May, 2013

May 13


You’ve heard of Zelig–but who is the Zelig of 1960s and post 60s rocknroll? You’ve heard of the “Wrecking Crew” band but who is the Wrecking Crew of background singing? The SECRET IS NOW REVEALED! Read the CHILLING TRUTH in this SCANDALOUS MEMOIR by legendary rock singer Howard Kaylan in which we learn that he and Mark Volman were the vocal “wrecking crew” that added that mysterious something extra needed to many famous hit songs by people OTHER than the Turtles like MARC BOLAN and, yes, even The Psychedelic furs and…you wouldn’t believe how many. Nor would you believe how many names Howard can drop in one paragraph. And what of Howard’s shameful secrets? His participation in…CARE BEARS?! Oh yes, his legendary exploits with SUBSTANCES, his sampling of VIRTUALLY EVERY GROUPIE IN NORTH AMERICA AND EUROPE…and his salacious, substance mad relations with many others who didn’t KNOW they were groupies until…too late! The terrifying story of the one who crossed her legs unless he …did what? You’ll read it all here…Your hands will shake by the end of the book. Did Howard really snort lines off Lincoln’s desk in the White House? Did he nearly get shot because some idiots thought a piece of band equipment was a bomb? Did he actually puke hugely all over…*him*…?!

Did he actually do THOSE OTHER THINGS with Frank Zappa?! The nightmarish truth is revealed…but only if you can bear it…in SHELL SHOCKED: MY LIFE WITH THE TURTLES, FLO AND EDDIE AND FRANK ZAPPA Etc…


May 13



The magazine also contains a new John Shirley short story. The interview is free and open. The rest of the publication requires a payment made to the publisher.

May 13

Most Religious Rituals, maybe all, are Meaningless. But once upon a time…

Religious rituals don’t have the point, the meaning, they originally had. So it seems to me. Perhaps they’re still of value to some of you. To many people, if not most, they’re misdirection, and mere conditioning. Once, long ago–millenia ago, in most cases–rituals were a device, something like a symbol mnemonic (or legominism), for remembering that we’re connected to something higher, and that those who engaged in the ritual had a goal, a fundamental wish to remain in conscious connection. But the meaning in the ritual was lost over time; the original meaning wasn’t accurately transmitted through history’s endless “game of telephone”. Ritualism is a flawed system. The practice of self-remembering works better.

Self-remembering doesn’t involve “selfishness”–it is remembering to observe the self, and my state of presence or lack of presence; my connectedness or lack of connectedness to the world around me, in the moment, along with the state of my inner life. It relies on ideas, and good habits, instead of ritual. It’s a system that’s more integral to daily life.

May 13

The Dance of the Mundane

It’s easy to see the rhythms of life in dance, even ballet; it’s not as easy to see the music, the rhythm of dance, in mundane life. It’s been suggested, though, often enough, in musicals; maybe people on a street hawking wares, in a musical the cries of mongers are alternatively repeated, becoming a song; a group of sailors with mops on a deck turn their swishings into dance, and so on. One can see something like that in daily life; my wife and I shopping, putting things in baskets, her and then me, stepping aside for other people in a reasonably graceful way, she opens the car trunk while I lift the groceries, I put them in, she closes the trunk, we step into the car, her and I almost at once, the doors closing slam/slam. The movements of my body around the yard…

A lot of it has to do with moving one’s body in the environs, the space co-composing the music with you, I move around this object, to get at this one, and the most mindful way to do it is fairly rhythmical, there is just a *hint* of dance to the motion, especially when linked with other motions…If I pay attention…

May 13

No This is NOT a Real Hilary Clinton Statement

I had an elaborate fantasy about Hilary Clinton today. No, not that kind of fantasy. I envisaged her giving a press conference: “The tragic violence at the embassy in Benghazi will not and should not be forgotten. There is plenty of blame to go around. My department was complacent about security, some were slow to respond, Special Forces were frustrated in attempts to reach the embassy (frustrated through no fault of theirs), and Republicans in Congress failed to provide enough money for embassy security upgrades. However most of the current microscopic perusal and rehashing of the tragedy is happening for one reason. The Republicans believe I’m going to run for President so they hope to smear me, in a way that will prevent me from winning when that time comes. But in fact I already decided not to run–oh, I left the door open a sliver, for a while, because Bill wanted me to, but I have now closed that door. I will not be running for President. As a consequence, Republicans can now drop the Benghazi distortions and get back to the real work of Congress–perhaps now they can be freed up to work on, say, rebuilding infrastructure, instead. Again, I will not run for President. I would however like to make an endorsement. Elizabeth Warren for President.”

May 13

Don’t Tell Anyone About the Corndogs

A week or two ago my friend Terry Bisson took me to the Stock Car races in Antioch. I know little of races of any sort but I was fascinated by the scene. Early on a version of the national anthem was played over loudspeakers, and everyone stood up and took off their hats, put their hands on their hearts. I saw two fellows in cowboy hats during this; one knocked off the other’s hat because the fella couldn’t take it off himself, as he had a beer in each hand. No disagreement ensued–it seemed quite sensible to the one who couldn’t get his hat off…

It was a dirt track, not very big, and when the cars raced around it their wheels spun up clods of dirt and mud that pattered over the people walking near the fence.

There were several kinds of stock cars; the first ones were all battered, some with their numbers hand painted on the sides. They tended to spin out a lot. Others were slicker, customized Torinos or Trans Ams; another race was something called Sprint cars, almost like midget race cars, running on methanol and frequently backfiring. Several women drivers took part, and there was a driver said to be 85 years old, 60+ years in racing. We sat in bleachers, open to the crisp night and a lot of car exhaust–we were high over most of that, with a great view.

Beer was consumed, and Terry ate one of the hamburgers, which he said was pleasing for the price; I will now confess that I ate a corndog. I’m not supposed to eat corndogs. This is between me and you. Don’t tell anyone…

The announcer calling the race could not be heard over the roar of the engines.

We had a fine time.