Mad Jack Mytton

When I was in college, my few moments of actual learning tended to occur in the library. I had a few godly instructors and many more competent ones, and a handful who had no more business than me to speak to impressionable people. But the library was the thing. Didn’t matter if you were stoned, or just stopping by to see if you could recover the pack of cigarettes you’d inadvertently left on the back of the toilet in the 900’s section, you motherfucking got something out of those visits. I was a history major, so I spent all my time in the art library. Initially it was the  crude medieval pictures of titties that drove me there, then the idea that creative misfits were  always knocking shit over and functioning as genuine actors in history. So I was justified in my search for tits through the stacks, telling myself I’d become more acquainted with the rubric of western attitudes toward sexuality and ultimately make department chair with a landmark study on the titty-based portraiture of Venice and its role in the commerce of the late 15th century Mediterranean. I wasn’t bold enough at that point to discuss the impact of  a Holbein  mons Venus on  post-Renaissance tourism, but I’ll be goddamned if I wasn’t going to get there, once the motherfucking MacArthur fellowship rolled in. Or the next carton of Marlboro Lights.

But none of that shit happened because I was in a prog rock band, and consequently, struggling to get any form of sexual attention. And it took all my free time to rehearse with the band, research the apocryphal stuff to write lyrics that would fit the bassist’s puerile ideas about the relationship between the fragility of mother earth and the need to produce more bassists, and simultaneously try to get a degree that would land me in a job telling  piglet fuckers their ancestors were, if anything, likely to be more fucked up than they were. And there was no hope of sex for me, motherfucker. None.

It was about this time I saw the first wood-gravure reference to Keith Moon.

John Mytton was a Shropshire heir to several thousand pounds a year, a virtually indestructible body, and an abiding determination to disobey the laws of physics and oncology. He was also, in a nutshell, what it means to be a Brit (at least as far as I know.)

I developed an interest in him when I read about him riding his bear  Nell into a dinner party and dispersing the guests, and when she mauled his leg in retaliation for overvigorous spurring, he instantly forgave her, saying,” It’s just her nature”.

He was less amenable to his first two wives, and let me pause a moment here to say that  marriage  used to be a guarantor of a lack of problems with several women, and a stable of three thousand dogs. And as many cats in full livery , and a bunch of lively stable boys, and the peasant women who’d gape in awe at the  pork back you garishly threw through the hovel door.

Which leads me to the deepest tragedy of late twentieth century film.

Why in the hell didn’t Ken Russel make a film about English insanity with the man who embodied it? For God’s sake, they even looked like each other:

http://images.npg.org.uk/collections/search/portrait.php?LinkID=mp53741&role=sit&rNo=1

More guitar

the guitars

keypad au vin

My wife is using my computer right now, because she accidentally marinated her laptop. Since she manages the profit sector of our enterprise, I graciously offered her the use of my computer.

We’ve got a nice day coming up, then more of the pissy, rainy, cold stuff.

I’m going out to play.

Crappy weather.

Yesterday we were working in the garden, getting it prepped for spring. Today it’s damp, with the wind out of the north.  Dammit.

Sometimes it’s hard to shift gears and get in the “stuck in the damn house” mode. I guess I’ll cook some beans. Red lentil dhal’s pretty good. The woodstove’s fired up. Might as well use it.

The last time we had freezing rain we made this, and ate it with naan (prepackaged, frozen) but it’s good with basmati, too.

Recipe By:
“Classic Indian Vegetarian and Grain Cooking,” by Julie Sahni
Serving Size: 8

• 1 C Red lentils
• 4 C Water
• 1/4 Ts Turmeric
• 2 C Canned crushed tomatoes
• 1 1/2 Ts Cumin
• 2 Ts Ground coriander
• 1/2 Ts Cayenne pepper
• 1 T Minced onion
• 1 T Minced garlic
• Salt to taste
• 1 Tb Lemon juice
• 1 Tb Vegetable oil
• 1 T Black mustard seeds
• 2 Tb Chopped fresh coriander

Wash lentils thoroughly.
Place in a pot with 3 cups water and turmeric.
Cook, partially covered, until very tender, about 30 minutes.

Combine lentils and 1 cup water in a deep pot.
Whisk to crush some of the lentils.
Add the tomatoes, cumin, ground coriander, cayenne, onion, garlic and salt and bring to a boil. Lower heat and cook, partially covered, 10 minutes.
Add lemon juice.

Heat oil in a small skillet until hot. Add mustard seeds and cover so the seeds do not fly out of the pan.
When they stop spattering, mix into soup. Stir in fresh coriander.

Makes 6-8 servings.

(Copied from http://www.ivu.org/recipes/indian-rice/curry-j.html

Almost female

That’s how I was described by my showermates in PE in junior high. I was never hurt by it, and I  don’t think they intended so much as an insult as a bland statement of fact. They always thought it was funny I talked like Jed Clampett, and sang like Jon Anderson. But I’m still slightly confused as to why nature even bothered to give me a facsimile of  a dick.

I’m a lesbian, for Christ’s sake.

Sorry. It’s been a day of lame dick jokes. Must be the weather.

February bones

It’s a little chilly outdoors now, especially considering the unseasonable weather last week, so I’m attending to a few indoor tasks, in between raking manure out of the pasture and hauling it to the compost heaps  (The addition of the four mules has left us pretty much knee deep in shit, albeit in a good way). There’ll be three our four times as much area in raised beds in the vegetable garden this season.

I’ve been practicing my rudimentary sewing skills- hemming trousers, turning a few old cotton and linen dress shirts into work shirts in anticipation of a nasty summer (hope to hell I’m wrong), and making yet more stupid hats out of scrap fabric. I’m experimenting with the concept of the Havelock, which is that flap that keeps sun off the back of your neck worn by the French Foreign Legion, The Imperial Japanese Army in WWII, and both sides during the Civil War. I understand  it may help you avoid sunburn but wicks heat up the back of your neck and actually makes you feel more miserable in the sun;  at least that’s what the British Colonial troops in India had to say about it. I’m making it removable, just in case, and I’m not going to be wearing a wool uniform, either.

If we see temperatures anything like Australia,  I’m just going to dig a hole to crawl into.

Here’s my sewing machine. A Singer model 66. Still the most widely used sewing machine used in sweatshops and corner tailoring operations the world over, after more than a century.

I’m a freak for old machines. Once I start having to repair draft harness I hope I’ll be able to find a treadle driven saddlery stitcher.

White man dance

I used to encounter ADF girls while I was walking to my car from the library. Dance occupies a powerful branch of the brain which in my case has turned out weak.

Bull stalking

To capture and subdue the bull is regarded by some as difficult, but following these three easy steps, a potentially dangerous task can be accomplished with minimal risk.

1. The initial approach.

Timing is critical, as is unusual headgear. Superfluous movements can enrage the bull. The hat can reverse this course by providing amusement.

2. The lunge.

Quickly feint to the left while pretending to check your watch. Secure the bull with both hands grasping the midsection. Do not boast.

3. Subduing the creature.

You are by no means certain of success at this point. The bull may enjoy the recitation of some short verse. Watch carefully for his reaction. If he remains calm grasp the pressure points at the base of the throat. Squeeze tightly.

The bull is now subdued. He can now be used as a sofa, or a flotation device.

It’s me fuckin’ birthday

The hope in those faces. It still breaks my heart for them. Rock and roll is bad for you.