4/30/2008
4/28/2008
The Fud Lugubrioso
Well, what do you want for Big Chuck's first video effort? Does it not evoke a twinge of the teary dismal. Of the fud lugubrioso? Of the wet and wanton? No? Well then, can we not at least expect improvement?
Vid: Rain on vernal pool. Maine, USA. April, 2008
4/27/2008
Note to Self
~~~
calm down
what you think is coming
isn’t coming
relax
what you think you need
you don’t need
sit still
what you think you want
you don’t need
look around
everything you need
is right in front of you
and no one is trying
to take it away from you
~~~
calm down
what you think is coming
isn’t coming
relax
what you think you need
you don’t need
sit still
what you think you want
you don’t need
look around
everything you need
is right in front of you
and no one is trying
to take it away from you
~~~
Photo: Exploding star. June 2004.
4/26/2008
4/25/2008
4/24/2008
Triptych: Whistling Back the Bowwows
Movie poster: NY, NY. USA. February 2007.
News clipping: found among my deceased uncle's few worldly possessions. February 1998.
TV image: January 2005.
4/22/2008
4/21/2008
Why Bother?
Here’s AN EXCELLENT ARTICLE by Michael Pollan (The Omnivore’s Dilemma, In Defense of Food: An Eater’s Manifesto). It’s for those of us who want to do something about climate change (besides dealing in carbon credits) but find the whole thing overwhelming.
Photo: Ken Lockwood Gorge. High Bridge, New Jersey. USA. April 2008
4/20/2008
City-Toilet
Be sure pants are up and belt is fastened before calling 911.
Can also be used as a short-term hotel room.
City-Toilet: Boyleston Street. Boston, MA. USA. April, 2008
Unembraceable You: U-Rite-It---Still Going
U-Rite-It
"Have yourself a shitty day," said Clarkie to the cashier as he walked out of the Hot Pot Café with a mocha tall in one hand and a copy of the Weekly Whistle in the other. He was late for work, but he’d never make it through the morning without his big joe. Besides, he was always late for work, and it would ruin his carefully cultivated reputation as office rebel if he were actually to arrive on time. Clarkie’s co-workers respected his refusal to bow to many of the office’s conventions, and they shook their heads in amazement when month after month he remained on the payroll despite multitudinous infractions, any one of which would have earned them an immediate one-way ticket out the front door. The secret, of course, was known to one and all, though few dared voice it in public: Clarkie, that coffee-swilling, foul-mouthed, evil-smelling slacker, was the passionate and ever-attentive lover of beautiful Tess, the boss’s limbless daughter.
4/19/2008
Close Encounter
Janice was sitting at the kitchen counter eating a grape Pop-Tart when the fridge began to shake. A voice from inside kept repeating: “Janice. In here. In here.” She threw open the door and the room was flooded with a heavenly luminescence. She knew immediately—this was a close encounter of the kitchen kind, and it was her job to connect with the source. She ripped shelves and drawers from the fridge with abandon, grunting with the unfamiliar effort of pursuing the unknown. She was frantic, expecting on one hand to be sucked into an icy arctic vortex, worrying on the other that she’d spill the maple syrup. Then, suddenly, as quickly as it appeared, the light was gone, leaving Janice spent and dejected in the dim glow of the 25-watt refrigerator bulb. Sighing, she climbed down to the floor and returned to her Pop-Tart. “Wow.” she muttered. “That’s enough excitement for one day.” And her thoughts turned to the laundry waiting to be hung out and to the fish sticks Ernie had ordered for dinner.
4/18/2008
Like Cheap Buttons
Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire
By Robert Phillips
I, Rose Rosenfeld, am one of the workers
who survived. Before the inferno broke out,
factory doors had been locked by the owners,
to keep us at our sewing machines,
to keep us from stealing scraps of cloth.
I said to myself, What are the bosses doing?
I knew they would save themselves.
I left my big-button-attacher machine,
climbed the iron stairs to the tenth floor
where their offices were. From the landing window
I saw girls in shirtwaists flying by,
Catherine wheels projected like Zeppelins
out open windows, then plunging downward,
sighing skirts open parasols on fire.
I found the big shots stuffing themselves
into the freight elevator going to the roof.
I squeezed in. While our girls were falling,
we ascended like ashes. Firemen
yanked us onto the next-door roof.
I sank to the tarpaper, sobbed for
one-hundred forty-six comrades dying
or dead down below. One was Rebecca,
my only close friend, a forewoman kind to workers.
Like the others, she burned like a prism.
Relatives of twenty-three victims later
Brought suits.
Each family was awarded seventy-five dollars.
It was like the Titanic the very next year-
No one cared about the souls in steerage.
Those doors were locked, too, a sweatshop at sea.
They died due to ice, not fire. I live in
Southern California now. But I still see
skirts rippling like parachutes,
girls hit the cobblestones, smell smoke,
burnt flesh, girls cracking like cheap buttons,
disappearing like so many dropped stitches.
From Circumstances Beyond Our Control: Poems.
© Johns Hopkins University Press, 2006.
4/17/2008
Bomb Hanoi
Gary wasn’t happy with the straw hat: he hated the way it sat on his ears and made them look huge. He'd never thought of himself as good looking, but he knew he could be cool, especially when he wore his Levi jacket and red Keds. Then his father made him wear a fake bow tie. And his aunt pinned the buttons on. Hey, he supported the war, and he’d gladly do his stint when the time came. But having to dress up like this for the parade was embarrassing. He couldn’t wait till the girls could see him in his own uniform, strolling around Middleville with a black beret and shiny boots--a real cool cat.
Photo: not mine. Can't remember where I got this. I think I stole it from some museum.
4/16/2008
4/15/2008
Unembraceable You: U-Rite-It
"Have yourself a shitty day," said Clarkie to the cashier as he walked out of the Hot Pot Café with a mocha tall in one hand and a copy of the Weekly Whistle in the other. He was late for work, but he’d never make it through the morning without his big joe. Besides, he was always late for work, and it would ruin his carefully cultivated reputation as office rebel if he were actually to arrive on time. Clarkie’s co-workers respected his refusal to bow to many of the office’s conventions, and they shook their heads in amazement when month after month he remained on the payroll despite multitudinous infractions, any one of which would have earned them an immediate one-way ticket out the front door. The secret, of course, was known to one and all, though few dared voice it in public: Clarkie, that coffee-swilling, foul-mouthed, evil-smelling slacker, was the passionate and ever-attentive lover of beautiful Tess, the boss’s limbless daughter.
- Anonymous (Jim) said...
They'd only known each other a short time, having met at the annual company picnic when Tess was pulled out on her custom built Radio Flyer. Clarkie was awestruck by her boldness and struck up a conversation.
"Nice wagon, Babe", said he cracking wise.-
Junglechina said... Tess looked up at Clarkie, all five feet two inches of him, and noticed right away that he was staring at her breasts. He didn't seem fazed by the fact that she was the bosses daughter, and let's face it, everyone was aware of that. She turned her head, thrust out her tongue and tapped the control panel of her wagon, causing it to whirl gently counter-clockwise.
"Glad you like it little man", she said.
-
Anonymous said... That was two months ago and since then they'd seen each other almost every day. And been seen all around town, much to the dismay of Tess's father, the indomitable, abominable Max Macahado.
Max, a hard nose Portuguese immigrant set in the old world ways, much preferred to keep his daughter's embarrasing condition out of the public eye.
Clarkie however, saw things differently.- Maia said...
Clarkie saw Tess as a tidy package. No fluttering hands or stubby toes. Just her heart and fast brain. Her eyes were there too. Green like marsh grass in summer. And there was no denying those breasts.
4/14/2008
Under Construction
BLOG Under Construction for a few days.
Check back soon to see if Big Chuck can get it together.
Thanks.
4/13/2008
Under Construction
BLOG Under Construction for a few days.
Check back soon to see if Big Chuck can get it together.
Thanks.
4/12/2008
4/11/2008
4/10/2008
Unembraceable You
"Have yourself a shitty day," said Clarkie to the cashier as he walked out of the Hot Pot Café with a mocha tall in one hand and a copy of the Weekly Whistle in the other. He was late for work, but he’d never make it through the morning without his big joe. Besides, he was always late for work, and it would ruin his carefully cultivated reputation as office rebel if he were actually to arrive on time. Clarkie’s co-workers respected his refusal to bow to many of the office’s conventions, and they shook their heads in amazement when month after month he remained on the payroll despite multitudinous infractions, any one of which would have earned them an immediate one-way ticket out the front door. The secret, of course, was known to one and all, though few dared voice it in public: Clarkie, that coffee-swilling, foul-mouthed, evil-smelling slacker, was the passionate and ever-attentive lover of beautiful Tess, the boss’s limbless daughter.
Just the feet: Pozzuoli, Italy. June 2007.
4/09/2008
4/08/2008
4/07/2008
What Dylan Did
People are crazy and times are strange
I’m locked in tight, I’m out of range
I used to care, but things have changed.
So they came up with a Pulitzer for Dylan today. Should we be surprised? Only that an award so conventional should honor someone so unconventional. They cited him for his "profound impact on popular music and American culture, marked by lyrical compositions of extraordinary poetic power." That’s a nice way to put it.
What Dylan did was to tell the story in his own words, with all the joy and vituperation he has inside. My god, would that we could all be so in touch with that joy and vituperation. It’s what makes us human: our deepest joy overlaid with our deepest anger—yet few can touch it like he can. Like snakes we crawl forth, like hyenas we rip and tear, like down and dirty christians of old we celebrate that crawling, that ripping, that redemption, that resurrection. Dylan knew this, even as a youngster, and he set it to music.
You fasten the triggers
For the others to fire
Then you set back and watch
When the death count gets higher
You hide in your mansion
As young people's blood
Flows out of their bodies
And is buried in the mud
Is there a better way of putting it? Well, perhaps—but that’s his angle, and anyone with a better angle is free to dangle it out there. Truth is though, Dylan sees things a little clearer than most:
They got some beautiful people out there, man
They kill babies in their crib and say only the good die young
They don’t believe in mercy
Judgment on them is something you’ll never see
They can exalt you up or bring you down main route
Turn you into anything they want you to be
Dylan’s other big thing is he’s not afraid to express regret. Those of us who’ve grown old know that admitting to regret is the mark of defeat. We cannot afford to appear defeated, so we buck up, stiffen the lip and all. Not Zimmie:
The party’s over and there’s less and less to say
I got new eyes, everything looks far away
All the young men with the young women looking so good
Well, I’d trade places with any of ‘em, in a minute if I could.
He’s always willing to tell it like it is, anger and pettiness included, even if it violates the commandments and the happy tripe in the morning paper. Besides, no one’s about to put Bob’s revelations on the evening news.
This place ain’t doing me any good
I’m in the wrong town, I should be in Hollywood
Just for a second there I thought I saw something move
Only a fool in here would think he’s got something to prove.
Or how about this friendly little taunt:
Idiot wind, blowing through the flowers on your tomb,
Blowing through the curtains in your room.
Idiot wind, blowing every time you move your teeth,
You're an idiot, babe.
It's a wonder that you still know how to breathe.
And if that’s not enough for you, oh ye of great faith who would believe things in the global marketplace are glowing golden in the hunky dory, Bob’s always willing to take it to the temple and curse the money changers:
There's a retired businessman named Red, cast down from heaven and he's out of his head
He feeds off of everyone that he can touch
He said he only deals in cash or sells tickets to a plane crash
He's not somebody that you play around with much
Miss Delilah is his, a Philistine is what she is
She'll do wondrous works with your fate
Feed you coconut bread, spice buns in your bed
If you don't mind sleepin' with your head face down in a grave.
So enjoy the poetry of Mr. Dylan, and know the real spirit of our times. Recent events testify more than ever to the truth that rings through his words: “We live in a political world... everything is broken.”
I went down where the vultures feed
I would’ve gone deeper but there wasn’t any need
Heard the tongues of angels and the tongues of men
Wasn’t any difference to me.
4/06/2008
4/05/2008
Bombs Over Amsterdam
Warplanes: Rancho Santa Fe, CA. USA. January 2008.
Sidewalk cafe: Amsterdam, Netherlands. June 2007.
4/04/2008
4/03/2008
4/02/2008
4/01/2008
Goodbye, Faithful Readers--NOT!
It is with deep regret that Big Chuck’s Small Blog goes off the air. Due to circumstances beyond my control, this blog will no longer be published. I would like to express my...
OK. You caught me. It was just a very clever April Fools Day ruse. Thanks to the hundreds of you who wrote demanding my return to the blogosphere.
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That was two months ago and since then they'd seen each other almost every day. And been seen all around town, much to the dismay of Tess's father, the indomitable, abominable Max Macahado.
Max, a hard nose Portuguese immigrant set in the old world ways, much preferred to keep his daughter's embarrasing condition out of the public eye.
Clarkie however, saw things differently.
April 17, 2008
Clarkie saw Tess as a tidy package. No fluttering hands or stubby toes. Just her heart and fast brain. Her eyes were there too. Green like marsh grass in summer. And there was no denying those breasts.
April 17, 2008
The thought of Clarkie caressing those milky whites drove Max mad. Like most fathers, the picture of a young man intimately touching his daughter made him nuts. He'd had thoughts of contacting Alfonse Spinoza, his enforcer from bygone days, to do a number on Clarkie. He figured Clarkie would take the next stage west after a little chat with the Spinner.
But he had to be careful. Spinoza had bedded his wife a few years back and he knew from the phone records that they still talked now and then. He allowed her this little secret because he knew they no longer had their weekly rendezvous at the Notell Motel. Besides, it somehow freed him of his guilt when he met clandestinely with his current lover, the sanguine Ms Sally Klampus.
So when Clarkie strolled into work that day, late as usual, he was unprepared for what awaited him.
April 18, 2008
"Well," she thought, "he's got at least one friend." Nancy had just brought a huge ham sandwich to Clarkie's desk. A tall man wearing a diamond ring had delivered it. He asked Nancy to give it to Mr. Clarkie Muldoon. The tall man didn't leave his name.
When Clarkie arrived at work he passed Nancy sitting down and chewing on pencils. He flashed her a sly grin and disappeared into his cubicle.
April 18, 2008
"That friggin Renaldo," muttered Clarkie when he spied the attractive hemp bag tied with orange raffia cord. He couldn't believe that his sweet lover boy had shown up at work yet again. He knew there would be a sumptous lunch within the bag and although he tried to maintain his aggravation he could not. Renaldo was damn thoughtful, and he was an amazing cook. Not only was there a ham sandwich (and tassia ham not that rubbery gelatinous shit) but the bread was home made, spread with unsalted Irish butter and the finest French mustard. There were cheese straws, radish roses and tiny gerkins. A porcelain dish covered with plastic wrap held fresh strawberries and champagne grapes. Finally there was a perfect dark chocolate truffle with the scent of cinnamon and chipolte pepper. Oh my God how he loved that man, talented beyond belief in the kitchen and the bedroom.