sefton's elegy for gene grey
Among people, our domestic mass merchandisers consider "regular folks", there live and work and procreate other people, known as "cultural relativists". Among them, it's a point of honor to accord a modicum of respect to primitives such as the Pygmies of the Congo. According, some Pygmy proverbs are considered, well, insightful enough to be "bon mots". Here's one such proverb: "better a smart enemy than a stupid friend".
I just gotta follow this up before proceeding to my elegy. The previous bon mot can stated somewhat differently, like so: the damage that can be wrought by a smart enemy can be horrendous, but the damage that can be wrought by a stupid friend can be mind-boggling.
For my part, I'm speculating that the Republican hierarchy will take about five years to realize something about the American flag, which they have "owned" for these last 40 years. Thanks in absolutely complete measure to the man, whom the Supreme Court of the United States had installed in the White House, that hierarchy lost the ownership of "Old Glory".
Please don't be thrown off by those first three paragraphs. In a sense, they're a memorial to the article that previously occupied this slot. ... aaay, my blog, my rules ... Now, let's proceed to the piece that replaced "better a smart enemy".
Ah, yes, my little chick-a-dees, this "ain't no" swine swill, customarily served the hoi polloi for their pious edification ... nor for that matter for salacious bemusement of profane and profaning [ahnghgh, insert choice of derogatory collective term]. Oh, alright (!) already, so I like to employ "dollar-ninety-eight" words ... so, wha'd'ya (?) gonna doo'boud'it!
More than likely, it's a good bet the preceding text intimates how I reacted to the news of Gene Grey's death. No and no again, I did not shed one tear. Nonetheless, I'm impelled to dedicate an elegy to Mr Grey.
Really, it's ironical I should do so in view of one simple fact. I strongly suspect Gene was my inferior. Oh, yes, I should remark on Mary Haupt's piece in the newspaper of record for the twin tiers of upstate New York and the rural northeast corner of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania ... no swine swill that.
Her piece impressed me mightily. In fact, her piece put on display for all the world to see two salient points. First off, she had welcomed Gene into her life. Second, he went about enriching it.
As for me, one might say that the inspiration for this piece came second-hand via Mary's. Let's start with my ever welcoming Gene into my life. If I ever did so, the occasion escapes my memory. While he was with us, so far as I can recall, he did do one small thing to enrich my life. He mentioned my semi-autobiographical novella WAR DODGER. He did not review it, mind you. He only mentioned it was available through the Internet at the bibliobytes website.
Please read the text in the following graphic. Aaay, c'mon, whyz.ache.err, why (?) must you always sprinkle, if not rain, on my parade. So, somebody might need a magnifying lens. That can be gotten in any dollar store for a buck.
Prologue done, let's proceed.
My recitation of the world's four most useless things would've, so I'm given to speculate, amused Gene.
The first three deal with matters of significance to aviators. And they are, in no particular order of impact: runway behind, altitude above and fuel on the ground. No dummy, Gene. He would've readily understood. As for the fourth most useless thing, it concerns politics.
Just so happens, he emphatically betrayed his affiliation. The man was staunchly Republican. . . . ya'know, I'd be willing to bet five doughnuts to somebody's three he voted in the last presidential election for the current occupant of the White House. And he did so for the second time. And that's the kind of hairpin he was.
Incidentally, somewhere towards the end of this piece, I will very emphatically hint about why the "kind of hairpin" comment is included in this text. Verily, so I now acknowledge, the following anecdote fails as geometrically rigorous proof for my preceding assertion about his being staunchly Republican.
Nonetheless, I proffer it as evidence to the effect that we exchanged comments on a few occasions. Quite some time before his death, I asked Gene for his opinion regarding that www.BCVoice.com website, to whose content I had then already contributed several articles. By the way, it's a good guess, the proprietors thereof no longer publish pieces, such as this elegy.
Anyway, Good Lord, there were times the man was totally devoid of diplomacy. In his considered opinion, that particular Broome-oriented website was a nest of "radical [ah, excised proctological expletive]".
Aaaay, whyz.ache.err, keep yer shirt on. I'm getting to the fourth thing right now. And, it is saying "I voted for you" to any politician, who's ineligible for re-election. Now that would've made him chuckle like crazy. No doubt about it, there was a vein of cynicism, a yard in girth and a furlong deep, in his soul.
As much as I admired his writing, I'm sorry to relate this suspicion ... well, not quite so sorry. There was as much poetry in his soul as is found in the average kumquat.
But then, that's only to be expected. Poets are better suited for propaganda than for journalism. And he was a journalist to his fingertips.
Speaking about poetry, I looked up the definition of "elegy" on my Franklin BOOKMAN MWD-440. And here's what I found: "poem expressing grief for one who is dead". The following inference is inevasible. I'm taking shocking liberties with that word.
Oh, well, I'll try to make up by quoting a tidbit of poetry I dearly wish I had treated Gene to. I'm sure he would've appreciated immensely. Aaay, dearth of poetry in the soul does not mean incapacity to appreciate same.
Darn, did I mention (?) my suspicions about Gene's being my inferior. Oh, yes, I'm sure I did, somewhere in the prologue. Quite some time ago, I wrote a piece for that Broome-oriented website with the title, get this, "female thinking a/k/a pseudo-voodoo". Let's skip to the bottom line (shall we?). In that piece, I conjecture that exceptional gossip mongers have the soul of a swindler.
Every so often, investigative journalism, both print and broadcast, reports how grifters and flim-flam rogues and various other charlatans describe their feelings, when they successfully defraud some unfortunate trusting sap. Unlike the Rolling Stones, they get satisfaction. Here it behooves me to be delicate.
Those exceptional scandal pushers achieve far more joy from character assassination by concocting lies than from bruiting brute fact. Depending on one's point of view, I was either fortunate or unfortunate in being immersed in happenstances that led me to that insight.
From what I can tell, poor Gene was immersed in happenstances that gravely hampered his ever grasping that insight. Could it be (?) that doesn't matter. Perhaps, he felt far more profoundly than I ever could the import of this elongated haiku:
. . . . . . . Self-righteousness
. . . is that lubricant, lacking
. . . . . . . . . which the machinery
. . . . . . . . . . . of evil
. . . . . . . . . .must surely seize.
In life, Gene was one prize package, no doubt about that. And lemme lay on the line. The man was a gay ... and not in a jovial sense ... party hound. Fact is, he was such a party hound that his friends and admirers came up with a wonderfully weird way to celebrate his life, and his sharing it with them. They threw a party in his honor. No, I wasn't there. I'm seldom in the mood to spend ten bucks to participate in riotous mourning.
There's also no doubt as Gene is now so shall we become. Oh, well, I suppose I should conclude this piece with a flourish, reminiscent of some Hallmark made-for-television movie. Oh, c'mon, whyz.ache.err, it's expected, and I'm hardly a wild-eyed iconoclast. Here goes.
Sooner or later, we're going to be like Gene. We'll all take our place before that great throne of judgment. In that circumstance, none shall be superior, none shall be inferior, none shall even be equal. Yes and yes again, we will be like Gene as we take our place before that great throne of judgment. We will be only human, neither more nor less ... maybe, even a bit too human.
toodles
.........he who is known as sefton
I just gotta follow this up before proceeding to my elegy. The previous bon mot can stated somewhat differently, like so: the damage that can be wrought by a smart enemy can be horrendous, but the damage that can be wrought by a stupid friend can be mind-boggling.
For my part, I'm speculating that the Republican hierarchy will take about five years to realize something about the American flag, which they have "owned" for these last 40 years. Thanks in absolutely complete measure to the man, whom the Supreme Court of the United States had installed in the White House, that hierarchy lost the ownership of "Old Glory".
Please don't be thrown off by those first three paragraphs. In a sense, they're a memorial to the article that previously occupied this slot. ... aaay, my blog, my rules ... Now, let's proceed to the piece that replaced "better a smart enemy".
Ah, yes, my little chick-a-dees, this "ain't no" swine swill, customarily served the hoi polloi for their pious edification ... nor for that matter for salacious bemusement of profane and profaning [ahnghgh, insert choice of derogatory collective term]. Oh, alright (!) already, so I like to employ "dollar-ninety-eight" words ... so, wha'd'ya (?) gonna doo'boud'it!
More than likely, it's a good bet the preceding text intimates how I reacted to the news of Gene Grey's death. No and no again, I did not shed one tear. Nonetheless, I'm impelled to dedicate an elegy to Mr Grey.
Really, it's ironical I should do so in view of one simple fact. I strongly suspect Gene was my inferior. Oh, yes, I should remark on Mary Haupt's piece in the newspaper of record for the twin tiers of upstate New York and the rural northeast corner of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania ... no swine swill that.
Her piece impressed me mightily. In fact, her piece put on display for all the world to see two salient points. First off, she had welcomed Gene into her life. Second, he went about enriching it.
As for me, one might say that the inspiration for this piece came second-hand via Mary's. Let's start with my ever welcoming Gene into my life. If I ever did so, the occasion escapes my memory. While he was with us, so far as I can recall, he did do one small thing to enrich my life. He mentioned my semi-autobiographical novella WAR DODGER. He did not review it, mind you. He only mentioned it was available through the Internet at the bibliobytes website.
Please read the text in the following graphic. Aaay, c'mon, whyz.ache.err, why (?) must you always sprinkle, if not rain, on my parade. So, somebody might need a magnifying lens. That can be gotten in any dollar store for a buck.
Prologue done, let's proceed.
My recitation of the world's four most useless things would've, so I'm given to speculate, amused Gene.
The first three deal with matters of significance to aviators. And they are, in no particular order of impact: runway behind, altitude above and fuel on the ground. No dummy, Gene. He would've readily understood. As for the fourth most useless thing, it concerns politics.
Just so happens, he emphatically betrayed his affiliation. The man was staunchly Republican. . . . ya'know, I'd be willing to bet five doughnuts to somebody's three he voted in the last presidential election for the current occupant of the White House. And he did so for the second time. And that's the kind of hairpin he was.
Incidentally, somewhere towards the end of this piece, I will very emphatically hint about why the "kind of hairpin" comment is included in this text. Verily, so I now acknowledge, the following anecdote fails as geometrically rigorous proof for my preceding assertion about his being staunchly Republican.
Nonetheless, I proffer it as evidence to the effect that we exchanged comments on a few occasions. Quite some time before his death, I asked Gene for his opinion regarding that www.BCVoice.com website, to whose content I had then already contributed several articles. By the way, it's a good guess, the proprietors thereof no longer publish pieces, such as this elegy.
Anyway, Good Lord, there were times the man was totally devoid of diplomacy. In his considered opinion, that particular Broome-oriented website was a nest of "radical [ah, excised proctological expletive]".
Aaaay, whyz.ache.err, keep yer shirt on. I'm getting to the fourth thing right now. And, it is saying "I voted for you" to any politician, who's ineligible for re-election. Now that would've made him chuckle like crazy. No doubt about it, there was a vein of cynicism, a yard in girth and a furlong deep, in his soul.
As much as I admired his writing, I'm sorry to relate this suspicion ... well, not quite so sorry. There was as much poetry in his soul as is found in the average kumquat.
But then, that's only to be expected. Poets are better suited for propaganda than for journalism. And he was a journalist to his fingertips.
Speaking about poetry, I looked up the definition of "elegy" on my Franklin BOOKMAN MWD-440. And here's what I found: "poem expressing grief for one who is dead". The following inference is inevasible. I'm taking shocking liberties with that word.
Oh, well, I'll try to make up by quoting a tidbit of poetry I dearly wish I had treated Gene to. I'm sure he would've appreciated immensely. Aaay, dearth of poetry in the soul does not mean incapacity to appreciate same.
Darn, did I mention (?) my suspicions about Gene's being my inferior. Oh, yes, I'm sure I did, somewhere in the prologue. Quite some time ago, I wrote a piece for that Broome-oriented website with the title, get this, "female thinking a/k/a pseudo-voodoo". Let's skip to the bottom line (shall we?). In that piece, I conjecture that exceptional gossip mongers have the soul of a swindler.
Every so often, investigative journalism, both print and broadcast, reports how grifters and flim-flam rogues and various other charlatans describe their feelings, when they successfully defraud some unfortunate trusting sap. Unlike the Rolling Stones, they get satisfaction. Here it behooves me to be delicate.
Those exceptional scandal pushers achieve far more joy from character assassination by concocting lies than from bruiting brute fact. Depending on one's point of view, I was either fortunate or unfortunate in being immersed in happenstances that led me to that insight.
From what I can tell, poor Gene was immersed in happenstances that gravely hampered his ever grasping that insight. Could it be (?) that doesn't matter. Perhaps, he felt far more profoundly than I ever could the import of this elongated haiku:
. . . . . . . Self-righteousness
. . . is that lubricant, lacking
. . . . . . . . . which the machinery
. . . . . . . . . . . of evil
. . . . . . . . . .must surely seize.
In life, Gene was one prize package, no doubt about that. And lemme lay on the line. The man was a gay ... and not in a jovial sense ... party hound. Fact is, he was such a party hound that his friends and admirers came up with a wonderfully weird way to celebrate his life, and his sharing it with them. They threw a party in his honor. No, I wasn't there. I'm seldom in the mood to spend ten bucks to participate in riotous mourning.
There's also no doubt as Gene is now so shall we become. Oh, well, I suppose I should conclude this piece with a flourish, reminiscent of some Hallmark made-for-television movie. Oh, c'mon, whyz.ache.err, it's expected, and I'm hardly a wild-eyed iconoclast. Here goes.
Sooner or later, we're going to be like Gene. We'll all take our place before that great throne of judgment. In that circumstance, none shall be superior, none shall be inferior, none shall even be equal. Yes and yes again, we will be like Gene as we take our place before that great throne of judgment. We will be only human, neither more nor less ... maybe, even a bit too human.
toodles
.........he who is known as sefton
posted by he who is known as sefton | 11:19 AM
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It pleases me mightily that somebody like redrockturtle left a comment that explicitly mentions this blog.
Anybody seeking nothing more than to promote their agenda on this blog, take heed!
As soon as I find any such comment, it gets deleted.
toodles
.....\
. he who is known as sefton
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