the subversive music of "red" garland, described as a cocktail pianist by fans who saw him perform in the nude at the blackhawk, was a brown skinned man who made a fair amount of green playing the blues before he was blacklisted during the yellow peril. i mean while am a misunderstood genius. even i don't understand that i'm a genius. life has been a world series of what-iffs for me. unfortunately i am not good at hitting the curve ball. i would have hit on lucy ball but i don't think i would have gotten to 1st base unless paul chambers maid was doing the dishes. gerald ford once described vikki carr as his favorite mexican dish, but with the price of gas now, he may have to reevaluate his ideas. ford new his carrs. coach carter drove a black ford. shit, these jokes are flatter than a transvestites breasts. while i sit babbling like a brooks pharmacy, children are starving, and we are cot between barrack and a hard place, a sleep at the wheel created by the ancestors of the people we are currently bombing to pieces to bring peace to the region. war is our religion, godbless america. our boys are giving their lives for us, the u.s. i picked up a vintage recording last week of hitler singing that old standard "there will never be another jew." it was a bonus feature to the new print of birth of a nation, which is a "classic" we are all told in film classes that just never seem to have the time for anything progressive. alas, those are all propaganda films. college! the good old days, when you were really majoring in looking at girls and searching for the next free meal, but had to pretend you were majoring in english. detective fiction with lefty grove is a class i will never forget, though there is little of it i can remember. another great class was the philosophy of race, with a guest lecturer discussing his analytical approach to running the boston marathon. the man was also an atheist who answered the "why are we here?" question in two parts. he stated "you are here for the credits, i for the fee" fee at last fee at last thank grod all mighty we are fee at last my love has come along, my lonely days are over and life is like a song. i went to umass boston, where i was inspired by one dave silberg, who thought that by marching to free mumia, mumia would be free. silberg, a little known fool, who once attempted to sell papers by saying "free paper, only 50 cents" was ahead of his time, but only by 6minutes. this meant that he would always have to wait a little longer for the train to come. silberg used to think he could "change the world" but now has a hard enough time living in it. a groucho marx who never made the grade, who failed at every turn, who could only pass gas and even then only got a c- in it and bombed on the final, silberg is now an old fart, a working stiff. like me, like you, like all of us,fish in a tank. you're welcome. well, come on in and enjoy the show. it's a circus, a freak show, a farce. but, where are the elephants? knock knock, who's there? elephant. elephant who? elephants gerald. the first lady of song who fought for universal health care but no one cared except frank sinatra, whose cottage was for sale but no one came because of the stormy weather. i'll never smile again, but then again, this is no laughing matter. all life is madeup of matter, sometimes it seems that all life is made up and that makes me down. what is real, and who is keeping it? who is holding it down? and will it rise again like my penis at a peep show with my peeps. who are you to call me perverted? who are you to judge judy garland? just because dorothy, who finds me funny, is somewhere over the rainbow in kansas, doesn't mean she, or any other blogger commenter, can evaluate me. she may be the gal that got away, and the marvin gaye's may love her, but i crave reality, not fiction! truth, not fantasy. love, not sex. is there a god, and does he speak english? can he break a 20? can he perform a song by smokey robinson and the miracles? can he follow the tracks of my tears, which are the tears of a clown. i, my friend, am no bozo. i know when to end a blog. yeah, about 300 words too late.he left us some psalms...and they make me solemn. i'm gone.