Filthy

Pornographic music goes way back, and when daguerreotype was invented, people made some of the earliest pornographic pictures.  But there were even photo processes before that, and I know that these people experimented with more than just images of ripened fruit.  There was early pornographic silent film, literature and sheet music.  Before the early records, photos, movies and books, there were pornographic paintings, drawings — pornographic cave etchings…

This is why some of the affectations of the so-called risqué songs and photos of today put me to sleep.  I know that this behavior had been explored since the early days of human existence, by those who couldn’t ignore their natural curiosities, even at risk of being drawn and quartered.  These early pornographic interpretations are more interesting and original, especially considering the historic context.

A Facebook buddy posted a link with an article suggesting that the filthy songs produced in the 1930s might have been the “filthiest” ever.

In the link, Lucille Bogan’s voice and the look on Harry Roy’s face somehow reminded me of syphilitic lunacy.  Lucille Bogan has an unapologetic, devilish style, and she gets right to the point.  She is in hysterics in the middle of the song with the idea of these “filthy” indulgences.  Harry Roy looks like someone about to participate in something unholy, where “utensils” may or may not be used.  I don’t know who the guy in that last picture is, but you should just take a look at him – just look at him!

Not suggesting that the excessive love of sex should bring this misery upon anyone, and certainly not saying that these musicians had syphilis.  Just saying though.  God forbid condoms, dental dams and antibiotics had never been invented, a lot of us might be just about as screwed.  Long live evolucion!

I had not heard these before – golly, they’re so much fun!

http://www.tonedeaf.com.au/features/columns/332361/the-1930s-the-dirtiest-decade-in-music.htm

That Bitch Sandy and A Broken Ring

I love fellow blogger Claire Cappetta’s playful comments on my blog.  I admire the way she weathered that bitch Sandy – pun totally intended.  She was in the midst, filming as it happened – wow!

http://clairecappetta.wordpress.com/2012/11/15/my-video-view-of-sandy-before-it-hit/

While she experienced her own trial, she became part of a community spirit with those in her area helping others in need.  Inspirational indeed.

http://clairecappetta.wordpress.com/2012/11/05/hurricane-sandy-new-friendships-and-a-new-surreal-world/

I enjoyed her book A Broken Ring.  It’s about a woman’s self-discovery during a series of abusive relationships, something that a lot of people can relate to.  Her character comes out in the end with a sense of empowerment.

Not surprising that someone with the fortitude to help others throughout her own challenge could create a story encompassing a journey leading to self-recognition and strength.  I advise you to check it out.  It’s an engaging read.

Claire is also an activist, helping to raise awareness about domestic abuse – boy I tell you – she’s someone to be admired!

Glad to be part of your blogging community Claire!

Getting my hustle on

I’m getting my hustle on for my book and may be doing more readings.  I envision waddling up and down Broadway wearing a flappy sign with a picture of my book Mean-Spirited Tales on it, front and back.  Maybe I’ll hurl copies of my book from a tray to passengers on the A train.  Really — no.  I did read an article about a man who makes boo koo dinero selling candies on the train this way.  Hurrah for self-employment!  High falutin publishers, kiss my grits — no I totally take that back.  But the threat of the self-published author is on the rise.  Just saying.

I used to think it was cheesy.  But it’s not now — not since I’ve done it.  It is more reputable than it was in the past.  Though there is snobbery about it.  At this point I’m just glad to have sold enough to buy groceries, socks, candies, and Styrofoam skulls.

It’s brilliant that people have read something I’ve written, and that they’ve paid either ninety-nine cents for the Kindle version or nine ninety-five for the hardcopy.  I’ve always dreamed of making money writing.  You’ve all helped to make that come true.  Each and every last one of you out there in TV land.

I spoke to a woman who manages space for vendors.  She explained the system to me.  It wouldn’t be cost-effective for me to buy space to sell my book.  But I appreciated the feedback.  Much love to her.

I spoke to a gentleman at a bookstore today.  He said they were always concerned in getting numbers in for book signings.  He told me that he had been disappointed in the numbers of people that writers had brought in for their readings.  He asked if I thought I could bring in 20 people.  I told him I had 25 people for my last reading at the Indian Road Cafe.  I believe more people would have come if it weren’t at 10:30pm on a Halloween weekend.  I hope I didn’t exhaust my numbers in the last reading.  I so hope some of you come to my next one.  I’ll give out candies and promise not to read War & Peace.

Haha!  — Wouldn’t it be messed up if I invited everyone to my reading, and read a technical book on statistics instead – leaving everyone baffled? – Hey, wait a cotton picking minute! – I must back track to what I said up there about the Kindle version of my book – it’s only ninety-nine cents!  So why isn’t, like, everyone buying it?  That WSJ article about marketing my book is a liar – yes, an article can be a liar.

I thought titling my book Mean-Spirited Tales would be cheeky.  But maybe people don’t like “Mean.”  They take it literally.   Maybe I’ll change it to Saccharine Tales of Banality.  Haha!

Mariah Carey’s

 

On the A train platform a man banged on plastic pails with drumsticks.  He sat on a low wooden stool.  His spectators were a tall well-dressed woman, a few men, and some fidgety kids.

It annoyed me, this banging in the cavernous station.  Perfect venue, I suppose for a street ‘musician’ wanting to expand his acoustics.  With his head turned upward, he banged repetitively, furiously, entranced.  I was impressed by his dexterity, but I wondered how he’d do on real drums — the rhythm was so isolated and his instrumentation was limited.  He was good enough for a plastic pail drummer I supposed.

I could have done without it.  I had just finished shopping at Whole Foods after a long day.  Because of my run down status, I pat myself on the back for doing anything more than just going to work.  This day I had come from the other end of town after work and a meeting no less.  I forced myself to be out and about, alive and moving, living, bleh blehhhh.  When one does this, one must accept that they are mixing with the forces, unable to control what happens around them.  Bang, bang, bang, bangidity, bangidity, bop, bop, bangidity, bang, bip, pop, pop, pop…

I didn’t like the pounding on the plastic pail drums coinciding with my movements, my heartbeat, footsteps.  It was intrusive.  When I got down to the platform and began walking toward the middle where I like to get on the train, I walked purposefully out of synch with the plastic pail beat – I didn’t want to appear as if I enjoyed walking to the beat – plus it would be corny, as if I were perhaps fantasizing about being in a video, or being a runway model.  I have my own agenda.

I walked to the newspaper stand and put my Whole Foods bag on the floor between my feet.  I wondered briefly if I should hold it in my hand in case some urchin tried snatching it away.  These are the kinds of bad things I think about when my body doesn’t have its defenses about it because it’s run down.

Standing at the side of the newspaper stand I entertained myself by staring at the various and sundry magazine covers, glass encased on the side panel.  There were glamour magazines, sport magazines, those ‘very specialized’ hip hop magazines like XXL, and fashion magazines.

Mariah Carey.  She lost weight.  She was on one I don’t remember which one now – in a jogging bra type shirt and, panties.  The plastic pail banging went on.  I fixated on the magazine cover.  Probably airbrushed, but nonetheless the bitch has googobs of money and can afford expensive exfoliates and probably has skin like honey.  She looked like candy.  I like Mariah Carey, even if I don’t have any of her albums.  I thought, I’ll bet her pussy is really nice.  Pretty.  On the cover of the magazine it is easy to imagine with that luxuriance. I’ve seen different ones.  I thought about it.  It probably doesn’t have any hair on it.  Oh well, and then the train came.

What can I say, I escaped the drumming, but there was a man sitting across from me on the train whose looks I didn’t like.  He was generically dressed, pretty average, but there was a sinister undercurrent about him, soulless.  He looked like one of those guys you could mistake for being a nice guy, and you might go too far with him but get a rude awakening because he would have no qualms about shooting or stabbing you.  Also he was one of the million assholes who turns his iPod or headphones up too loud.  I could hear hip hop.  I like hip hop.  I used to love it.  I don’t know what’s happened to it now – maybe I’ll start listening to it again and see.  I told you in other words that I really had no business being out because there were poison vibes coming out of me, so everything seemed worse than what it really was.   Except for Mariah Carey’s…

This guy, when he didn’t close his legs when a nice older woman sat next to him, I really hated him then.  The woman could easily have had more space but this guy wouldn’t budge with his legs wide open.  He stared ahead, but you could tell he was really conscious of people around him like he could see you though he wasn’t looking at you.  He drooped his head down then toward his knees and started bobbing his head to the hip hop beat — which of course irritated me.  There was a deadness to him though.  He scared me.  When more people got off of the train, I moved my seat because I couldn’t stand being near him with that music too loud and, just him!

When I got home I thought about how wild this world is, and how you had to get something good out of the day because all you really have is the moment.  I also thought about how wrong I could have been about that guy that I hated on the A train.  I’ve been wrong before — especially when I have poison gasses coming out of me…