo’s (Alice)one-dimensional family worldview (with nine kids, seven of them girls, that might have been the beginning of wisdom in her case) was uniformly fine. Still, I am glad, glad as hell that I made a left turn away from those corner boys down in the streets making all that noise. But it was a close thing, no question.
DVD Review
The Fighter, starring Mark Wahlberg, Christian Bale and Melissa Leo, Paramount Pictures, 2010
I know the mean streets of Lowell, Massachusetts, although of late that geographical reference point would center on a more literary sense of the place around the figure of 1950s beat novelist/poet Jack Kerouac. I do not, by the way, mean that I know Lowell from actually growing up in that old-time textile mill town that has seen better days, mainly. I mean I know Lowell because I know the double-deckers, the triple-deckers, the seedy bowling alleys, the back lot gyms, the mom and pop variety stores, the ethnically-tinged bars, biker hang-outs, and flop houses that dot that working class town and form the backdrop to the cultural life of that place. I grew up on the southern side of Boston in North Adamsville. That past its prime working class town (formerly a shipbuilding center rather than Lowell's textile but they shared the same ethos) had its full compliment of tight housing, rundown stores, sparse entertainment possibilities and cramped view of life’s prospects just like Lowell.
I know Mickey Ward (Wahlberg) and, more importantly, I know Dickie Eklund (Bale) and their mother Alice (Leo). I do not mean that I know any of them personally but I know their ilk. See North Adamsville also had its fair share of club fighters (or other sports king wanna-bes), working out of some third floor back door gym that smelled of tiger’s balm and other liniments, looking to make it out of the dead-end town and on to the big tent, whether they actually left North Adamsville or not. And most didn’t and most did not even get a shot at hitting someone like Sugar Ray Leonard down on some matted ring floor like Dickie did. Frankly, I spent most of my time as a youth being attracted too but ultimately trying to run, run very hard, away from the Dickie guys, the street-wise corner boys who fall sort of catching the brass ring. While they may be street-wise corner boys, unlike in this film, they are strictly bad-ass cut your throat for a dime characters best left behind. That was hard lesson to learn back in the day, and as the film makes clear, now too.
That said about the social realities of working class life what is there not to like about a film that highlights, Mickey Ward, one of our own getting out from under by sheer perseverance, wit, and his own sense of street smarts, mainly on his own terms. And to be a bloody stubborn Irishman to boot. Some of the stuff concerning his family connections, his eight million family connections, the “us against the world (you do not air your dirty linen in public, period)” while hard to take at points rang true. As did many of the confrontation scenes with Mickey’s high-flying girlfriend Charlene, when she tried to break her man out of the family’s grip. Finally, the acting from Wahlberg’s conflicted (between family and career, between being a “stepping stone” and a champ) boxer, to Bale’s mad monk ex-boxer who had gone a long way down from those Sugar Ray days (a not uncommon fate for those who are just not good enough to wear the crown, whatever the crown might be) to Leo’s (Alice)one-dimensional family worldview (with nine kids, seven of them girls, that might have been the beginning of wisdom in her case) was uniformly fine. Still, I am glad, glad as hell that I made a left turn away from those corner boys down in the streets making all that noise. But it was a close thing, no question.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Out In The Be-Bop Be-Bop 1960s Night- The Heart Of Rock ‘n’ Rock: 1960-61- Take Three- When Sammy Russo Ran The Skee Ball Lanes- With Bo Diddley In Mind
Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of The Shirelles performing their classic Tonight’s The Night
CD Review
The Heart Of Rock ‘n’ Roll: 1960-61, various artists, Time-Life Music, 1996
Scene: Brought to mind by one of the snapshot photos that grace each CD in this series. The then newly built Gloversville Amusement Park created out of farmland just west of the old home town, Clintondale. Of course it had all the latest rides, including two Ferris wheels, two different-sized roller coasters (one for the faint-hearted, the other for the brave, or fool-hearty) refreshment stands seemingly without end, and other refinements, including for our particular purposes not one by two game pavilions anchored by rows of skee lanes. Skee lanes that Sammy Russo ruled (that‘s the guy eating the proffered popcorn in the photo) claimed kingship over and over which Patty Smith (the popcorn profferee in said photo) sought to be his queen. If she could handle the gaffe.
***********
“Christ, Patty how many of these damn, god awful kewpie dolls do you need anyway?,” yelled Sammy Russo, the King Of The Skee Ball night at Gloversville Amusement Park and also a 1960s king hell king of a corner boy at Doc Sweeney’s Drugstore (complete with soda fountain, natch, and a juke box too else why be a corner boy there, or anything else) out in the Clintondale be-bop night to his wanna-be sweetie, Patty Smith. And it was a question that he expected an answer to, a prompt, no sass answer, newness wearing off or not, newness of their “steady” hood-ness, that is.
See, Patty got big eyes for Sammy right here at the FUNland game pavilion (no that is not a typo that is the way the name in front of the game pavilion read) at the beginning of summer, right after school let out. School, of course, being North Adamsville High in the year of our lord nineteen hundred and sixty if anybody asks you, and they might. And, for that matter, how else would I know of the Sammy-Patty love story, I ask you, if that wasn’t so. I am one of Sammy’s Doc’s corner boy, uh, associates. Gloversville proper, by the way, is too new and rural raw to have its own high school so kids from Gloversville come over to North Clintondale where there is some extra room just now. But Gloversville kids, farm boys and girls mainly, are strictly squaresville. No dispute. The only reason that anybody from North Clintonville High, any corner boy (or his girl) would even set foot in Gloversville for one minute, no one second, was to pass ever-loving Main Street (really Route 16) through to the edge of town seeking the newly built Gloversville Amusement Park. And that is the reason why Sammy and Patty are standing here in front of the FUNland skee ball lanes having their first “argument.” Well, kind of an argument.
Patty was either in some high funk, or did not hear Sammy the first time over the din of the Gene Daniel’s A Hundred Pounds Of Clay followed immediately by The Chieftains Heart And Soul, blaring over the loudspeaker. A loudspeaker that we finally figured out was used by the management to juice up the pinball/skee ball/games atmosphere so no one could think so he repeated himself. And Patty faux-demurely answered (as was her way when Sammy got this, well, this Sammy Doc’s corner boy way)-“Until I get the whole set of twelve, and not before.” [Markin: For those who are breathlessly on the edge of their seats waiting to know why there are twelve it is simple. There are twelve kewpies representing twelve different nations/major ethnic groups, natch, they had that part of the soft sell down easy] “Christ,” said Sammy under his breathe, “We will be here all night.”
All night skee-ing when Sammy, king of the skees or not, had other things, other wrestling in some secluded spot out back by the artificial lake that formed one of the edges of the park things, on his mind. With one Patty Smith, of course. And that would not be the first time, the first wrestling time. Funny, just then the newest Shirelles' hit came over the speaker, Tonight’s The Night. But just now he knew deep in his bones, knew as if he had been married to Miss Smith for fifty years, that tonight was not going to be the night if she did not go home with not ten, not eleven, but exactly twelve f—king kewpie dolls.
Now this skee thing, on an average night is nothing but a sure thing when Sammy has his motor running. When his mind is on skees, okay. But playing enough games to “win” twelve dolls, or for that matter twelve rabbits’ feet or twelve leis (lesser prizes in the skee universe) requires a certain perseverance and good aim. [Markin: For those who do not know skee it is like bowling, candle-pin bowling (small balls for those not from New England) in that you roll the bowl up a short lane and like darts or rifle target shooting in that you have a target. The idea is to get as many points (and hence coupons) with nine balls as possible. The points convert to coupons which are dispensed near where you place your money to start a game . Get enough coupons and you win prizes from those lame leis to kewpie dolls. Simple.] But, like I said, Sammy’s mind had been elsewhere, especially when Patty, yes, Patty brought up the subject of wrestling down by that lake if things worked out at skee. And as if to punctuate her sentence Brenda Lee’s You Can Depend On Me came on while these “negotiations” were in progress.
But this night Sammy, king hell corner boy is whipped, just plain whipped by the task before him. It is almost closing time (11:00 PM) and Sammy has won exactly five dolls. And Sammy, while he can be as smooth as any Doc’s Drugstore corner boy, except maybe Fritz Gentry, or as cold as any hard-boiled Hell’s Angel motorcycle corner boy from the Blarney Bar&Grille in the hard-night part of Clintondale is ready to explode at Patty. Not for her foolish girl desire for the damn dolls. That is how girls are and what makes them tick. No, Sammy is fed up that his prowess at skee had to be put in play by Patty’s silly notions. So come eleven o'clock and defeat Sammy, cold as ice, says to Patty, “Okay, we are finished, I’ll take you home now but I have had it.” So they walked, walked pretty far apart for two people on the same planet, back to Sammy’s father’s car and he did not even open Patty’s door for her. Bad news, no question. She got in and as the car radio heated up wouldn’t you know in a night filled with omens and portents that just then the local all-night rock ‘n’ roll station would be playing Connie Francis’ Breakin’ In A Brand New Broken Heart. And both Sammy and Patty were absolutely quiet while that song was being played.
CD Review
The Heart Of Rock ‘n’ Roll: 1960-61, various artists, Time-Life Music, 1996
Scene: Brought to mind by one of the snapshot photos that grace each CD in this series. The then newly built Gloversville Amusement Park created out of farmland just west of the old home town, Clintondale. Of course it had all the latest rides, including two Ferris wheels, two different-sized roller coasters (one for the faint-hearted, the other for the brave, or fool-hearty) refreshment stands seemingly without end, and other refinements, including for our particular purposes not one by two game pavilions anchored by rows of skee lanes. Skee lanes that Sammy Russo ruled (that‘s the guy eating the proffered popcorn in the photo) claimed kingship over and over which Patty Smith (the popcorn profferee in said photo) sought to be his queen. If she could handle the gaffe.
***********
“Christ, Patty how many of these damn, god awful kewpie dolls do you need anyway?,” yelled Sammy Russo, the King Of The Skee Ball night at Gloversville Amusement Park and also a 1960s king hell king of a corner boy at Doc Sweeney’s Drugstore (complete with soda fountain, natch, and a juke box too else why be a corner boy there, or anything else) out in the Clintondale be-bop night to his wanna-be sweetie, Patty Smith. And it was a question that he expected an answer to, a prompt, no sass answer, newness wearing off or not, newness of their “steady” hood-ness, that is.
See, Patty got big eyes for Sammy right here at the FUNland game pavilion (no that is not a typo that is the way the name in front of the game pavilion read) at the beginning of summer, right after school let out. School, of course, being North Adamsville High in the year of our lord nineteen hundred and sixty if anybody asks you, and they might. And, for that matter, how else would I know of the Sammy-Patty love story, I ask you, if that wasn’t so. I am one of Sammy’s Doc’s corner boy, uh, associates. Gloversville proper, by the way, is too new and rural raw to have its own high school so kids from Gloversville come over to North Clintondale where there is some extra room just now. But Gloversville kids, farm boys and girls mainly, are strictly squaresville. No dispute. The only reason that anybody from North Clintonville High, any corner boy (or his girl) would even set foot in Gloversville for one minute, no one second, was to pass ever-loving Main Street (really Route 16) through to the edge of town seeking the newly built Gloversville Amusement Park. And that is the reason why Sammy and Patty are standing here in front of the FUNland skee ball lanes having their first “argument.” Well, kind of an argument.
Patty was either in some high funk, or did not hear Sammy the first time over the din of the Gene Daniel’s A Hundred Pounds Of Clay followed immediately by The Chieftains Heart And Soul, blaring over the loudspeaker. A loudspeaker that we finally figured out was used by the management to juice up the pinball/skee ball/games atmosphere so no one could think so he repeated himself. And Patty faux-demurely answered (as was her way when Sammy got this, well, this Sammy Doc’s corner boy way)-“Until I get the whole set of twelve, and not before.” [Markin: For those who are breathlessly on the edge of their seats waiting to know why there are twelve it is simple. There are twelve kewpies representing twelve different nations/major ethnic groups, natch, they had that part of the soft sell down easy] “Christ,” said Sammy under his breathe, “We will be here all night.”
All night skee-ing when Sammy, king of the skees or not, had other things, other wrestling in some secluded spot out back by the artificial lake that formed one of the edges of the park things, on his mind. With one Patty Smith, of course. And that would not be the first time, the first wrestling time. Funny, just then the newest Shirelles' hit came over the speaker, Tonight’s The Night. But just now he knew deep in his bones, knew as if he had been married to Miss Smith for fifty years, that tonight was not going to be the night if she did not go home with not ten, not eleven, but exactly twelve f—king kewpie dolls.
Now this skee thing, on an average night is nothing but a sure thing when Sammy has his motor running. When his mind is on skees, okay. But playing enough games to “win” twelve dolls, or for that matter twelve rabbits’ feet or twelve leis (lesser prizes in the skee universe) requires a certain perseverance and good aim. [Markin: For those who do not know skee it is like bowling, candle-pin bowling (small balls for those not from New England) in that you roll the bowl up a short lane and like darts or rifle target shooting in that you have a target. The idea is to get as many points (and hence coupons) with nine balls as possible. The points convert to coupons which are dispensed near where you place your money to start a game . Get enough coupons and you win prizes from those lame leis to kewpie dolls. Simple.] But, like I said, Sammy’s mind had been elsewhere, especially when Patty, yes, Patty brought up the subject of wrestling down by that lake if things worked out at skee. And as if to punctuate her sentence Brenda Lee’s You Can Depend On Me came on while these “negotiations” were in progress.
But this night Sammy, king hell corner boy is whipped, just plain whipped by the task before him. It is almost closing time (11:00 PM) and Sammy has won exactly five dolls. And Sammy, while he can be as smooth as any Doc’s Drugstore corner boy, except maybe Fritz Gentry, or as cold as any hard-boiled Hell’s Angel motorcycle corner boy from the Blarney Bar&Grille in the hard-night part of Clintondale is ready to explode at Patty. Not for her foolish girl desire for the damn dolls. That is how girls are and what makes them tick. No, Sammy is fed up that his prowess at skee had to be put in play by Patty’s silly notions. So come eleven o'clock and defeat Sammy, cold as ice, says to Patty, “Okay, we are finished, I’ll take you home now but I have had it.” So they walked, walked pretty far apart for two people on the same planet, back to Sammy’s father’s car and he did not even open Patty’s door for her. Bad news, no question. She got in and as the car radio heated up wouldn’t you know in a night filled with omens and portents that just then the local all-night rock ‘n’ roll station would be playing Connie Francis’ Breakin’ In A Brand New Broken Heart. And both Sammy and Patty were absolutely quiet while that song was being played.
Monday, September 12, 2011
On “Sexless” Internet Sex Sites- Or How “Foul-Mouth” Phil Larkin Got His Comeuppance-Finally- With The North Adamsville Salducci's Pizza Parlor Corner Boys In Mind
Normally I provide a link to some relevant topic in the headline on my posts. Do not click on the headline to link to an Internet sex site. Are you kidding? All you have to do is type in the word sex on any search engine and you will be inundated with every type of fetish you every wanted, or didn't want, to know about. We are all adults here-happy hunting-on your own.
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Peter Paul Markin comment:
Hey, everybody knows, or should be presumed to know to use some legal parlance which may become necessary before this latest “fire storm” is over, that this site is an exemplar of politics, mainly communist propaganda politics. No way is it some way station for AARP-worthy sex-starved refugees and fidgety lonely-hearts from back in my corner boy youth days. Although apparently that fate, short of some drastic legal action on my part, is what looms before me after I, unwittingly I think, let an old corner boy friend from the North Adamsville Salducci’s Pizza Parlor high school hang-out night, Johnny Silver, have some space here to tell what turned out to be a pretty salacious story about how he “hooked-up” with some young, very young, barely legal woman that he met through a sex-oriented Internet site.
My permissive attitude on this not strictly politically-driven subject was to let Johnny hold forth on the basis that intergenerational sex is still, more or less, socially taboo in this society and that under a future communist society we will take a much more liberal attitude on the subject as well as on many other now sexually-repressed notions. Johnny’s story, which I admit had even my temperature going up a bit after reading it, however set off this current fire storm.
Not about the struggle against imperialism in Iraq, Afghanistan, and Libya. Not the struggle to make some headway against the bosses and their relentless drive for profits at the workers expense here in America, and internationally. Not even commentary on the death penalty, gay marriage, the perfidy of Barack Obama, or the lunacy of the tea-partiers. No, I have been deluged with e-mails by every AARP-type that I know who want to harass me in order to tell their misbegotten tales of missed sexual opportunities, the sexual discrimination against oldsters by younger, well, younger women okay, or whatever else is on their minds except those much more important subjects. Please, please stop. Tell it to Oprah, or whoever is working that street these days.
The worst of the lot was my old corner boy (part-time corner boy at Salducci’s but full-time at the Surf and Sea Club in summer and whatever and wherever in winter) “Foul-Mouth” Phil Larkin. Now Phil, who I actually met in junior high school (a.k.a. middle school) through my chieftain in those days, Frankie Riley, really did deserve that nickname. Even Frankie and I walked away from Phil when he got going with every swear known to the English language (and some in Gaelic too-at least that is what he said his grandfather taught him). So you can imagine what the girls felt when he went full-bore. Strangely Phil, unlike now as his story below will explain, never lacked for girlfriends, and not just wrong side of the tracks, low-life, slutty girls either but many girls who you could see, see and stare at, every Sunday at 8:00 AM Mass over at Sacred Heart Catholic Church. So, maybe, he touched off something basic in them with his language. Personally, while I could swear like a trooper when necessary, I didn’t around girls or in public that much.
In any case, as I have already telegraphed above Phil, still using that ill-bred language has threatened murder, mayhem, and, more importantly, legal action (something about gross denial of freedom of expression) if I don’t post his sad-ass story. Needless to say that approach by itself does not get one anywhere with me. However in line with my idea in posting Johnny Silver’s salacious little sex tale noted above I have agreed to post Phil’s saga if only to use it as an example of sexual repression under capitalism and why we need, desperately need, that socialist revolution that is the hallmark of the real purpose of this space. Needless to say I take no personal, political, social, linguistic, or, most importantly, legal responsibility for this story. I have edited it lightly for language and content but this is strictly “Foul-Mouth” Phil Larkin’s story. If you want to take legal action against him feel free to do so. Needless to say as well that Phil is in no way (thankfully) political, much less a communist, although he desperately could use a shot, a big shot, of what our communist future promises.
Phillip Larkin comment:
First of all before I get into my f--king hard luck story about my sexless life on the sex sites let me clear the air about something that that twerp Peter Paul Markin said about my “foul-mouth.” You know in junior high school (now known as middle school) young,f--king hormone-juggling guys (and girls I found out later) don’t always know how to deal with that hard fact of growing up and my way was to swear a little. Big deal, right? Big deal then, or now. But you also know, and even f- -king Markin knows this, at that age you get a certain “rep” and it carries around with you like a lead balloon all through school, especially with guys that you hang around with. Like Markin was always from day one that I met him “The Scribe” (always capitalized, by the way) anointed by Frankie Riley and it stuck even though he hated to be called that. [Markin: Okay Phil we get the point. Let’s move on.] And so my little swearing episodes, not much really, got me tagged as, well, foul-mouthed [Markin: Phil must have a slight case of amnesia on this “little” thing. He was the world, well, at least the North Adamsville Junior High, champion swearer. He is the only kid, and Frankie Riley will back me up on this, who was able to make a sentence using only swear words. Some feat. Phil is, apparently, far too “humble” now to take a bow for that now.]
The thing about swearing though is that it never got me in much trouble with the girls. The Scribe [Markin: Watch it, Phil] was always (and Frankie too) very prim and proper in his language around girls although it never got him anywhere. And The Scribe (oops, Markin) could swear worst than me when he got his Irish up. But that is neither here nor there. Unless he wants to make something of it now. What it all ties in with though is that I have always used a certain amount of rough language around girls and they have either found it “cute” or, and here you have to take my word for it, kind of got “turned on” by it. [Markin: Sure thing, Phil]. I’ll give an example and Markin will be surprised. Millie Callahan the best, or one of the best, looking sixteen-year old girls in old North Adamsville was very prim and proper as well as hot-looking. She went to 8:00 AM Sunday Mass at Sacred Heart every week. And every week I would meet her after Mass and walk her to old Adamsville Beach. Sweating like a trooper. Maybe once in a while she would blush but mostly she got “turned on.” Turned on especially by one word that I used in many contexts on our walks. One Sunday, I swear, she got so aroused that, well let’s say we “did it” and you can figure out what the “did it” part was, right down on the beach near the old North Adamsville Yacht Club (there was a little secluded area that everybody knew about). And we were together through the rest of high school, “doing it” just fine. [Markin: Yes, Phil, Millie was a fox, for sure. I used sit a couple of rows in back of her at Mass to look at her ass. By the way everybody knew you two were “doing it.” And I was jealous, no question. It was only because she went to St. Anne’s High and not North Adamsville High that it was not more widely known and commented on. Nice work, Phil.]
The whole point of bringing this swearing thing up this many years later though is that, more often that not, the way I got entangled [Markin: Nice word, Phil] with women later on was that same basic approach. Sure I went through three marriages, and a several girlfriends, so maybe my “sticking” power wasn’t so great but it got short haul, short ashes hauled results. Anyway after the last one left a couple of years ago I started to notice that because of that lost and my changed work situation (working out of the house more with the luxury of the Internet age computer niceness) I wasn’t running into women to swear to, any maybe turn on.
Now I have read Johnny Silver’s wicked little story about his “trials and tribulations” with the young quail and how he was wasting away without it. [Markin: Young women, not quail Phil. Did you hear about the women’s liberation movement in your travels?] And how he finally “got lucky” with some teeny-bopper. Well we all knew Johnny was that way. In fact I had to f--king warn him off of my younger sister, Kate, one time. [Markin: Oh ya, I remember that time. I think you had a baseball bat in hand at the time, right?] Me, I like women a little older, more my own fifty-ish age and so I figured since nothing was happening elsewhere I would, like Johnny did, give one of the Internet sex sites a try. [Markin: Is every lonely-heart guy over the age of about thirty “running” to the sex sites for love and whatever? Am I missing some important sociological trend here? Also what is it with you old corner boy guys. Nobody expects you to tell the whole true to strangers, especially on the Internet, although it helps, but this age thing is weird. We are all sixty-something. That fifty-something was a while back but I never was a snitch, and I won’t be one now.]
I don’t know if you know how these sex sites work. Let’s just call the one I went on Get Laid Fast and you will get the flavor of the thing. [Markin: Phil, you don’t have to tell anybody over the age of about ten about Internet sex sites. All you have to do is Google the word sex on any search engine in the world and you will get more sex sites than you can possibly imagine, including, I assume, your Get Laid Fast site.] Naturally the lure (for an old-time heterosexual man) is sexy, semi-and unclothed women, young and middle- aged (nobody, nobody in their right minds that is, confesses to being, well, mature, hell, I will just say it straight here, old), just waiting to get their hands on you (where I will leave to the reader’s imagination but you get the point) and show you paradise, yes paradise. Just my cup of f-- king tea. Where do I sign up, and how quickly.
That signing up was the easy part. Well, almost easy. See, the hook is that everybody can sign up and put whatever they want on their very own personal profile page. The problem is that unless you pay up, pay up a fee, nobody in the known cyberspace world is going to know about your sex hunger, especially those alluring semi and unclothed young and middle-aged women. Hey, I am a man of the f -- king world so I know that I have to pony up, and gladly to get in on the action. And so I am off to the races for a few ducats.
Well, almost. Almost on two counts. First I have to figure out what my profile message will be and then my “message” to those women’s profiles that strike my fancy. So, naturally I go light on my personal profile. You know how I am looking for the love of my life (already had it). [Markin: I bet six, two, and even it was old time Millie Callahan, hands down. Hell, she might have been the love of my life too if I could have ever gotten beyond staring at her ass during Sunday Mass.] And companionship and all that other crap when everybody knows it a roll in the hay that is driving me, and about three billion (or whatever number of guys are in the world), to sites like this. And, maybe, women too. Or at least that is what I my worldly assumption would have been. The really, the Phil Larkin reality, is that I might have been better off on some mix and match dot com square dating service. Hell, I am willing to bet Markin his six, two and even I would have had more rolls in the hay by now that way than on this “hyper”- sex site.
Here is why. And don’t laugh at a f - - king fifty-something guy for being so silly. [Markin: Phil, I know you, we went to school together, get real-sixty-something, okay.] I went back to my old tried and true strategy with my personal messages to various women who struck my fancy. Nothing like in kid time but still basically- “babe, do you want to f- - k tonight, don’t be a bitch, call me now, here is my cell phone number," and the like. Now the site is loaded with women within about fifty miles of my residence so I naturally click on all those thirty and forty something women who have been around a little, are looking for a little sugar in their bowl, and are bound to go for rough and ready fifty-something guy. No sweat.
Actually my line, as I found out later, was kind of tame and “civilized” compared to some of the younger guys who were swinging their dicks in full view and stuff like that. Hell, it was tame and civilized compared to some of the women’s profile information and photos. I blushed, actually blushed, at some of the stuff they, theoretically, wanted to do, and do right this minute. Notice that word "theoretical" though. For example, first off I got a proposal from a thirty-something woman who wanted me to help her in her new career as a cosmetologist. She had, foolishly, gone to art school when she was younger and when the art-related job that she had didn’t survive the recent economic downturns she saw the light of working the women who are still working hair and nails racket. Still kind of artistic, right?
And I was willing to give the idea some consideration; although unlike Johnny Silver I did not play the older, wiser “sugar-daddy” angle. Or give any thought to such a notion with older women. If I was looking for Johnny’s teeny-boppers sure. But with older women, no way. Here is the hitch though. Said future hairdresser in return for my largesse was only willing to be a companion, a platonic, no sex companion for an “old geezer” (my term, hers was a man “old enough to be her father”).
And it went down from there. Although nobody, absolutely nobody that answered my messages was put off by my so-called lewd language. Case closed on that. What was also case closed though was my faulty understanding of the cyberspace “meat market.” I will not run down every click but just give some observation examples.
Many of the semi- and unclothed women whose profiles spoke of sexual adventure on personal contact wanted, desperately wanted in fact, not be a “one-night stand” and therefore put off any notion of sex with them to the Greek calends. That happened several times. Needless to say, other than the question of false advertising on their part here that I may speak to my lawyer about, I stopped communication very quickly. No sale, no way. Moreover, many women were carrying “baggage” of various sorts. Kids, broken marriages, bad-ass ex-boyfriends, you name it. That would not have put off old Phil but one or two messages was enough to indicate that their “get laid tonight” come-on was nothing more than getting some psychic comfort for their old wounds, and nothing more until the Greek calends. Again, no sale, no way.
So you can begin to see why I suggested the title “sexless” sex sites to Markin. And why he grabbed onto the idea right away (aside from my admittedly incessant badgering him after pure-as-gold Johnny Silver got his say). A couple of “conversations” warrant special attention though. One woman, an otherwise very interesting arty-type woman whom I actually met in person if you can believe that, did not believe that her “aging” thirty-something life would be complete unless she had a lip-enhancement operation so she could have those pouty Angela Jolie lips. Jesus, what the hell has the world come to. I admit I was tempted, sorely tempted, to help her out although her lips looked perfectly kissable to me. But again the notion of sex before I was placed in an assisted- living facility was out of the question. Ya, you have got it by now. No sale, no way.
Another woman, and here she can serve as an example of other similar instances that happened, was fired-up to chat (as I was with her as well) and we e-mailed a blizzard of messages back and forth. She, more than many others, was someone I wanted to meet in person and I brought the subject up in one e-mail after we had been “cyber-chatting” for a few weeks. Kaput. She went off-site the day after that and left no forwarding address, no e-mail address, as they said in the old days. Maybe I have to change my line. Or better, and here I could get back at Markin as well for his silly “comeuppance” remark in the headline. Maybe, Mille Callahan is out there is cyberspace somewhere. Honey, I still remember that swear word that “turned” you on. Help.
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Peter Paul Markin comment:
Hey, everybody knows, or should be presumed to know to use some legal parlance which may become necessary before this latest “fire storm” is over, that this site is an exemplar of politics, mainly communist propaganda politics. No way is it some way station for AARP-worthy sex-starved refugees and fidgety lonely-hearts from back in my corner boy youth days. Although apparently that fate, short of some drastic legal action on my part, is what looms before me after I, unwittingly I think, let an old corner boy friend from the North Adamsville Salducci’s Pizza Parlor high school hang-out night, Johnny Silver, have some space here to tell what turned out to be a pretty salacious story about how he “hooked-up” with some young, very young, barely legal woman that he met through a sex-oriented Internet site.
My permissive attitude on this not strictly politically-driven subject was to let Johnny hold forth on the basis that intergenerational sex is still, more or less, socially taboo in this society and that under a future communist society we will take a much more liberal attitude on the subject as well as on many other now sexually-repressed notions. Johnny’s story, which I admit had even my temperature going up a bit after reading it, however set off this current fire storm.
Not about the struggle against imperialism in Iraq, Afghanistan, and Libya. Not the struggle to make some headway against the bosses and their relentless drive for profits at the workers expense here in America, and internationally. Not even commentary on the death penalty, gay marriage, the perfidy of Barack Obama, or the lunacy of the tea-partiers. No, I have been deluged with e-mails by every AARP-type that I know who want to harass me in order to tell their misbegotten tales of missed sexual opportunities, the sexual discrimination against oldsters by younger, well, younger women okay, or whatever else is on their minds except those much more important subjects. Please, please stop. Tell it to Oprah, or whoever is working that street these days.
The worst of the lot was my old corner boy (part-time corner boy at Salducci’s but full-time at the Surf and Sea Club in summer and whatever and wherever in winter) “Foul-Mouth” Phil Larkin. Now Phil, who I actually met in junior high school (a.k.a. middle school) through my chieftain in those days, Frankie Riley, really did deserve that nickname. Even Frankie and I walked away from Phil when he got going with every swear known to the English language (and some in Gaelic too-at least that is what he said his grandfather taught him). So you can imagine what the girls felt when he went full-bore. Strangely Phil, unlike now as his story below will explain, never lacked for girlfriends, and not just wrong side of the tracks, low-life, slutty girls either but many girls who you could see, see and stare at, every Sunday at 8:00 AM Mass over at Sacred Heart Catholic Church. So, maybe, he touched off something basic in them with his language. Personally, while I could swear like a trooper when necessary, I didn’t around girls or in public that much.
In any case, as I have already telegraphed above Phil, still using that ill-bred language has threatened murder, mayhem, and, more importantly, legal action (something about gross denial of freedom of expression) if I don’t post his sad-ass story. Needless to say that approach by itself does not get one anywhere with me. However in line with my idea in posting Johnny Silver’s salacious little sex tale noted above I have agreed to post Phil’s saga if only to use it as an example of sexual repression under capitalism and why we need, desperately need, that socialist revolution that is the hallmark of the real purpose of this space. Needless to say I take no personal, political, social, linguistic, or, most importantly, legal responsibility for this story. I have edited it lightly for language and content but this is strictly “Foul-Mouth” Phil Larkin’s story. If you want to take legal action against him feel free to do so. Needless to say as well that Phil is in no way (thankfully) political, much less a communist, although he desperately could use a shot, a big shot, of what our communist future promises.
Phillip Larkin comment:
First of all before I get into my f--king hard luck story about my sexless life on the sex sites let me clear the air about something that that twerp Peter Paul Markin said about my “foul-mouth.” You know in junior high school (now known as middle school) young,f--king hormone-juggling guys (and girls I found out later) don’t always know how to deal with that hard fact of growing up and my way was to swear a little. Big deal, right? Big deal then, or now. But you also know, and even f- -king Markin knows this, at that age you get a certain “rep” and it carries around with you like a lead balloon all through school, especially with guys that you hang around with. Like Markin was always from day one that I met him “The Scribe” (always capitalized, by the way) anointed by Frankie Riley and it stuck even though he hated to be called that. [Markin: Okay Phil we get the point. Let’s move on.] And so my little swearing episodes, not much really, got me tagged as, well, foul-mouthed [Markin: Phil must have a slight case of amnesia on this “little” thing. He was the world, well, at least the North Adamsville Junior High, champion swearer. He is the only kid, and Frankie Riley will back me up on this, who was able to make a sentence using only swear words. Some feat. Phil is, apparently, far too “humble” now to take a bow for that now.]
The thing about swearing though is that it never got me in much trouble with the girls. The Scribe [Markin: Watch it, Phil] was always (and Frankie too) very prim and proper in his language around girls although it never got him anywhere. And The Scribe (oops, Markin) could swear worst than me when he got his Irish up. But that is neither here nor there. Unless he wants to make something of it now. What it all ties in with though is that I have always used a certain amount of rough language around girls and they have either found it “cute” or, and here you have to take my word for it, kind of got “turned on” by it. [Markin: Sure thing, Phil]. I’ll give an example and Markin will be surprised. Millie Callahan the best, or one of the best, looking sixteen-year old girls in old North Adamsville was very prim and proper as well as hot-looking. She went to 8:00 AM Sunday Mass at Sacred Heart every week. And every week I would meet her after Mass and walk her to old Adamsville Beach. Sweating like a trooper. Maybe once in a while she would blush but mostly she got “turned on.” Turned on especially by one word that I used in many contexts on our walks. One Sunday, I swear, she got so aroused that, well let’s say we “did it” and you can figure out what the “did it” part was, right down on the beach near the old North Adamsville Yacht Club (there was a little secluded area that everybody knew about). And we were together through the rest of high school, “doing it” just fine. [Markin: Yes, Phil, Millie was a fox, for sure. I used sit a couple of rows in back of her at Mass to look at her ass. By the way everybody knew you two were “doing it.” And I was jealous, no question. It was only because she went to St. Anne’s High and not North Adamsville High that it was not more widely known and commented on. Nice work, Phil.]
The whole point of bringing this swearing thing up this many years later though is that, more often that not, the way I got entangled [Markin: Nice word, Phil] with women later on was that same basic approach. Sure I went through three marriages, and a several girlfriends, so maybe my “sticking” power wasn’t so great but it got short haul, short ashes hauled results. Anyway after the last one left a couple of years ago I started to notice that because of that lost and my changed work situation (working out of the house more with the luxury of the Internet age computer niceness) I wasn’t running into women to swear to, any maybe turn on.
Now I have read Johnny Silver’s wicked little story about his “trials and tribulations” with the young quail and how he was wasting away without it. [Markin: Young women, not quail Phil. Did you hear about the women’s liberation movement in your travels?] And how he finally “got lucky” with some teeny-bopper. Well we all knew Johnny was that way. In fact I had to f--king warn him off of my younger sister, Kate, one time. [Markin: Oh ya, I remember that time. I think you had a baseball bat in hand at the time, right?] Me, I like women a little older, more my own fifty-ish age and so I figured since nothing was happening elsewhere I would, like Johnny did, give one of the Internet sex sites a try. [Markin: Is every lonely-heart guy over the age of about thirty “running” to the sex sites for love and whatever? Am I missing some important sociological trend here? Also what is it with you old corner boy guys. Nobody expects you to tell the whole true to strangers, especially on the Internet, although it helps, but this age thing is weird. We are all sixty-something. That fifty-something was a while back but I never was a snitch, and I won’t be one now.]
I don’t know if you know how these sex sites work. Let’s just call the one I went on Get Laid Fast and you will get the flavor of the thing. [Markin: Phil, you don’t have to tell anybody over the age of about ten about Internet sex sites. All you have to do is Google the word sex on any search engine in the world and you will get more sex sites than you can possibly imagine, including, I assume, your Get Laid Fast site.] Naturally the lure (for an old-time heterosexual man) is sexy, semi-and unclothed women, young and middle- aged (nobody, nobody in their right minds that is, confesses to being, well, mature, hell, I will just say it straight here, old), just waiting to get their hands on you (where I will leave to the reader’s imagination but you get the point) and show you paradise, yes paradise. Just my cup of f-- king tea. Where do I sign up, and how quickly.
That signing up was the easy part. Well, almost easy. See, the hook is that everybody can sign up and put whatever they want on their very own personal profile page. The problem is that unless you pay up, pay up a fee, nobody in the known cyberspace world is going to know about your sex hunger, especially those alluring semi and unclothed young and middle-aged women. Hey, I am a man of the f -- king world so I know that I have to pony up, and gladly to get in on the action. And so I am off to the races for a few ducats.
Well, almost. Almost on two counts. First I have to figure out what my profile message will be and then my “message” to those women’s profiles that strike my fancy. So, naturally I go light on my personal profile. You know how I am looking for the love of my life (already had it). [Markin: I bet six, two, and even it was old time Millie Callahan, hands down. Hell, she might have been the love of my life too if I could have ever gotten beyond staring at her ass during Sunday Mass.] And companionship and all that other crap when everybody knows it a roll in the hay that is driving me, and about three billion (or whatever number of guys are in the world), to sites like this. And, maybe, women too. Or at least that is what I my worldly assumption would have been. The really, the Phil Larkin reality, is that I might have been better off on some mix and match dot com square dating service. Hell, I am willing to bet Markin his six, two and even I would have had more rolls in the hay by now that way than on this “hyper”- sex site.
Here is why. And don’t laugh at a f - - king fifty-something guy for being so silly. [Markin: Phil, I know you, we went to school together, get real-sixty-something, okay.] I went back to my old tried and true strategy with my personal messages to various women who struck my fancy. Nothing like in kid time but still basically- “babe, do you want to f- - k tonight, don’t be a bitch, call me now, here is my cell phone number," and the like. Now the site is loaded with women within about fifty miles of my residence so I naturally click on all those thirty and forty something women who have been around a little, are looking for a little sugar in their bowl, and are bound to go for rough and ready fifty-something guy. No sweat.
Actually my line, as I found out later, was kind of tame and “civilized” compared to some of the younger guys who were swinging their dicks in full view and stuff like that. Hell, it was tame and civilized compared to some of the women’s profile information and photos. I blushed, actually blushed, at some of the stuff they, theoretically, wanted to do, and do right this minute. Notice that word "theoretical" though. For example, first off I got a proposal from a thirty-something woman who wanted me to help her in her new career as a cosmetologist. She had, foolishly, gone to art school when she was younger and when the art-related job that she had didn’t survive the recent economic downturns she saw the light of working the women who are still working hair and nails racket. Still kind of artistic, right?
And I was willing to give the idea some consideration; although unlike Johnny Silver I did not play the older, wiser “sugar-daddy” angle. Or give any thought to such a notion with older women. If I was looking for Johnny’s teeny-boppers sure. But with older women, no way. Here is the hitch though. Said future hairdresser in return for my largesse was only willing to be a companion, a platonic, no sex companion for an “old geezer” (my term, hers was a man “old enough to be her father”).
And it went down from there. Although nobody, absolutely nobody that answered my messages was put off by my so-called lewd language. Case closed on that. What was also case closed though was my faulty understanding of the cyberspace “meat market.” I will not run down every click but just give some observation examples.
Many of the semi- and unclothed women whose profiles spoke of sexual adventure on personal contact wanted, desperately wanted in fact, not be a “one-night stand” and therefore put off any notion of sex with them to the Greek calends. That happened several times. Needless to say, other than the question of false advertising on their part here that I may speak to my lawyer about, I stopped communication very quickly. No sale, no way. Moreover, many women were carrying “baggage” of various sorts. Kids, broken marriages, bad-ass ex-boyfriends, you name it. That would not have put off old Phil but one or two messages was enough to indicate that their “get laid tonight” come-on was nothing more than getting some psychic comfort for their old wounds, and nothing more until the Greek calends. Again, no sale, no way.
So you can begin to see why I suggested the title “sexless” sex sites to Markin. And why he grabbed onto the idea right away (aside from my admittedly incessant badgering him after pure-as-gold Johnny Silver got his say). A couple of “conversations” warrant special attention though. One woman, an otherwise very interesting arty-type woman whom I actually met in person if you can believe that, did not believe that her “aging” thirty-something life would be complete unless she had a lip-enhancement operation so she could have those pouty Angela Jolie lips. Jesus, what the hell has the world come to. I admit I was tempted, sorely tempted, to help her out although her lips looked perfectly kissable to me. But again the notion of sex before I was placed in an assisted- living facility was out of the question. Ya, you have got it by now. No sale, no way.
Another woman, and here she can serve as an example of other similar instances that happened, was fired-up to chat (as I was with her as well) and we e-mailed a blizzard of messages back and forth. She, more than many others, was someone I wanted to meet in person and I brought the subject up in one e-mail after we had been “cyber-chatting” for a few weeks. Kaput. She went off-site the day after that and left no forwarding address, no e-mail address, as they said in the old days. Maybe I have to change my line. Or better, and here I could get back at Markin as well for his silly “comeuppance” remark in the headline. Maybe, Mille Callahan is out there is cyberspace somewhere. Honey, I still remember that swear word that “turned” you on. Help.
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