GROWING AND LEARNING (MORE YAMMERING)

I guess I am on a new path after having been shaken out of my tree and/or slumber by the Law School  Scambloggers. 


I am currently listening to an audio book: "All The King's Men" by Robert Penn Warren. A chance  discovery at the local library.


It is Fucking Great! What a writer, and so different from P.G. Wodehouse. And the old movie did not do the novel justice at all. How can a movie ever?


I listen to it all day when painting. There are 18 Cd's, and I got the time. And To Liz, I am taking your advice, and replacing 6 or 7 hours of conservative talk radio (Rush and Hannity Mostly) with audio books from the library.


I can lose all my senses, but may God never take away my ears, or my hands for that matter.
And I just had an interesting thought: Helen Keller could smell and taste, at least I think so. I'll have to look into that. There is a little known old house out in Southold, Long Island, all in a state of ruin, where Helen Keller used to spend the summers. My wife and I used to poke around the overgrown lot and look at the house. 


Anyway, I almost sliced the end of my pinky off on a 10 inch wide spackle knife a couple of years ago.


A spackle knife, when well broken in, gets as sharp as a razor, and can lay off the plaster or spackle as smooth as glass. Especially if that last coat is sweetly thinned out just enough with a little bit of water.


I can palm it off the Hawk with cat paw flexibility and feel, and turn clay into geometric wall; all by touch, and instinct. 


Such is the nature of learning a trade, and the result of much practice. 


I never did learn how to do the trade or Profession of Law. Law school did not teach that, and I never had a chance to learn it after law school because I was unable to pass the bar exam and/or significantly break into the field in any capacity.


I sometimes joke that all my mentors (with respect to law) were "mentorly retarded." My wife, or ex-wife I mean, would roll her eyes when I said that yet again to her or someone else.


However, I had a really outstanding teacher who was a Plasterer, and had even gone to a trade school for plastering. I will never claim to be his equal, though I am pretty good in my own right. BTW, this other plasterer I speak of is an extremely sharp guy. One sometimes does meet very incongruously smart people occupying all sorts of walks of life, if one is observant and takes the time to listen. 


So anyway, painting is just what I do now. I cannot sand wooden floors like a pro, and there is nothing I admire more than an expertly finished Oak, Pine, or Fir floor. Like with law, I never had the opportunity to practice the trade of sanding floors over and over and over until it becomes second nature.


In my younger days I preferred a lighter stain, but now I seem to prefer darker walnut stained floors. Somehow they seem wiser.


Playing a musical instrument can be almost said to be a trade. I started playing the banjo at age 13, and at some point along the way I became pretty good at it.After Law School,  I took a few lessons from banjo legend Tony Trischka, at his house once. Tony told me that my clawhammer "chops" are really good. Tony showed me some pointers on 3 finger style, which are used in some of my little film clips on my youtube channel. 


But anyway, with respect to the time I sliced my right pinky, I truly thought the tip could not be saved, but I wrapped the whole bleeding mess in a rag, and drove like a madman to the Hospital Emergency Room.


All the while I kept thinking that I would never be able to play the banjo the same way again. 


But thank God, the pinky turned out to be OK. The slice did not cut a nerve, and 4 stitches did the trick, and today there is hardly a scar. 


And here is the Wise old Professor himself, whom I think about a lot lately.


Maybe he became fresh in my thought after being told by my foreman from a painting crew after law school that he had recently had sexual relations with my mother, and on another day, my wife.


Maybe I thought about Professor Bloom after being called a "Bitch"  ten times a day by other (male) painters, and having my foreman ask me if I would suck another man's cock if I were to receive one million dollars for the act, and listening to all the other painters say: "Hell yeah! I would!"


Or maybe my student Loan Debt has drawn me to Professor Alan Bloom once more.


Or maybe I think about Professor Bloom when on line at the 7-11 in the Hamptons with the rest of the white "Trade Parade" and viewing all of the handiwork of last winter's tattoo parlors, in the form of the Queequeg-like ink all over both arms, on the necks, entire backs, both claves of the other white guy tradespeople, and feeling that I am in a men's prison somehow. 


Again, the Ivy Tower hasn't got a clue about what it is like, and I suggest that any Humanities Professor worth his or her salt go out to the Hamptons and have a look around this summer; if they are even mildly interested or care about the "Philistine" population (and I am one I guess) at all, that is.


But I don't know. Professor Bloom has been a great comfort lately, and maybe I can grow from here as I say. But still, Alan Bloom said his book was for top Ivys, and not for the likes of me. (sigh)


And I can't wait until tomorrow, because Robert Penn Warren is AWESOME!


And here is Professor Allan (Not H) Bloom.

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And again, the Monkey Man Jock, getting right in the Face of the 1960's Baby Boomer Hippies that have all been wearing Masks, all Counterfeit. Call it countering the counter culture and telling them to Fuck off because they created lifetime Student Loan Debt slavery.


OK, it all sounds a little exaggerated, but sometimes I really do think all that shit is true. 


The supposed youth culture generation of the 1960's, renowned for turning wickedly on their elders, are all now doddering seniors, and are now, in turn,  feeling the bitter sting of old age, and ugliness, which they so rightly deserve. May the Regans and Gonerils (on the larger, societal scale that is) serve them all well and sweep the Hippie legacy away.


Sooner or later, old age, despised so much in this trashy American Culture, inevitably does settle in.


Has anyone ever seen the movie "Marty?" One theme involves an unwanted old mother. (munching a Plum-only kidding) But the daughter in law does not want the old mother under her roof, and there is a very poignant scene and pause as the unwanted old mother is discussing the matter with her sister (Marty's mother) it is gave me a chill. 


Anyway, I once heard that the Chinese respect older people.


To my Australian friends: That ain't the case here in America. We shove them off into nursing homes, and let them sit in a hallway in piss diapers all day. I once painted, for one day only, in a nursing home, and it was fucking horrible. Really, really, fucking horrible, and I was depressed about it for quite a while afterwards. I kept telling myself: "There is one's reward for a lifetime of hard work and raising a family etc etc".  And it was not a public Nursing home. it was one of the finest private nursing homes that money could buy. Well--a pretty good one. Put it that way. I have a story I am going to write about it. 


May Old age, in the truest sense, prove to be a bitter pill for the Flower Child generation.
Because it is far beyond the greedy knives of the Cosmetic Surgeons. 


Forgive me by now, I had a few tall boys.


But is is better than thinking about my SL Debt.

WOODSTOCK '99

BURN WOODSTOCK DOWN!

JOCKS RULE!
See @ 1:32. We figured you out Neil Young

(And the Jock bit is all tongue- in- cheek I hope people realize.)

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Up and Coming, a yammering story I call: "Family Crest" about an Italian family, and based on a real life experience at a tag sale with my wife.


Keep in mind that all my creativity and nuttiness is Hungarian, and I get it all, and my good looks, from that side of the family.


Anyway, this family crest story is a good one. You know, coat of arms shit and all.


At funerals, I always tell my long lost relatives that I would rather be a Palffey, than a lousy Esterhausey. (My Grandmother's father was a Hungarian Count, and came over poor through Ellis Island)


It gets a few laughs.


And now I am really drunk, so will see all youse guys tomorrow eve.


Fuck, I really, really need an editor. 


And last but not least, and on a personal level:  Go give your old parents a Hug, or get on the phone and call and tell them that you Love them. They won't be around forever. 


OK all youse guys?


Ok Cordelia?

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And on a last note: Allan Bloom cited Plato, and put a thought into my head that I have often pondered. I beleive he said, and in so many words, that Music is not the be all and end all for the Human experience. In other words, it ain't so damn important, and I have had moments while struggling to learn how to juggle five balls (so far I can "flash" 21 throws and catches) when I have felt so engrossed I have thought that juggling is much better than any video game, and even better and more satisfying than music.


Is that a strange idea?


So I will leave two more clips, and leave this post alone after that. It is meandering and pretty much off the cuff I know, and way too busy by now.

Also better than music and even Literature. These guys are Hands Down, the best in the world.Xiao Qin is #1 and Awesome!  I have been trying to learn how to do this as well, and it is really tough. It really works the deltoids (a small and easy to pull muscle) and striates them) 


I wish I had started as a kid. It is not about strength so much as technique. I became interested after discovering the Pommel Horse on Youtube. I had a lesson from a Chinese guy who had broken both forearms doing the parallel bars. Nasty scars.

Gotta try to sleep.