One more of the mad man’s tally.

One that jibes and jives my jib.

Rock hard to starboard.

Frank is aboard the vessel.

His vessel was aboard many.

I could continue but rather share with you the lyrics that make social segregation and BS click-cliques shun.

Words that apply to us all and all of our mighty actions, which are nothing more than chicken strut.

Stop doing it; Don’t do it again.

Listen to the fab humour and word plays in the lyrics of the ‘Blue Light’.

Anyone in Southern California will get the ‘Shakey’s Pizza’ and ‘Winchell’s Doughnuts’ references more so than most but it is still a song to take on:

~

“Your ethos
Your pathos
Your Porthos
Your Aramis
Your Brut Cologne
You're writing home
You are hopeless
Your hopelessness
Is rising around you, rising around you
You like it
It gives you something to do
In the day time
Hey buddy, you need a hobby
You are tired of moving forward
You think of the future
And secretly you piddle your pants
The puddle of piddle
Which used to be little
Is rising around you, rising around you
You like it
It gives you something to do
In the night time

Oh well, you travel to bars
You also go to Winchell's Doughnuts
And hang out with the Highway Patrol
Sometimes you'll go to a pizza place
You go to Shakey's to get that
American kind of pizza
That has the ugly, waxey, fake yellow
Kind of cheese on the top...
Maybe you'll go to Straw Hat Pizza,
To get all those artificial ingredients
That never belonged on a pizza in the first place
(But the white people really like it...)
Oh well, you'll go anyplace, you'll do anything
Oh you'll give me your underpants
I hope these aren't yours, buddy...
They're very nice, though
You go to Santa Monica Boulevard,
You go to the Blue Parrot
No problem, you'll go anyplace
You'll do anything
Just so you can hang out with the others
The others just like you
Afraid of the future
(Death Valley Days straight ahead)
The future is scary
(Yes it sure is)
Well, the puddle is rising
It smells like the ocean
A body of water to isolate England
And also Reseda
The oil in patches
All over Atlantis, Atlantis
You remember Atlantis
Donovan, the guy with the brocade coat
Used to sing to you about Atlantis
You loved it, you were so involved then
That's back in the days when you used to
Smoke a banana
You would scrape the stuff off the middle
You would bake it
You would smoke it
You even thought you was getting ripped from it
No problem
Woop! Atlantis, they could really get down there
The plankton, the krill
The giant underwater pyramid, the squid decor
Excuse me, Todd
The big ol' giant underwater door
The dome, the bubbles, the blue light
Light, light, light, light
Light, light, light, light
Blue light blue light
The seepage, the sewage, the rubbers, the napkins
Your ethos, your Porthos,
Your flag pole, your port hole
Your language
You're frightened
The future
Your lang...
You can't even speak your own fucking language
You can't read it anymore
You can't write it anymore
Your language
The future of your language
Your meat loaf
Don't let your meat loaf
Heh, heh, heh
Your Micro-Nanette
Heh
Your Brut
Cologne.”

~

Light, light, light.

I can hear the high pitched falsetto yum-yum’s of vocal orgasm.

Don’t let the meat loaf.

Find the blue light.

Blue.

Light, light, light …

I wrote a smidge, actually a dollop whollop of vomit, about Frank Zappa last night and the thought occurred to me that most may not know of whom I speak. You need to correct that. My nagging can only be as pleasant as Dr. Laura Schlessinger, on one of her most well received days of nag, bitch, and consult.

Listen to Frank!

Not many people have the dedication to do what I did to grasp Zappa as the holy purveyor of ‘big note’ continuity and consortium that can easily pass as the pathos of my existence. Many who only know the man because of his isolated flagrancy of music, his perversions, his stance against drugs, his politics, his testimony to Congress during Tipper Gore’s PMRC battle, or the relationship with Vaclav Havel.

I put down the MTV, I shunned the radio. I would not even think of other music for five whole years. I did not take recommendations from friends regarding music. I listened to and bought Frank’s music with the consumption of a crack head. I listened and I needed to hear again, and again, and again. Every note. Every twist. Every little inspiring word to guide me through the confusion known as modern day America. He became my Father, my political advisor, my social commentary, my musician, my light bulb of ever burning mental tungsten. His tongue would lick my mind as if it were the innards of the bulb. Light, bright light. Do not feed me after midnight, unless it is Frank Zappa.

You can apply the 'Six Degrees' game to him and end up in quite a feud of whits. From Clapton, all of the Beatles, the Stones, and so many musicians that went through 'Zappa College'; you have connections and then some. Think Adrian Belew and his connections to Laurie Anderson, which connect Zappa to William S. Burroghs and Robert Fripp.

I was listening to a lot of him this weekend, as it has been a gruesome week, and like a good Christian or Catholic reviewing Bible passages, I needed a source of inspiration and get/set straight that would even keel me. I found that in the album ‘Tinsletown Rebellion’ and the song, which appeared thirty years before on “Absolutely Free” (Zappa’s second album in ‘66), ‘Brown Shoes Don’t Make It”.

This is it:

~

“Brown shoes don't make it
Brown shoes don't make it
Quit school, why fake it
Brown shoes don't make it
TV dinner by the pool
Watch your brother grow a beard
Got another year of school
You're okay, he's too weird
Be a plumber
He's a bummer
He's a bummer every summer
Be a loyal plastic robot
For a world that doesn't care
That's right
Smile at every ugly
Shine on your shoes and cut your hair

Be a jerk - go to work
Be a jerk - go to work
Be a jerk - go to work
Be a jerk - go to work
Do your job, and do it right
Life's a ball
TV tonight
Do you love it
Do you hate it
There it is
The way you made it

A world of secret hungers
Perverting the men who make your laws
Every desire is hidden away
In a drawer in a desk by a Naugahyde chair
On a rug where they walk and drool
Past the girls in the office

Hratche-plche, hratche-plche
Hratche-plche...

We see in the back
Of the City Hall mind
The dream of a girl about thirteen
Off with her clothes and into a bed
Where she tickles his fancy
All night long

His wife's attending an orchid show
She squealed for a week to get him to go
But back in the bed his teen-age queen
Is rocking and rolling and acting obscene
Baby baby...
Baby baby...

Gimme them cakes now, uh!
If I do, I'm gonna lose my...

And he loves it, he loves it
It curls up his toes
She wipes his fat neck
And it lights up his nose
But he cannot be fooled
Old City Hall Fred
She's nasty, she's nasty
She digs it in bed
That's right

Do it again, ha
And do it some more
Hey, that does it, by golly
And she's nasty for sure
Nasty nasty nasty
Nasty nasty nasty
Only thirteen, and she knows how to nasty
She's a dirty young mind, corrupted
Corroded
Well she's thirteen today
And I hear she gets loaded
If she were my daughter, I'd...
What would you do, Frankie?
Well, if she were my daughter, I'd...
What would you do, Frankie?
If she were my daughter, I'd...
What would you do, Frankie?
Check this out
Smother my daughter in chocolate syrup
And strap her on again, oh baby
Smother that girl in chocolate syrup
And strap her on again
She's my teen-age baby
She turns me on
I'd like to make her do a nasty
On the White House lawn
Smother my daughter in chocolate syrup
And boogie 'til the cows come home

Time to go home
Madge is on the phone
Gotta meet the Gurneys and a dozen grey attorneys
TV dinner by the pool
I'm so glad I finished school
Life is such a ball
I run the world from City Hall”

~

I am a man of madness, a man that most would find intriguing or simply so opposed to their conventionality that they can not accept even my scent, never mind my existence as found through my words. Most people find me to be an amazing bound between branch and bough or a man who has hung himself from all thirteen rungs of the knot that sway from the limb. There is never a death door beneath me, in order to swing open like a heady blonde at a keg party looking to skirt lift; I am free, absolutely free. I AM a Mother of Invention. I just never had my audition.

Frank held auditions each year. If you missed it, you were out. He payed weekly, with health benefits and royalty accessories (something that was unheard of); this was whether the band played or not. He was a business man who hated the Musicians Union. He hated those damn reps showing up to his shows to see if the guys had their cards. An innovator, a chance biter, a dice roller but only on the narcissistic fact that he was the man, the best man for the job. I understand, full well, his self indulgence.

Keep in mind that Frank was sober; in a time that LSD, grass, booze, and other mental altering libations were considered a cool and hip rite of passage to be a guru of music influence in America. Frank smoked pot a couple times and reflected that he did not understand the consumption of anything that would make you tired, hungry, and cough so damn much. He thought that acid was a government control substance. There are many tales of him doing Fillmore shows back to back with the Dead. He thought beer and liquor was something for the army masses, a way to make men march. I can see that. Leg out. Next leg out. Former leg in. Walk tall and in time. Beer makes men march. Just go to a Super Bowl Party and you will see it on a very ant farm-miniscule scale of societal reproduction. You faced being thrown from the badn if you were not sober for the rehearsals, the shows, and the tour as well.

He gave the world the finger, all while trying to save it. He thought God was a cigar smoking heathen on a purple divan floating above us laughing.

He was a lady’s man. He loved sex.

His only other indulgences were creativity, cigarettes, and coffee.

He viewed coffee as a black water needed for survival.

Cigarettes were his air. He smoked many Winstons a day and loved every inhale.

He loved his shite junk food. Hence, the burnt weenie sandwich I mentioned yesterday.

When presented with bongs at concerts, he told the audience member to get that devious device out of his face.

If anyone wants to know more about Frank, let me know. I am more than glad to help.

I don’t need a watchtower or a tie and bike. I will go door to door and spread the word, in my Zappa shirt that I am wearing now. With my i-Pod blaring the insanity of sanity.

I am about to go into my living room where I have a four foot by two foot poster framed of Frank taking a shit on the wall. It is him on the john. It is the infamous ‘Phi-Zappa-Crappa’ picture.

I love the man. I wish he were still alive.

My lady goes to see her music hero, ‘Weird’ Al Yankovik, in L.A. for a album signing in a couple of weeks. Seh is a leader of his fan clubs and even did signature solicitation for his star on the walk of fame that did not happen.

She dances, trances, follies, and sways through the swagger of anticipation.

I wish I could have that. Zappa is dead. Bukowski is dead. Dostoevsky is most certainly dead.

THere are few like me. The founding father's of Steely Dan, Walter Becker and Donald Fagan, sited obscure Zappa Alumi/Mother's of Invetnion as there only words of acceptance speach while being inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. That shows you something.

Jimmy Carl Black - the indian of the group.

All I have is the signings that happen here everyday, comments.

Like Zappa said,

“Bamboozled by love, Oh, Lord, the shit done hit the fan”

Start up the fan. I’m in love. I ate some bran for the fan.

Does that count?

Probably not …

If the combustion extinguisher was next to the fire would it be too hot to pick it up and ejaculate fire free foam on the flame?

I changed up my entire reality. A lot of that has to do with Johnnie. He has graduated from the program. We shared the cacti delicacy of prickle fruit on the last day - yes, I found out the name of it.

I know that Johnnie is good to see the program behind him. He was an amazing fellow. Twenty-two with three kiddos, the oldest being seven. He was religious. He listened to the radio station known as the ‘Fish’. I loved his rides home. I loved his banter back and forth with me and his morning smiles that would brighten my days from sweep to rake, from rake to sweep. We hoed a good field together. We picked avocadoes together like no one’s business. I can still see his little frame and big teeth smiling at me as he helped work the day through all of it’s Sun basked glory. The punishemnt.

He understood it all. It was not a country club. You worked hard and got the day done. You smile. You make fun of yourself. You rock on. You charge it. When you paint buildings and spend afternoons watching paint dry, thinking you should be doing something, you become familiar with the phrase ‘get’er done’.

Johnnie gave me many rides home. He made me feel comfortable from the get-go. He offered me water up when we were in Modjeska wacking down three foot stacks of hay on my first day. He knew I was foreign to what was going down. He had compassion. He knew what it was to help a fellow man. He had a bigger heart and a better sense of ‘pay it forward’ than any man I have ever known. He was, is, a real, REAL, Christian.

He was in, for fighting with his brother during a drunken battle in front of a strip club called 'Capt'n Creams'. That was over a year ago. He was much different than that once I met him. He was my guardian angel. I tried my best to make him more comfortable on the days we shared on the chain gang.

He taught me how to rake. He told me about the bosses. He told me how to get from A to B. He knew who did what. He knew the routines, the program. If not for him, I would have been lost, afraid, and walking around decapitated like a chicken in denial. I had hoped to grasp the days better than I would have, Johnnie made it make sense better than anything. A boy teaching a man; or maybe it was reversed. Maybe he made me more of a man than I could have been without his encounter.

He bought me lunch on the day of the infamous bacon wrapped hotdog.

He shook my hand upon departure of driving me home - every time we grasped fist.

He would wait for me if I needed to run into the store and run out to catch his departing train of compassion.

The first day he, not only offered me up some water, but tried twice to give me one of his sandwiches.

I learned my cool cues of chain gang get-a-along from Johnnie. He exposed me to a side of myself that I had felt ashamed of for awhile because it had been abused and taken advantage of. The kind side of mine.

I hope he is reading this as I gave him the address.

If not, I hope he calls me.

At the very least, I hope he stays out of trouble and raises up his angels, his kiddos, his cause and purpose.

My friend, I will still eat avocados (jabo-yaddos) for, and with, you.

I will eat a wavos for you. I will look differently at the cacti fruit since your offerings.

James, I am sure, says hello.

Willie is gone.

 I promised him, on the last day, that I would help anyone that I could.

I will; when I do, I will share the tale of 'Johnnie'.

Be good and safe. Smile.

Godspeed …

I decided to throw my ear canals into the train wreck of spectacular spectator known as “Burnt Weenie Sandwich”, an album by Frank Zappa. The song list alone makes one jiggle and giggle with fiery loins, never mind the google and juggle/joggle that ensues after a little ear canal boogie-woogie.

Songs are as follows:

WPLJ (White Poor Lemon Juice)

Igor’s Boogie, Phase One

Overture to a Holiday in Berlin

Theme From Burnt Weenie Sandwich

Igor’s Boogie, Phase Two

Holiday in Berlin, Full Blown

Aybe Sea

The Little House I used to Live In

Valerie

I always laugh at the song "Holiday in Berlin", as I think of 'White Christmas' and 'Holiday Inn' which are both Irving Berlin sharp note wonders. How clever the play on words can be within the walls of my mind.

This is straight vein heroin junkie dope fiend Valhalla vigor direct from the mind of the man that I simply call Frank, as if he were a friend - a mind miner that has excavated my brain. He is my Pancho Villa, my George Washington, my Abbey Hoffman, my Che, my Ho Chi Minh, my Lenin, my Gingrich. A revolutionary, that broke every mold he faced and was left cake-less. Hence the culinary delicacy known as the burnt weenie sandwich. Cooked on a coat hanger wire above the blue gas flame of in home caveman awe. Hence his colon cancer, or rectal as it may have been, but I will say, “What is colon cancer for two-hundred Alex.”

The pedestrian beat of insane-o progressive jazz guidance ushered into the hallowed halls with a jaw locking high hat sizzle that is really bereft in modern music, and even modern jazz. Like Frank said, “Jazz is not dead, it just smells funny.” I wish the man was here today. I would be camped out at his friggin’ door step, hoping his wife Gayle would invite me in so Frank could laugh at me. At the very least maybe one of the four children would come to visit and ask why there was a fat vagrant on the stoop. I am delusional and I do it well.

“Tonight on the runway, is the super ultra mega fabulous fat ass smelly bearded derelict who does not shut up. Watch him twirl and whirl. Watch him wiggle and jiggle. Watch that saucy saunter! He is dressed in Vagrant and his shoes are from BreadBag. Wow! He is great!”

As the album progresses into my favourite, “The Little House I used to Live In”, I think of what the music was used for shortly after the release of the album. For about three and a half years, Frank had contracted his vocal delectabilities out to the dynamic duo of Mark Volman and Howard Kaylan, known as the Phlorescent Leach and Eddy, and also known as the founding Father’s and musical meisters of the then disbanded Turtles. The song, that now strikes too many chords in my gourd, is that which was put to very blue and perverse lyric exchanges and ad-lib rants of the duo in the Mud Shark series of songs found on “Fillmore East” the set which was recorded during the closing days of Bill Graham’s shiek night spot of hipsters and tripsters. The Mud Shark was a filthy account of the Led Zeppelin/Vanilla Fudge super eight video footage of the infamous groupie and the Mud Shark at the Edgewater Inn in Seattle. If you are unfamiliar of the rock legend, urban legend, tale then I will refer you to the Frank album or just Google it and you will see. Most think it to be just John Bonham but it was mostly held at the hand of the Vanilla Fudge. When Frank would play at the Garrick Theatre in NYC back in the 60’s the crowd would yell, “Youse guys stink! Bring out the ‘Fudge’!” It was his payback in a way, or so I assume.

It mostly allowed for him to set some hip, groovy, and perverse words to an amazing orchestral piece of jazz and rock humping that would have amazed the intelligent listener but helped pay the musicians week to week with it’s raunchy dialogue - that is what sells albums. Just ask any Pop Star.

I think of the shark and listen closely to the lyric-less version of the anthem on this mostly non-vocal album. All of it is mind shattering and loin bending, twisting, instrumental that is book ended by two very cheesy, but delicious, vocal tracks of doo-wop yum yum. The flanged out guitar and the harpsichord riffs are beyond inviting. I love it!

Something is to be said for a tambourine shake and tom-tom thrust so hard that Vanessa Chase would run from it. I love Vanessa Chase too!

Should I write this much about Frank and still hold some stature as a ‘good writer’?

YES!

The World should know more about the man. I know a huge amount about his yeah-yeah get down of jazz fusioned rock of intense orchestral jam out.

I used to live in a little house with my ex-wife, with my newborn daughter; before my nervous breakdown. I took joy in shoveling the driveway and the smell of the honeysuckle and jasmine around the front porch in Summer time. It had a retro fifties kitchen and a beautifully wild flower lined driveway. I felt like I was King. Years later, I think of that house when I want serenity and I hear Frank's song.

During an outburst of a rowdy listener after ‘The Little House I Used to Live In” live performance/recording, the security guards request that the Brit sits back down and the young Englishman continues to scream. Frank responds to the outrage by saying, “Everybody in this room is wearing a uniform and don’t kid yourself.”

That is it.

We are ALL wearing uniforms.

What uniform do you don under the dawn of the harpsichord tranquility?

Is it neat and proper and prim?

Is it a brown shirt?

Do you wear a white or blue collar?

Is it so disheveled that no one would recognize it as a required code of attire?

What do you have for me? How are you dressed?

Frank knows.

He had it down, and has it down, better than most that pretend to, as we wield the over bearing paw of control over us all.

Flow on stream waters, I am only a mere Salmon and I run against your grain, your flow …

A little Friday-forget-about, until I post my Saturday-get-down …

In about two weeks, I will return to my political schedule of Monday, Wednesday, and Friday posts of pontification. My ‘Bonus’ posts will still be up and running as extra features of prose and social commentary, but they will not be every night as they appear to be now.

I bet some people are head scratch scrubbing and thinking to themselves, “Why the Hell is this rubbish under the category of ‘Politics’?”

Well, this is to assure all that crave or seek out the poly-sci, that it WILL return.

Some of you are liking it just fine this way. For all of you in this group - just read the ‘bonus’ scribes.

I have to get on and get down my Saturday night post of most extraordinary ‘bonus’ nature.

The counter is telling me that people are reading.

Or maybe it is just the black bird, continuously pecking out the hits and refreshes.

Damn that bird. This is supposed to be about Donkeys and Elephants.

And me, the animal, fits in somehow, someway …