The music for "Bad Beer Boogie" is "Rutabaga Boogie", which I heard on the old Dr Demento radio show about 40 years ago. Why the hell can I remember that stuff, and not things I read last week that are actually useful to me? Shit, at least once I had a whole verse for the song in my head that ran away before I wrote it down.
Much later I learned that the music for "Rutabaga Boogie" is Freight Train Boogie. Which is probably borrowed from somewhere else too.
Go listen to one of those videos now to get the tune in your head, then sing along:
I am not afraid of death, but I'd like to be in the fight a little longer.
``````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````` Tuesday May 11, 1915
Salt Lake City, Utah - The Rebel Girl, Herself, Visits Joe Hill in the County Jail
Elizabeth Gurley Flynn from the
Fort Scott Daily Tribune-Monitor
of Kansas, April 29, 1915
On May 6th, on her way to California, Miss Elizabeth Gurley Flynn stopped off in Salt Lake City to visit with Fellow Worker Joe Hill who continues to be held in the county jail there. FW Hill has been convicted of murder and has been given a death sentence by the state of Utah. Miss Flynn was allowed to visit with the prisoner face to face in the sheriff's office. She states that she is the first visitor during his long confinement to be allowed to visit with FW Hill face to face and to shake hands with him.
Miss Flynn states that she found Joe Hill to be "tall, slender, very blond, with deep blue eyes." It was a spring day in the "garden city" and the prisoner and his visitor looked out from the prison onto an "expanse of a beautiful lawn."
Joe Hill noted the old bearded man outside who was mowing the lawn, and said to Gurley Flynn, "He's lucky, Gurley. He's a Mormon and he's had two wives and I haven't even had one yet!"
Miss Flynn noted the contrast between the pure mountain air of Utah and the fetid jail odor that assailed the nostrils: "damp air loaded with the sickening smell of disinfectants."
On the subject of the death sentence which he is facing, FW Hill stated:
I am not afraid of death, but I'd like to be in the fight a little longer.
SOURCE The Rebel Girl: an autobiography,
my first life (1906-1926)
by Elizabeth Gurley Flynn
International Publishers, 1973 https://books.google.com/...
Salt Lake City
Katie Phar Spokane Wn
Dear Friend & F. W.
Yours received and am glad to note that you are getting along fine with your music lessons. Am sending you thru the local Sec'y two of my songs and would like to hear how you like them. One of the Songs "The Rebel Girl" was sung at several big meetings in Chicago and was making a bit hit they are telling me. I had the pleasure to shake hands with Gurly Flynn yesterday and she told me that she would be glad to see you when she comes to Spokane. If you would practice up on one of the Songs you could help her a whole lot by singing it at her meeting in Spokane. The Rebel Girl would be best I think because Gurly F. is certainly some Rebel Girl and when [the copy of this letter is incomplete.]
A man arrested, healthy and intact
in custody was taken by the Law.
His death is still the only living fact
inside a story rife with every flaw.
Policemen, armored, ready for a fight
amass to keep a curfew, night til dawn.
The people of his neighborhood unite
to ask the question, Where has Justice gone?
The Crips and Bloods keep order in the streets
to bring the peace to wounded righteous souls
while law enforcement lies at press club meets.
(Apparently they have a different goal.)
When Law betrays the ones that they should serve
Society is hurt in every nerve.
There should be voices singing laments, old songs for a new burning time.
There should be drums pounding, feet marching, by the hundreds of thousands. Black feet, white feet, all the colors in between beating the pavement together, if justice truly mattered. There are some, but you don't hear about them on the nightly news. There isn't a focus on the drum beats of twenty thousand feet hitting the pavement of Baltimore's streets, pounding out the old rhythm for justice when the same old, same old, becomes far too much to bear.
You don't hear about drunk white baseball fans sitting outside Baltimore bars last Saturday as protestors marched by. You don't hear about the well worn racist names being hurled at people marching for justice. You don't hear about the bottles and bar stools that went flying. Only black people are outside agitators. Not some good old boys and girls from suburbia.
Of course some protestors fought back. Other protestors tried to break it up. But all protestors are too blame, right? No one should ever lose their temper, no matter what the provocation. Just keep on taking it with a smile, a nod, a - Yes, sir. No, sir. Yes, Ma'am.
Only white people get to yell epithets. Only white people get to throw bottles. Only white people get to throw anything at all - curses, bottles, stools, laws, indignation, silence, dismissal - at people of color marching for an end to legalized violence being written upon their bodies.
Tens of thousands of feet marched for days because a man was left screaming, broken, and finally dead by Baltimore's finest. Just one more instance of screaming, breaking, and death in Baltimore. Just one more instance of cover up and denial across this country. Just one more reason for fear and despair growing stronger in communities large and small.
Then Monday night, Baltimore supposedly began to burn.
But, Baltimore has been burning for a long time. It has been devoured by flames of poverty that white America doesn't even notice. It has been burned by injustice that is never rectified. Baltimore's people of color have been consumed by generations of white indifference.
Black infants in Baltimore are almost nine times more likely to die before age 1 than White infants. AIDS cases are nearly five times more common in the African-American community.
“Only six miles separate the Baltimore neighborhoods of Roland Park and Hollins Market,” interim Hopkins provost Jonathan Bagger said last year. “[B]ut there is a 20-year difference in the average life expectancy.”
That inequality is staggering when you consider that one of the best health systems in the world — Johns Hopkins Health System — is based in Baltimore. And many of the nation’s top government health care officials live in or commute to Baltimore, to work at the Medicare and Medicaid office.
A pregnant woman was violently thrown to the ground. Millions of dollars were paid out to numerous victims of police brutality. And almost none of us noticed!
Our outrage is reserved for "looters" who left stores with Tide, toilet paper, and diapers. You'd think those people were worse than the Wall Street pillagers who brought the country to its knees. You'd think the people in Baltimore were worse than the politicians who allowed Wall Street to suck the life out of all our dreams. How awful those rioters were. Look at them - stealing Tide, toilet paper, and diapers for their babies. Nothing excuses such behavior. Not their babies dying. Not their grandmothers and wives being assaulted. Not the grinding poverty. Not the breaking, the screaming, and dying. Not the lack of justice, for any of it.
How dare they throw bricks. How dare they do anything but die quietly.
After all, we've stolen their dignity, self worth, hope. All they have left are the bones of their dreams - despair, emptiness, and rage. Let young men and women throw those bones, and we shall call it violence.
You have no one but you to blame
if you cannot hear the sky.
When the air is jelled and cloying,
the phone book will not open.
Soil packs too hard for fingernails,
too soft for pails and shovels.
The tap that drips on Franklin street
melts through to rot the roof ribs.
Old though I am, the pail still feeds
my appetite for blather.
Over the highest hill in town
still higher clouds will hover.
What I know of my own shadow
burns into my shoulder blades.
What I refuse to see flays me,
with darkness I make of myself.
1 precisely-tuned concert grand piano
1 Daniel Barenboim
(The first two ingredients may be substituted with any Barenboim recording that includes Beethoven/Moonlight Sonata (No. 14 in C#), Appasionata Sonata (No. 23 in F minor, Opus 57), and Pathétique Sonata (No. 8 in C minor, Opus 13).
2 tablespoons olive oil (You can substitute butter or margarine)
2 to 4 cloves garlic, to taste, smashed with the side of a chef's knife.
1 tablespoon Penzey's Bavarian Seasoning mix*.
8 ounces of Crimini Mushrooms
2 cups of fresh potatoes, peeled and diced (substitute frozen American fries)
4 cups mushroom broth (substitute vegetable or chicken stock)
1 cup white wine
1 tablespoon spicy brown mustard, Dusseldorf style (substitute Dijon style)
1 cup plain yogurt (substitute sour cream or vegan sour supreme)
* - The link isn't meant to be a plug for Penzey's, it's simply for your convenience. if you choose to use your own seasonings, the Bavarian mix includes crushed brown mustard, rosemary, garlic, thyme, bay leaf and sage in proportions that only the Penzey's folks know.
I have a friend who loves angels. She has angel statues all over the place. Now I'm not going to comment on whether that verges on idolatry - mainly because I don't care, but among all the other angels was the angel for the aborted fetuses. On the base of the statue there was a very touching little poem asking the guardian angel to watch over the fetus. I immediately thought of the 230,000 people, many of them children, who died in the 2004 tsunami. I wonder what their guardian angels were doing that day - getting drunk on the beach perhaps?
I was moved to write this poem for the unborn, and for all the Conservatives who wouldn't have helped these people because the people weren't Christian or because, "they should be taking care of themselves - get a job!" or some other similar, anti-Jesus reason, so here's my poem.
My Guardian Angel. You're holding me tight
Help me to make it all through the night
I'll need all the help you can give - don't you see
'cause the conservative mandate - they all do agree
All fetuses' lives are of value they say
'Till you ask them them for help - then they answer you, "Nay!"
Conservatives care that I live - that is true
So long as to them no costs do accrue
So long as it costs them no trouble, nor care
Because if you ask them for aid - they'll never be there
Ask them for food, education, or help
All they will say is, "You ignorant whelp."
"Get out there and work. We won't open our door."
"We like you better ignorant, starving, and poor"
No food when you're hungered, no help when you've drowned
But plenty of preaching, with no God to be found
Plenty of talk, 'cause that's free don't you see
They care about talk, not about you - and not me
The God that they preach speaks of loving and alms
But Republicans care for the greasing of palms.
A marginal life malnourished, uneducated, and brief
not just for me, but my mother; without help or relief
Ah, but life eternal, a wonderful aim
Or is that just more words that they're spouting, some sort of a game?
Hypocrisy's theirs, with their mouths full of lies
Perhaps they're all devils in some other guise
They talk about life, so sacred, so pure
Raining blows on the Bible to show that they're sure
that their God has shown them what is good, what is right
What Jesus said in the dark of the night
But they forget all his lessons, like the conquistadors
Spouting words without meaning as this poem underscores
Attacking and lying: rapacious for gold
If Jesus's charity is as it's foretold
Then the wages they've earned for all their sin and deception
will ensure them nothing but a fiery reception
for if they were true to their God's loving promise
They'd be loving and humble with nothing amiss
They'd be giving and open, and never judgemental
They'd be less sex-obsessed and and so much less banal
They'd refrain from judging - as Jesus told them to do
They'd then be better people - they'd be honest and true
Daily Kos has been prodding me for another diary. I had a great idea. During the Shrub years, I wrote a series of political/cultural short poems and dated each one as I wrote it. I own the copyright, so I own it, and I can share as I choose.
One of them got read on the radio when Jay Marvin was the morning talk show host on the one, now sadly gone, progressive radio station in Denver at the time, AM-760. I shared all of them with my friends in the Denver Poetry Community, as I wrote them.