Archive for March, 2012


And this is my favorite from the seventeenth segment of The Friars Club Encyclopedia of Jokes (categories under the letter, R):

Three fellows die and are transported to the pearly gates, where St. Peter explains that admission depends on a quick quiz, a mere formality.  “I’m just going to ask each of you a single question,” he explains,” turning to the first guy.  “What, please, is Easter?”

“That’s easy.  Easter is when you celebrate the Pilgrims’ landing.  You buy a turkey–“

“Sorry,” interrupts St. Peter briskly, “you’re out.”  And he asks the second man, “What can you tell me about Easter?”

“No problem,” the fellow responded promptly.  “That’s when we commemorate Jesus’ birth by going shopping, and decorating a tree–“

“No, no, no,” St Peter bursts out, and turns in exasperation to the last guy.  “I don’t suppose you know anything about Easter?”

“Certainly I do.  See, Christ was crucified, and He died, and they took the body down from the cross and wrapped it in a shroud and put it in a cave and rolled this big stone across the entrance–“

“Hang on a sec,” interrupts St. Peter excitedly, beckoning the other two over.  “Listen.  We’ve got someone here who actually knows his stuff.”

“And after three days they roll the stone away,” continues the third guy confidently,” and if He sees His shadow, there’s going to be six more weeks of winter.”


Another question from Gregory Stock’s book is this:

Would you accept $10,000 to shave your head and continue your normal activities sans hat or wig without explaining the reason for your haircut?

This one’s too easy–my head’s already shaved!  In fact, I shave my head at least once a month–I get a buzzcut at the nearest barber shop, at the lowest setting of the clippers.  The reason–it’s hot as hell here in Pensacola, Florida, and I have to keep a scalp like Bruce Willis’ just to stay cool!  Still, I would gladly accept $10,000 every month for this necessary buzzcut (I’d end up being as rich as Bruce Willis)!  In the good old days, when global warming was just speculation, I was able to let my hair grow abundantly year-round.  And I have beautiful hair–it’s my best feature.  I kid you not, my hair is very much like Ted Danson’s.  It is thick, it is full, it is sleek, it is wavy–and it grows very rapidly.  And though it becomes more gray with each new, stressful year, it’s still beautiful.  And it’s beautiful whether it’s cut almost to the scalp, or styled out like Danson’s is.  As this global warming intensifies (we didn’t even have a winter this year), I may soon need to move north.  And the farther north I move, the more likely I’ll be able to let my hair grow out to its most glorious, at least during the winter.  Until then though, my scalp will have to remain like that of Bruce Willis year-round.  What can I say–I’m literally hotheaded!

And as I mention Ted Danson, I want to ask a favor of you.  Please call or email WGN TV (Chicago), and tell them to bring back Cheers!  The phone number is (773) 528-2311, and the email address is  For no good reason, WGN recently dropped its weekday afternoon re-airing of Cheers (the greatest sitcom ever made, in my opinion) before the series finale!  Now I’ll admit, I’d seen the entire series (which ran from 1982-1993) before–but it’s downright inconsiderate to stop the re-airing of a series before the series ends, don’t you agree?  Even if you’re not a fan of Cheers, I would appreciate your doing this.  I would also like to read your thoughts about the series–particularly the Diane vs. Rebecca factor.  Did you like the show better when Diane (Shelley Long) was Sam’s love-interest or when Rebecca (Kirstie Alley) was?


This is perhaps the most surrealistic music-impression poem I’ve ever written, yet one audience absolutely loved it.  To write it, I used the music from an opera by Philip Glass, entitled, Satyagraha.  Philip Glass is a brilliant composer of contemporary Western classical music.  He’s probably most recently known for the filmscore he wrote for The Hours.  I’ve never seen Satyagraha in its entirety–but I’ve listened to the music of the opera over and over again.  The theme of Satygraha is Gandhi and the struggle for Indian independence from British occupation.  Though the music was composed by Philip Glass, the vocal text was written by Constance DeJong, and was adapted from the Bhagavad-Gita.  As a result, the words are written neither in English nor even in Hindi–but in Sanskrit.  So I wasn’t distracted by the meaning of the words, in writing the poem.  And as always, the poem has nothing to do with the opera–it’s simply a compilation of images that arose in my mind randomly, as I listened to it.  By the way, if you want to listen to the CD set (which I highly recommend), it is available through Sony Music.

Philip Glass: Satyagraha

Scott ____

Act 1

Spinsters sing of placid ponds where they gathered with their lovers in a future century, when the term, spinster, was archaic.  One is Molly, whose young man was killed in some Near-Eastern war before he could marry her.  Stone tablets hold laws from long before Molly’s time, which we now swallow with water.  Prehistoric gatherers awaken to acres of blueberry bushes–planted by hunters to feed deer, in appreciation of their meat.  You ask why I buy Sanskrit sands, rather than Latin ones.  It is because Western words have Latin enough.  Sleeping in sexual transcendence, I truly coddle Molly in a warm moment–then wake to the terror of loss.  For I am her young man, though quite old in any era.  Ants believe only in the collective collection of soil grains, if it could be called belief.  Yet how much greater are we, the hairless apes, the hairy angels?  We definitely believe, but have no control over our beliefs whatsoever.  Spinning in smoking elephant-hay, a clown of contempt burns the circus for which he seems to smile–immolating himself, in the process, with a real smile.  Wild wasps weave a nest in my wheelbarrow-windchime.  When stung, I douse them all with Raid.  It is the way of the primieval, yet suburbanized wilderness.  Telephone operators of the early Twentieth Century switch frantically between Number please and Thank you, your call is connected–with the same precision as those wasps.  And we forget what work they did.  We men forget our forefathers shaved with straight razors–while women forget their foremothers washed clothes by hand.

Act 2

The Irish violinist moves his bow as if it were an outgrowth of bone.  And the Bard writes of Bouddica, though unaware of it.  In 1910, in a nun’s nightmare, horses have been replaced by millions of strange-looking automobiles, and the streets are paved with toxic asphalt.  Drivers talk on tiny telephones, and tap on tiny typewriters while driving–and are often killed, as a result.  And those who mind their driving are still distracted by endless advertisements on huge boards.  Even churches display signs for drivers’ attention–some of which scream secular profanities:  If you don’t stop using my name in vain, I’m going to make the traffic slower!  Islam is of the Devil!  Where are you going, Heaven or Hell!  Prepare to Meet God!  Jesus is watching you!  Know Jesus, know peace–no Jesus, no peace!  Jesus didn’t die on the cross so you could hunt Easter eggs!  Find Jesus, before He finds you!  And seeing such signs from beyond, Jesus weeps–again.  Chasing visions of hush puppies, a spotted, white dog wanders Walmart’s parking lot–its tail held down, as if to hide it.  A kind, but lonely man stops his car, gets out, and squats down.  Beckoning gently, he offers daily food, a large backyard, his house, and plenty of playtime.  But someone beat this dog, and it walks away.  The man sighs, and prays for it, as if for a person.  Rhoda recites the daily rhetoric of Joe the Plumber before the Prince of Prana, in song.  He strokes his black cat, thoughtfully.  “And what of Mary the Carpenter?” he asks.  “She is silent today, My Lord,” Rhoda replies.  An azure azalea branch wraps around a rattlesnake before it can bite a bison’s leg–and squeezes it so tightly that it bleeds.  Running beyond Raid’s reach, we follow flame-red flies once worshiped in Mesoamerica–while centuries follow us, reminding us of our future fall.  And the flies gather in our mass grave, only to devour us once we reach them.

Act 3

I descend the staircase to the elevator that takes me to the center of the mezzo-soprano’s mouth.  From there, she sings me out into a world of wires, red, yellow, and blue.  As I untangle them, they become vines which open onto a beach of blindingly-bright, white water.  I walk to the sea of emerald sand, wade to shoulder-depth, and swim for a while.  When I resurface, I find an inner-tube table covered with bowls of bubble gum ice cream and cups of Jones Pure Cane Cola.  Before I can eat and drink all of it, I sink into the sand–then awaken here in my living room, in my recliner, writing matter into antimatter.  Outside my window, sunlight breathes life through live-oak branches–much of the view obscured by stacks of DVDs on the left, my CD player on the right, and my television in the center.  The lamp reflects into the black screen, just as I do.  I am obese, in a white undershirt.  My golden-brown hair is military-monk short, and my skin is fair on my face, arm, and knee.  On the screen is also a bookcase behind me, an end table beside me, and a poster of a mountain lion in the snow.  I’d cover myself with snow for relief from the September heat in the Pensacola sky.  Let me be a wild mountain lion, or a voluptuous woman, or a much healthier version of myself.  Isn’t this the dream of anyone?  To be something enviable, or something desirable, or something simply better?  Within my world is me–within yours is you.  And worlds never converge, except in words.


And this is my favorite from the sixteenth segment of The Friars Club Encyclopedia of Jokes (categories under the letter, P):

One day Jason burst into the house and said, “Mom!  Dad!  I have great news:  I’m getting married to the greatest girl in the world.  Florence has agreed to marry me.”

But that night Jason’s dad took him aside for a little chat.  “I have some bad news for you, son,” he confessed.  “See, I used to fool around a lot, and Florence is actually your half-sister.  I’m afraid you can’t marry her.”

Jason was broken-hearted, and moped around for a good six months, but eventually he started dating again.  And a year or so later he came home with happy tidings.  “Vickie said yes!  We’re getting married in October, isn’t that great?!”  

Alas, Jason’s father insisted on another private conversation and broke the bad news again.  “Vickie’s your half-sister, too, son.  I’m awfully sorry.”

This time Jason was beside himself with anger and grief, and he finally confessed to his mother.  “At this rate I’m never going to get married,” he moaned.  “Every time I fall in love, Dad says the girl’s my half-sister.”

“Don’t pay any attention to him, Jason,” said his mother cheerfully.  “See, I did some fooling around myself, and he’s not your father.”


Another question from Gregory Stock’s book is this:

Would you be willing to reduce your life expectancy by five years to become extremely attractive?

Of course I would!  I’d be attractive anyway, if I weren’t obese.  I’m 6 feet 3 inches tall, with abundant, golden-brown hair, green eyes, and a large, very masculine skeletal structure.  I’ve been told I resemble Jay Leno and John Goodman. 

But I weigh 318 pounds–over 100 pounds more than my ideal weight of 210.  So far, I’ve escaped diabetes, but I do have high blood pressure.  I eat very unhealthy foods, and hardly exercise at all.  I’m in worse health than I’ve ever been in my life.  At age 46, and in such poor health, I have a very short life expectancy anyway. 

So if I were to become extremely attractive, even at the cost of five years, I would actually live longer anyway–because this 100 + pounds of fat would instantly disappear!  Further, I would instantly have massive muscles, including six-pack abs, without having to lift a finger, let alone weights!  And I’d get my original nose back (I had reconstructive surgery on my nose in 1986, and have regretted it ever since)–a large, yet distinguished-looking nose resembling that of George Washington!

Regarding one’s life, quality is definitely more important than quantity.  And becoming extremely attractive would definitely add to the quality of my life.  Not only would I be in extremely good health, but I’d more easily attract an extremely attractive woman, like this:


After reading this excellent poem about apathy, I am reminded of the following poem I wrote a few months ago:

Apathy in Action

Scott ____

I saw no evil

I heard no evil

I spoke no evil.

Yet in doing so

I did no good.

And this next poem is an example of a diminuendo:


Scott ____

The end of the world

will be proclaimed

in fading

song of



I’ve been bitten by a writing bug lately, and I don’t know why!  Nevertheless, I might as well take full advantage of it!

Most of my poetry I’ve posted on this blog is music-impression poetry, but I haven’t written any of that for awhile.  Lately, I’ve been writing more structured forms like the Etheree.  If you’re unfamiliar with the Etheree, you’re not alone–I was unfamiliar with it for a very long time too.  There are four types of Etherees, and you can get all the details at this excellent website:

If you’re interested in writing poetry, I hope you’ll give these a try– they’re very enjoyable to write, and they look good on paper.

The following is a collection of examples I’ve written of all four types: the Etheree, the Double Etheree, the Reverse Etheree, and the Twin Etheree.


Ethereal Addiction

Scott ____


is how

I take my

coffee after

breakfast, after lunch

and after dinner.  High

is how I feel with each cup

in the presence of my hi-fi

whose components, too, are black, and whose

volume is too high, leading to white clouds.


Stranger Love

Scott ____


calls her

his woman

though she’s neither

spoken to him, nor

even seen him.  And he’s

only seen her once, from behind

and afar.  She’s a tall brunette

voluptuous in a dark, pink dress

pumping gas into her car gracefully.

She looks from side to side, thus showing him

her delicate face unknowingly

then returns the nozzle to the

pump, and slowly drives away.

Twelve years have gone since this

moment of rapture.

Yet she remains

his woman

till his



Divine Selection

Scott ____

Millions of potential mates await you

scattered all over the planet–the

nearest living a mile away

or a thousand.  Yet even

if you meet the nearest

you will not know you’re

potential mates

but by grace

if at



All That Exists

Scott ____




to love

that which we

want to be

below to do

that which is new

behind to conceive

that which we believe

and beyond to fulfill

that which we desire still.

And what sees us is a force

which follows us on our course

knowing what choices we will make

yet letting us judge each mistake.

For this force is our ultimate source

secure within enough not to force

any knowledge of the truth that persists–

this force, Creator, is all that exists.


My blog has been viewed by residents of the Zionist State (“Israel”) lately, and I welcome them.  Yet I hope they will consider my position on the Middle East situation.  I am not opposed to Jews or to Judaism.  And though I am opposed to Christianity, I am not opposed to Christians.  I am opposed to Zionism, however–and the majority of Zionists are not Jewish but Christian.  Most Americans are unfamiliar with Palestinian history, and are thus unfamiliar with the root cause of the crisis in the Middle East.  And I ask these Americans to simply pick up an encyclopedia, and look under the heading, Palestine.  From there, they will begin to learn how this crisis arose, and why it continues.  This is what I have done, in the last several years–and why I have taken a position most Americans might consider un-American.

The establishment and continued support of the Zionist State (“Israel”) is an ongoing atrocity against the Arab People and against Muslims, in general.


Sometimes it’s good to step back from one’s blog, and try to see it as someone else would.  This is one of those moments.  I downloaded some photos of Madeleine Stowe earlier today, for a display on my blog.  Then I asked myself why.  Why do I like to post pictures of things and people I desire, admire, or envy?

There is a sheet of poster paper on my living-room wall, with pictures from magazines covering it.  I made it several years ago, at the Unity Church here in Pensacola.  It was for a treasure-mapping workshop, and it was one of the most enjoyable group activities I’ve ever done. 

All of the necessary materials were provided:  poster paper, glue, scissors, various stickers, and a mountain of magazines of different genres.  Going through the magazines, we cut out pictures of things and people we envied, admired, or especially desired.  Then we pasted them on our treasure maps.  The idea, as explained by the instructor, is to make a collage of things and people you desire–then step back and visualize having these things and people in your life.  Supposedly, in visualizing what you desire, you’ll eventually get it. 

I don’t have a camera, so I can’t show you my treasure map.  But it’s covered with scenes of beautiful places, magnificent animals, great works of art, and of course gorgeous women–and finished off with stickers of hundred-dollar bills.

I haven’t gotten any of these, since.  Either the visualization is questionable (like astrology), or I lack faith.  Yet the treasure map is still special to me, and I’ll always keep it.  Because it reveals so much about me as a person–and that is definitely worth the time and effort that went into making it. 

I learned, at a very early age, the importance of self-examination.  Yet almost as important is self-actualization–the practice of visualizing what you want to become, and what you want to attain.  For though your dreams may be unattainable, they give you something for which to live.


As of 5:47 pm today, I am 46 years old.  Yet nothing has changed.

I still want love…


I still need courage…