… As far as I know, Albert Finney was a kindly man: he sent an exquisite flower arrangement and warm words to my parent’s home in 1993 when my dad, Bob, died. Although he only knew the actor through the service he’d provided him – chauffeur driven cars – Bob and Finney had apparently struck up a warm, working relationship. Dad never mentioned this to us though, so when the illustrious Finney’s flowers arrived two days before the funeral, it came as a pleasant shock during a time of deep grief…
*/lights up… Okay, Clicky, I see your ‘Ocean’ connection there… /drags... But the Billy Ocean Song was from ‘Jewel of the Nile’, not romancing El Corazón… /streams smoke… And Albert Finney appeared in neither flick, Click… *
*Oceans are full of ‘finney’ creatures… /rolls eyes… Trust a fuckin’ dolphin to spot that… /drags…*
*I can’t believe I sat through over two hours of that movie for less than a minute of Albert Finney… /blows smoke rings… playing Mrs Michael Douglas’ father… /flicks ash…*
“Skin represents our barrier against the environment and it consists in three layers.”
Against. Or is it the wording of “Barrier + Against” that makes that sound so…conflicting. Conflicted? Combative? I mean, who knew there was such a thing as “The American Skin Association”? I sure as shit didn’t. Or am I too hung up on associations and my associational abilities are not functioning properly? I’m not known for being proper nor doing proper properly.
Since when did distinction or distinctions become cause for further disassociation. Loss of humanity? Subtraction? Detraction? “First, do no harm” kinda loses all of its meaning, eh? Loses all of its bite? Loses all of its sting? Someone worked up a vaccine or body armor against bites and/or stings? Harm to heal? I dunno. How absurd is it to teach someone to count with their toes?
Someone taking the time, to teach someone, how to count…with…their…toes.
I can easily relate because my feet are pretty much just dead clubs at the end of numb legs, and my toes barely even function. So thinking of someone taking the time, to do something so remedial yet gentle, as to point out how to sequentially count, with my toes, my trying to move certain toes, in certain sequences…how fucking lowly and unimportant and elementary and condescending is that?
The fact that someone took the time to do it at all fucking floored me personally. Nevermind the fact that they had already spent God only knows how long developing this method of detecting and/or facilitating motion within the toes, for someone who has no movement or control of their toes.
So, let’s turn the lofty loft, upside down, and see what shakes out. Is there anything up there of value that make it worth the effort?
Only you lofty fucks that lives there can answer this.
^Tycho – A Walk^
To relate further, I watched a documentary on the rock band Megadeth a few weeks ago. The guitar player/singer/founder of this band, Dave Mustaine, broke his hand, and was told by the doctors that he would never play guitar again. Mustaine talked about his rehabilitation, the things that he tried, and the lengths he went through, to regain his ability to play guitar.
One of the things that he mentioned, was picking up needles one by one using a pair of tweezers, then pushing these pins into a board. I immediately cringed at this idea, because my hands and arms shake something fierce when I have to do finite tasks like that or similar. But the thought of him spending hours picking up these needles using only a pair of tweezers, then pushing the pins into a board?
Yeah, inspiring stuff…
^Son Lux – Easy^
Are you shocked when something unexpected happens? Yeah…me too. And in thinking about the nonsense from the previous whatever turned Missive, in not that I necessarily don’t know. What I don’t know, is how to explain what I am seeing. I don’t know who I am tailoring this for, but I can certainly think of some reasons as to why something may be needed.
I’m flying blind. Yeah, there are lights of a more relatable type here and there that keep me going. But it’s difficult to explain how I can see just fine without the lights that others choose to use to light their paths. I can see just fine thanks. OK, so, I wear glasses. But the shit I see in my mind, spirit, being or whatever…
is pretty clear.
^DVBBS & VINAI – Raveology (Official Video)^
I was digging through some of my playlists on YouTube looking for a certain song, but I could not find it.
I guess it's been deleted.
As I cruised through my playlists, and noticed that there are a fuckton of videos that have been deleted/removed completely. Many more have copyright claims and cannot be played. It’s rare that I dig for a particular song, but sometimes I do. Letting YouTube pick the songs for me via random playlists allows me to stumble across a bunch of shit that I would not have every heard otherwise.
But what is odd, is that I stumbled across the band “Lightning Seeds” and their song “Pure” from quite a ways back. Odd that I recently stumbled across this song again, and was quite convinced that I had completely forgotten about the band Lightning Seeds.
Q: I wonder if I did that on the previous time that I stumbled across this song?
A: Prolly. And prolly also self-conditioning of the worst type.
I’m such a bad person.
^DARE [Soulwax Remix] — Gorillaz^
Anyway, what I was thinking about, was how far we need to stretch a line to get it to start bending.
Q: Isn’t stretching bending?
But my intent here is to bend without stretching. As a matter of fact, what I am seeing in my head, is a model for a method of bending a straight line with no discernible motion at all, save for the bending of this line. But that’s what models do ain’t it? Do something without really doing anything?
Welp, I’m thinking about the time(s) and pressure(s) involved in bending a straight line, irrespective of what this line is made of, without generating heat, nor friction, nor any discernible nor measurable phenomena of any kind, save for the bending of this line. I guess what I am seeing in my head, is the basis of how vacuums are formed. Like…the base of a vacuum, yet no vacuum will exist. The temporary nature of this vacuum will be so non-existent, that it will in fact, never exist. Not locally anyway. So yeah…
this is gonna be a different kind of crunch.
^400 Lux – Lorde (Lyric Video)^
I’ve got, and have had, loads and loads of inspirations in my life. Lots of teachers that have taught me much. That makes the quest or a quest for originality kind of a lost cause. Nothing wrong with lost causes tho. I mean fuck…the shit is lost. What better way to find originality, eh?
Just trying to think positive.
I’m not positive that I am thinking in a positive manner thanks to those negativistic asshats that keep telling me I’m being positive, or not being positive enough. They don’t seem too sure. I’m not too sure about that, but I’m sure that I’m positive and/or I’m trying to be positive.
^Napoleon Dynamite Song^
*Nearly done, Clicky… /rubs eyes… *
Good news, Dear Reader. It turns out this is the penultimate installment of this missive from my good friend Cade, The Okie Devil from Text Us. Stand by for numbero ocho… Have a Song 😉
When I saw your Calendar cover today about George Michael, “the reluctant pop star,” my first reaction was he should thank the good Lord every morning when he wakes up to have all that he has. And that’ll make two of us thanking God every morning for all that we have.
*Calendar? Hmm… I’ve posted about a Calendar recently, Clicky…*
*Well unlike a standard calendar, it did have 13 months, Clicky… /wink… Come on, back to the frank letter…*
I don’t understand a guy who lives “in hopes of reducing the strain of his celebrity status.” Here’s a kid who “wanted to be a pop star since I was about 7 years old.” And now that he’s a smash performer and songwriter at 27 he wants to quit doing what tons of gifted youngsters all over the world would shoot grandma for — just one crack at what he’s complaining about.
*Oh, in a musical mood are we, Clicky? …/furrows brow… I don’t know about ‘moving’ so much, the letter does seem kinda pointed…*
Come on, George. Loosen up. Swing, man, Dust off those gossamer wings and fly yourself to the moon of your choice and be grateful to carry the baggage we’ve all had to carry since those lean nights of sleeping on buses and helping the driver unload the instruments.
*1990… /tilts head… Maybe Frank’s words did hit home, then…*
And no more of that talk about “the tragedy of fame.” The tragedy of fame is when no one shows up and you’re singing to the cleaning lady in some empty joint that hasn’t seen a paying customer since Saint Swithin’s day. And you’re nowhere near that; you’re top dog on the top rung of a tall ladder called Stardom, which in Latin means thanks-to-the-fans who were there when it was lonely.
*/smiles… The lad from Hobo Ken did have a point…*
Talent must not be wasted. Those who have it — and you obviously do or today’s Calendar cover article would have been about Rudy Vallee — those who have talent must hug it, embrace it, nurture it and share it lest it be taken away from you as fast as it was loaned to you.
*Yeah… Seems George did manage to turn ‘the tragedy of fame’ into somethingelse…*
Trust me. I’ve been there.
*Ahh… Thanks, Clicky! …/shakes head… Wow! You’ve managed to knock the song-worm out of my head…*
This time last year, Dear Reader, I was still embarked on a ‘Pointless Exercise‘. I’ve not touched on the show since but it remains a treasure trove of synchronicity, wrapped up in the innocent garb of an amusing teatime TV quiz show…
*George Michael, who recently died, Clicky… Where are you going with this? …/furrows brow…*
*Okay… Red Frank’s MEROVEEpost… You’re not being rude are you? …/squint…*
*Ah! Yes, apparently MRS REIGN is a fan of ‘Pointless’… Clever, Clicky… /rubs snout… No, don’t pout… Of course I had faith in where you were taking me… /glances away…*
Armstrong later corroborated the source in a Radio Times interview, where he said a Palace insider affirmed that Pointless was indeed on Her Majesty’s TV viewing schedule.
It’s highly unlikely we’ll ever see The Queen make a guest appearance on the show herself. However, it may make other fans of it rather chuffed to know that they can count on the Head of the Commonwealth amongst their ranks.
Armstrong, Dear Reader, the name Armstrong occurs twice in the Pointless sync I am about to relay…
*No… /rolls eyes… Yes, that’s Doctor Who as a ‘father’ but that’s not ‘Who’s father’, Clicky… /shakes head…*
… I mentioned Lord Snowdon’s passing to Hugo in conversation on Friday evening, but only after he sent me a news story about ‘Road Rage‘. It was unsolicited – I hadn’t told him of the silly Pointless answer I’d given the night before…
*/sings… You give me road rage… Love that strong Welsh accent, Clicky… Hey! Snowdon is in Wales… /smiles…*
*/gasps… OMG! Clicky, the brilliant sci fi book I’m currently proofing for Leggy… You are so clever! …/holds out arms… Come here, you impossible creature…/rubs snout…*
Dear Reader, I hope you have enjoyed this pointless sync at the LoL. I’m off to continue my reading, so if you have any questions or observations, please avail yourself of the comment section, below…
*So, Clicky, ‘Pop’ was the decision. Interesting…*
Receiving word that a Prince of Pop had pops his clogs so shortly after I’d popped the question, was a surprise. Thoughtful Man was the bearing of the news… again.
“You’ll never guess who’s died now?”
I hadn’t heard him come downstairs as I was still engrossed over at Hugo’s second site. I removed my headphones. “What another? Who?”
“Prince.” Thoughtful Man looked shell-shocked. He’d once queued 10 hours to get tickets for one of his concerts. In his teens, Thoughtful Man had considered Prince and his music the bee’s knees.
He slumped down onto his chair and tapped his keyboard. “Prince is dead.”
*Clicky, you’re racing ahead – Thoughtful Man didn’t show me that until following day… I told Hugo about it.*
Extract from ‘A Family History for Ruth and Julia (Gawd ‘Elp Us!)’, a.k.a. ‘The Ma Papers’ by Judith Eileen Newton (formerly Shewan, née Packer)
When uncle Jack was alive he phoned me one evening to see if I could get Jeremy into John Lewis. I think he was working at the time in some kind of government office. I did get him an application form, but nothing came of it.
At that time I did not know that he was gay. Looking back on it, considering that the men’s second floor loo at John Lewis was advertised as a meeting point for gays in Gay Weekly (and that 75% of males working there were gay), I wonder if he had an ulterior motive.
After several sackings of staff for being in the loo instead of being on the shop floor, memos were fired out. Staff were banned from using them and a security man was posted on duty there at all times.
I don’t know how open I should be with you all, but what the hell you are all adults.
I went into said loo after hours, of course, courtesy of the Chief of Security. I wanted to see what all the fuss was about and it was an eye opener indeed. The toilet stalls had all been lined with stainless steel to stop chaps from making holes in the walls, but someone had brought in a drill. They all had holes in them. Apparently meetings were quite anonymous and frequent, but I can assure you that Aids had not reared its ugly head yet. When it did there were a lot of frightened chaps working there.
Before I left and moved to Southend in 94, I went to several funerals and numerous visits to hospitals, including the Lighthouse. I did a bit of buddying. Mrs Moon worked there and I became interested.
Unfortunately, because aids was new and terrifying and people were uneducated about it, any mention that you even had contact with an aids sufferer and people would shun you. They thought it was catching. Even at Branch Council meetings people wanted a different set of cups and cutlery for gays than for straights, so we had to get training packages together and send everybody on them to allay the fears.
One particularly funny incident did happen though. One day a cubicle had been locked for some time and a security guard, on his rounds, looked under the door. He saw a pair of feet and a large John Lewis carrier bag, the cardboard type used for men’s suits or expensive frocks.
When, on a second tour of duty of those toilets, the same feet and the same carrier bag were still in the same cubicle, the security guard decided to investigate further. Inside he found two men, one of whom was standing in the bag.
After that nearly all the men’s loos were turned into standy up ones except for one with the permanent security detail.
God, I have digressed haven’t I?
Later on Friday, Blue Frankposted a performance of Prince and Red Frank put up his ‘Purple Reign‘ post…
And I took a naked selfie…
*Enough, with the selfies, Clicky. I’ve have ironing to attend to and a curry to cook. Do us a flavour and please give our Dear Reader a Song*
He squinted at the screen and then looked at me in surprise. “Victoria Wood. Wow, I didn’t feel that one coming.”
I took a deep drag from my cigarette and smiled back sympathetically at him. “You might be losing your touch but actually, if you think about it, it kinda syncs.”
Now Thoughtful Man squinted at me. “How so?”
“The Ballad of Barry and Freda…” I looked at him him expectantly but he continued to stare at me blankly. “It was an answer on the episode of ‘Pointless’ we watched yesterday. Richard waxed lyrical about it.”
As is often the case, he dismissed my synchromystic observation with a roll of his eyes. But then, Thoughtful Man wasn’t aware that Vik had only just paid a visit the LoL…
*Go on then, Clicky. I should explain to Dear Reader: I post knot-ISIS of syncs in the Red universe … as opposed to helping to reveal ‘The Stink’ in the Blue. And it’s knot the smokers to blame. Reality in 2016 is built on junk science. Sum times it makes my blood boil…
Oh well, what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander.* 😉
*A bonding moment, Clicky? Really? /rolls eyes…*
Extract from ‘A Family History for Ruth and Julia (Gawd ‘Elp Us!)’, a.k.a. ‘The Ma Papers’ by Judith Eileen Newton (formerly Shewan, née Packer)
One year we went hop picking together. For those of you who don’t know what hop picking is, here goes.
The breweries needed hops to make the beer and the best hops were grown in Kent. But there was no machinery in those days to pick them, so poor families, who could not afford a holiday, went hop picking. It gave a break from the city, a kind of holiday, and some income for the work that they did.
The workers were nearly all mums and kids as the men all had full time jobs. They only came down to the hop fields for the weekend. I think it must have been before Dickie and Christine were born because I don’t remember Dickie at all. Then again he might have been a baby and I tended to deny his existence when he was a baby.
One afternoon an open backed lorry pulled up and on the back were Flo, her kids and half of their home. We piled on with half of our home and we all went to Paddock Wood in Kent.
I remember it so clearly and yet I must have been very young. When we got there the farmer gave us a hut with a large wooden bed frame and a straw mattress. That was about all. Outside was a lean-to with an open cooking hearth and a variety of large cooking pots and utensils. Flo and the kids were in the next hut and we shared the cooking and washing between us.
I remember that Nanny Packer had to sweep up cow pats before we moved our stuff in because the farmer had been using the huts to house them during the winter.
The next morning we went to the field that had to be picked that day. Every family was given a station to work from. You literally had to fill these large canvas containers with hops and take to the weighing station. The amount you had picked was credited to you in a large ledger. You were then paid according to how much you picked by weight.
At first it was a novelty and we all helped. But after a while it became boring and one by one the kids went off to explore. I remember that was very exciting, exploring the streams and trees, all the animals and things we never saw in the city. Scrumping apples and eating them even though they were cooking apples and I got a belly ache.
It was just like a little city: they had a shop for provisions and a doctor called regularly and so did a priest. The atmosphere was good.
Flo and Nanny cooked over an open fire and we all had to bathed in a tin bath. Because I was the youngest I always got the last of the water but hey ho.
On Friday evening, all the men arrived on the train from London Bridge to spend the weekends with the families. I remember them all going to the pub and sitting outside. The kids got a glass of muscatel and an arrowroot biscuit. If we were lucky, we would get a packet of plain Smith’s crisps with a small blue packet of salt in the bag. We thought we were in heaven.
We stayed for the whole six weeks of school holidays and came back sun tanned and absolutely lousy with fleas. We had to be deloused but it was worth it.
*Sew then, Clicky… what should we do about Vik’s suggestion? *
*Alright, take your time… /looks at watch and sighs… Meanwhile I’ve got a job to find and another story to submit for The Underdog Anthology. I’m popping over to Hugo’s… Whilst we’re waiting, have a Song*
“We do not believe any group of men adequate enough or wise enough to operate without scrutiny or without criticism. We know that the only way to avoid error is to detect it, that the only way to detect it is to be free to inquire. We know that in secrecy error undetected will flourish and subvert”. - J Robert Oppenheimer.