Posted on February 17, 2006
I don’t know whether Janis Joplin, if she was alive today, would make much of an impression on the music world.
I was toodling home today when her “Me and Bobby McGee” came on, a song I’ve loved I think since I was a mere nobbut. Something about “feeling near as faded as my jeans,” and “windshield wipers schlappin’ time” were the first words that ever spoke to me of imagery. And imagery of course, is the soul of poetry.
Notwithstanding meter and rhyme, which are only, when properly deconstructed, mnemonic devices.
Did you know that her final album containing Bobby McGee and “Mercedes Benz” only came out after her overdose? I didn’t.
Neither did I know that she had such a cool car. My own pops had a 356 Porsche Speedster, although not quite so vividly painted. But then again, my father was not, given all his many other virtues, a poet. Insofar at least as I am aware. Neither was he a rock and blues player.
But Janis was, and a damn fine one at that. But she was no more than ordinarily pretty, despite her talents, and so I wonder if she’d have a chance today. It seems more about the look than about the music, anymore. Today’s buzz, tomorrow’s used-to-be.
This is what your MTV hath wrought.
Continuing a thought (and begging your forgiveness): There’s something in some of the antis that can’t abide the thought of anything good coming out of the war in Iraq. It is all bad, every last bit of, thoroughly and comprehensively. This is something very close to religion, so powerful is the zeal.
Was reading Greyhawk’s comments on his most recent post dealing with the Tall ‘Afar mayor’s letter, and in between all those who read this for good news, there were a few skeptics, people who would warn, “Be careful. We’re not exactly sure where this came from. Some of it sounds kind of strange.”
I’ve got no problem with skepticsm (as opposed to cynicism, a propos of nothing at all) – it’s healthy to be skeptical.
But then there’s a comment like this one:
The letter is a fake.
Posted by Melvin at February 15, 2006 12:39 PM
Not because Melvin isn’t sure that the letter is real, not that he suspects it might be fraudulent – and by the way, it’s looking more and more genuine all the time – but it’s that he doesn’t want it to be real. Can’t be. Won’t.
There’s something pathetic and clutching about this sort of thing.
D’you want to know what Lex dreams about in his sleep?
And only $265k flies her away. Sigh.
I had the chance to fly the T-28 when I started flight school – the last of them were leaving NAS Whiting Field, near Pensacola, Florida and heading down to NAS Corpus Christi, Texas. They were big, powerful, torquey birds, the Trojans – a lot of airplane for a student to handle. The big radial engine was in the same class as a World War II fighter, with over 1400 horses banging under the cowl at full throttle. It was said that you could tell at T-28 pilot because his right leg was always longer than his left, what from standing on the right rudder during take-off roll.
But I passed on the chance, and flew the T-34C Turbo Mentor instead – a plane the Trojan jocks somewhat dismissively called a “Turbo Weenie,” and extending the same courtesy to those who flew it. The T-34 was far simpler to fly, what with no cowl flaps to worry about, no carb heat, relatively modern avionics and a constant speed prop we always left on “Full Increase.” It was also easier to maintain than the Trojan, about which it was said that the plane must be rejected on preflight if it wasn’t leaking oil – the only plausible reason for such a phenomenon being that there wasn’t any left to leak. And as a plane neared the end of its service life, everything becomes harder to get – spares, technicians, repairables. The end result being that finishing the primary syllabus took nearly twice as long for Trojan jocks as for Mentor weenies, and when you’re a new pilot, learning the trade, it is so very important to fly as often as ever you might.
I sort of regret not having flown the big bird, the last of its kind. On the other hand, none of the kids who went down to Corpus got jets and I ended up in Hornets.
So I don’t regret it that much.
So, SNO told me he was up for a scholarship from the Order of the Daedelians – a good deal if he gets it, they’ll pay for 12 flight training sessions over the summer, including a solo in a Cessna 172, I believe. Pretty excited about the idea. Asked, wasn’t I too?
Yes. Yes of course.
Thinking privately to myself, My God: Doesn’t he know how dangerous that whole flying gig is? A man could get hurt!
Yes, I know. Shoe on the other foot, pops. Suppose I ought to get used to it.
More from B2 (I’m rationing this stuff):
A Wal-Mart store that sells husbands has just opened in Dallas , TX , where a woman may go to choose a husband from among many men.
Among the instructions at the entrance, is a description of how the store operates:
There are only 6 floors. The attributes of the men increase as the shopper ascends the flights. There is, however, a catch….
As you open the door to any floor you may choose any man from that floor, but if you go up a floor, you cannot go back down except to exit the building.
A woman shopper goes inside the store. On the first floor the sign on the door reads: Floor 1 – These men have jobs. “Fair enough, she thinks. But I could do better than that on my own.”
The second floor sign reads: Floor 2 – These men have jobs and love kids. “Hmm. Getting warmer.”
The third floor sign reads: Floor 3 – These men have jobs, love kids, and are extremely good-looking. “Wow,” she thinks, but feels compelled to keep going.
She goes to the fourth floor and sign reads: Floor 4 – These men have jobs, love kids, are drop-dead good looking and help with the housework. “Oh, mercy me!” she exclaims, “I can hardly stand it!”
Still, she goes to the fifth floor and sign reads: Floor 5 – These men have jobs, love kids, are drop-dead gorgeous, help with the housework, and have a strong romantic streak. She is so tempted to stay, but she goes to the sixth floor and the sign reads:
Floor 6 – You are visitor 3,456,012 to this floor. There are no men on this floor. This floor exists solely as proof that women are impossible to please.
Thank you for shopping Wal-Mart’s Husband Store. Please exit the building.
You do realize of course, that this means wah?
Yes. Yes of course.
I would reply with a defiant, “Bring it!” but I’m already heading for the bunker, hoping to pull the hatch in after me.
Y’all have a great weekend!