Thursday, July 23, 2009


Today I thought for sure that there was a movie called NUDE IN DRACULA’S CASTLE but everyone is telling me that there isn’t and they are all laughing at me. Again.

Today I remembered that besides ‘By Thor’s Hammer’ my favorite expression is ‘Damn their oily hides.’ I would really like to know the origin of that expression some day. Who would I ask? I was thinking someone nautical.


J Fred Coots wrote SANTA CLAUS IS COMING TO TOWN in ten minutes. But no one knows how long it took him to write YOU GO TO MY HEAD. Everyone knows, though, that he decided not be a banker and lived a really nice long life but was still a young man and a banker when he wrote DOIN’ THE RACOON. I think I would write a song like DOIN’ THE RACOON while nobody was watching while I was working at the bank and maybe on a tiny memo pad in really small, squiggly handwriting.

Tuesday, July 21, 2009


Everyone applauds the bravado of the average European, but few know of the delicacy of his temperament when it comes to the irritating influence of the insect. Why? Because throughout most of Europe, there are so few. When there are so few, one tends to become sensitive, perhaps even a little oversensitive. Certainly this is not the case elsewhere (see below.) It is the case, however, throughout most of Europe, particularly in a place such as, for example, Fasano.

Were you to introduce say, an earwig, wasp or caterpillar onto the plate of a Fasonian next to a dainty delicacy of grilled prawn or pâte des foiés gras, they would in all likelihood return quietly though expeditiously to their dwelling, pack up their belongings, and depart to a place where such a thing would never happen again. How would they travel, you might ask? They would travel in one of those delightful European trains. However, were you to up the ante a little bit and place a tarantula instead of a common insect upon a plate of a Fasonian, it wouldn’t matter what else occupied the plate, or whether or not he was of faint temperament. Under such conditions, the Fasonian would expire in haste, at the table; sadly, there would be one place still available on that evening’s departing European train.

In stark contrast to the Fasonians, were one to visit the hearty, rugged environs of Turkey, the Danubian principalities and southern Russia, one would find insects existing in great abundance with a relationship between man and insect is markedly different, for the citizens there are deeply accepting of the invasive insect breed. There, workers salute them; songs are written about them; lovers walk along the quays lulled into fanciful thoughts by their purring; children befriend them; dogs do not eat them. Everyone understands the rôle of the insect in society; this is the manner of society in the abundant insect homes of Turkey, the Danubian principalities and southern Russia.

That doesn’t mean, of course, that the Turks, Danubians and southern Russians don’t hate insects. They do, naturally and understandably. But what choice do they have?

Wages are low. Food is bitter. Conditions are harsh. The weather is simply awful. And there are a lot of insects. They cannot leave and their trains are not delightful.

They could be, and they were in simpler time, but the citizens and the trains have since been ravaged by poverty, by time, by earwigs, by caterpillars, by wasps and sometimes, by tarantulas.

Poor Turkey. Poor Danubian Principalities. Poor Southern Russia. Poor tarantulas.

YOU GO TO MY HEAD (J. Fred Coots)

You go to my head with a smile that makes my temperature rise
Like a summer with a thousand Julys
You intoxicate my soul with your eyes
Though I'm certain that this heart of mine
Hasn't a ghost of a chance in this crazy romance
You go to my head

I hear your plea but I am not thinking about you. Don’t get all thrilled on me.

Just because you get drunk feeling thinking about me is no reason for me to be happy. I don’t care if you think that love is like

champagne in your head or a mint julep in your heart or burgundy or what the fuck in your brain, I say to yourself I think you should just stop and get a hold of yourself and

maybe even tie yourself up in a chair before your head explodes like a thousand julys. What you think might happen it will never

happen. You say but what if it does what if we have a chance even a ghost and I say to you

Do you remember when I held you close my lips pressed to yours and you ripped your own clothes off until you suddenly stopped pussies and penises everywhere and everything still you stopped because

you felt a ghost you said Do you feel that and I said Yes I do

Well the only thing I didn’t tell you then is that I saw it and felt it That Ghost and decided to ignore it anyway it was a big mistake to ignore and yet how we loved each other and how much we loved each and every one but we saw a ghost and we knew what the chances were then of anything, then, now, the thrill of the thought climbs up my body from my toes until it reaches my heart and then it can’t decide what to do next it and it just stays right there it looks up and it looks down but it just stays there–it’s crazy making, for sure.


If you wake up slowly, the world moves very quickly, and you are predisposed to think that everything, moving so fast, everything must have muscles. Well, everything does. The world is a muscular place filled with grunting and heave-hoing and sweat streaming down its, yes, muscles. Your muscles, I am talking to you, Chevy Camaro. And you, Superman–no, not Superman proper, but Superman word balloon. And I LOVE YOU, the one you hear outside the coffee shops? Just filled with muscles that fade woefully in the mist like tapered erasures on a foggy New England night. Where else? Mighty muscled sneaker, wild and strong billboard, Bazooka chewing gum tough, powerful Johnny Horton’s Greatest Hits, tough ass Vaudeville piano playing, sinewy skeletons bleached white, fast twitch cotton candy, hard core Theda Bara and ripped pecs of guns of course, yes you, you, my love. Sometimes in fact I think that the only thing in the world that doesn’t have muscles are my muscles, carrying you or me off to bed, old and dead, everything I have, you, and something I should have done ages ago, before the world got so ridiculously strong.

Saturday, July 18, 2009


Honestly, I don't know. But here is why there is a 99 up there:

I recently checked up on the number of downloads for the Crispy Books over yonder (there to the right) and discovered that the books had been downloaded 99 times. Hooray! 99 is a number that I have always loved ever since the days of Barbara Feldon and GET SMART. 101 is a number that I have always loved, too, but for reasons that I could never fully explain. I think it has to do with all the introductory courses that I took in school and loved and then of course abandoned.

100, though–not so much. It seems like of milquetoasty*, but what can you do. Nothing. Well, still, I felt like I could celebrate it a little, and so I wanted to send free poetry of some unpublished ilk to whomever or whoever downloaded the 100th Crispy Book this month.

Someone did, and it was COMMENTS WITHOUT COSMOS and I thought OH HOW WONDERFUL but I don't know who it was. If it was you (I am looking at you right now–no–not YOU–I mean the one next to you) who downloaded COMMENTS recently please contact me right here & send me an address and off it will go. If it wasn't you, send me a note anyway, and tell me your true but completely varnished and censored feelings and reactions to any of the books. And as always, reviews left on the site are meagerly rewarded by tiny little poems, lovingly sent your way.

Love via shoephone,


*here's a word I have always hated. The word's actually OK, it's just the dumb spelling. It's better when you use the full name: Caspar Milquetoast. That has an undeniable rightness to it, and it's harder to hate. Harder, but you know, I still hate it.

Friday, July 17, 2009


Because I like Terry Gross so much, I now know that a grey whale feels kind of like a hard boiled egg.

And that you can kiss a grey whale, if you are careful.

And oh. That Cheetah is still alive, in a retirement home for chimpanzees.

Saturday, July 11, 2009


Today I heard Erik Larson read a selection from his work and he is a terrific writer but I was listening to him when I was in the car and I was wondering how I would remember his name. Still, as you can see, I did.

Today I thought about Eric Loos. He had such a strange name and I remember very little about him other than the fact that he had a terrifically shaped head, very handsome, and a really great crew cut that conformed to his terrifically shaped head, and he was eight years old. I doubt he has a crew cut anymore and I bet by now his hair is grey. I also remember that he yelled GOTCHA when he hit me with the ball during a game of dodgeball in 1964, the day before the Beatles played on the Ed Sullivan Show. * Everything else about Eric Loos are things that I would have to guess, like his name. Loos is, what, Scandanavian, I think? Or German like Adolf Loos the architect dandy or Czech, it could be Czech. Didn’t Anita Loos write GENTLEMEN PREFER BLONDES? And that’s French of course. Also Eric Loos had a living room was one long plate glass window and I think he also had a sister who was very pretty, and seven.

Today I thought about Jack Larson, I am not completely sure, but I think that after he played “Jimmy Olsen”** in SUPERMAN he became really serious about music and did stuff in music and I may be wrong but I think that he was drinking with Virgil Thompson and Frank O’Hara on Fire Island on the night that Frank O’Hara got run over by a beach buggy. I am not sure if Jack Larson is homosexual, but since he was drinking with Virgil Thompson and Frank O’Hara at three in the morning on Fire Island he might be. Or too bad for Jack Larson if he wasn't. Oh. That is a very narrow way of looking at things, isn’t it? I have no reason to think one thing or another. But come on, I mean, really. And even if he is a composer, still, it is really hard to take Jack Larson seriously. All I can think of when I see his face is the word “Jeepers.” Even if his hair is now grey, which I suppose it must be by now unless he is dead, or bald.

* I made this part up, of course.

** I actually have an abiding affection for Jimmy Olsen, and I can thank Jack Larson for that. I bet he is a terrific musician.

Thursday, July 09, 2009


The mailman came and brought me a little box! I love you, mailman, and I always have. Even when I was a little boy, and even though there are a million of you. I can’t wait to see you again! What will you do next? I hope it is what you always do. I especially like it when you have silvery hair and a little limp.

And now I will open that box again. The box you sent me is filled with foam. Filled! With foam! Thank you! Love? There you go, limping away, with a smile. He’s waving! Mailman, how I love you!


Today I had three thoughts about Scott Walker, the 30th century man, and one thought about Benito Mussolini:

I am so glad that Scott Walker came out of seclusion and admitted that he was first introduced to Jacques Brel by a Playboy Bunny on a rooftop in Berlin who loved to drink Pernod. If he hadn’t admitted it, I think it would have remained his secret forever, which would be kind of sad.

I think that Scott Walker is the only man in the world who never changed a thing about himself and then let his art change all around him. I want to be the next man who does that. Doesn’t everybody?

Scott Walker is the best kind of artist to find by mistake. You first say, “What’s this?” and then you say, “What th---?” And then you start saying little prayers filled with thanks and say “I am glad I didn’t run away”, although to be truthful, " I did think about doing it quite a bit.”

The thought I had about Mussolini I will just keep to myself. There are very few uncreepy thoughts about Mussolini. I would rather just listen to Scott Walker right now.

MMMM. That's nice. Not at all like a Mussolini thought.


It’s not like I haven’t seen a 4th of July before.

I’ve seen so many that I could scream. Like yes, one of those on the 4th of July.

And so today, I choose to have another kind of 4th of July.

I am going to cut my hair so that it stands up straight and flat like a golf course putting green across the top width of my skull.

Next: a moustache. Nice big space beneath my septum will have no moustache right there.

And so instead of looking at my moustache when you look there and see nothing you can look down at my yellow tie (located beneath the septum under the neck) which is thin and canary-perfect, but gentle, unlike the common and so called ‘domesticated,’ annoying canaries. 

Yes, I have throttled with vigor and ultimately killed completely a few of those odious beasts in moments of pique and grief as have so many with just cause.

Since you think you know so much and are so good and human try owning one and see what happens I dare you.

I will even buy one for you and then we’ll see what’s what.

And then, well then, here’s what I plan on doing next. 

I mean, I will compose what I plan on doing in a song. 

I will sing it from the mountain tops in my suit and yellow tie.

My apartment is four hours from the mountains.

My brown suit the color of a brown M + M piece of candy.

Imagine my M + Ms on top of the mountain.

OK I think instead I will sing it at the water’s edge on the beach.

It’s only two hours away with all the fucking seagulls there.

Noisy, and filthy, too.

It is called ALL BY MYSELF and it goes like this.

Hold on. You want to know why it is called  ALL BY MYSELF.

It’s called ALL BY MYSELF because that’s what I want to call it.

But for the record, back when I was a baby, Fats Domino, that guy, made an album called STOMPIN’ and all the songs had titles that made a great poem if you didn’t listen to them but just read them one after the other after the other and so on. 

The first song was called ALL BY MYSELF.

I like to mash them all together in one big lump. STOMPIN’: ALL BY MYSELF.

Right now, I am ALL BY MYSELF. I am sitting in a dumb chair.

I do not honestly believe that Fats Domino was ever that (all by himself, even though he was a man of generous preportions but undeniable charm and a silky, 20 year tawny voice to match.)

I am, though. For all eternity. 

All by myself.

Here I go.


Don’t blame it on me
Are you going my way?
Be my guest
Along the Navajo Trail
Every night
She’s my baby
My teenage love (that)
I Stomp Like A Domino *
Why? **
Because I can’t give you
anything. It makes me angry, ***
I can’t give you anything
But love

I have never sung anything truer in my life.

As people love to say, that means nothing.

I don’t care very much.

Watch me go to the barber.

Watch me go to the pet store.

And off to the mountains I go.

With a song in my heart.

I am going and I am going to do it. 

I’m not kidding.


I went.

* go, fats, go!

** I added this, I had to.

*** I added this, I wanted to.

Friday, July 03, 2009


I keep watching the corn stalks grow. They are immense! Every year they amaze me with their sheer gargantuaness. I ride by them on my bicycle, quickly at first, and then I slow down a little, and wonder what it must be like to walk through them very gently, trying not to disturb them or to impede their kernel-growing ardor. I imagine myself lying down in the midst of the stalks and watching the sun rise into the sky, as I am holding hands. But–with whom? And are there corn-related bugs? Doesn’t the sun rise over there, not here? Again, whose hand exactly am I holding? And then I ride just a little bit faster past the corn that soon the secret farmers chop down to the root to stop us from thinking such things. Secret because, I believe that, compared to most farmers, they are invisible. Compared, mind you.


I have one pair of blue jeans with three holes in them.

I have one pair of blue jeans with five holes in them.

Last year I promised you that I would never write anything about my blue jeans again.

And now you are gone. Somewhere, in the mountains. Lost, perhaps. I hope not dead. I worry about you so.

I have two pairs of blue jeans.

One pair has three holes in them.

The other, five.
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