The (New & Improved) HYENA KITCHEN

  T hat heartless, bag of rattling bastard Death is a motherfucker – a patient and conniving motherfucker. In the midst of stealing a few folks that already had my heart aching, I found out today that months ago I lost an old friend.  The last of his clan.  I reached out today, to touch base and learned that Tracy May had passed.  The May family had, in one way or the other, in my life since 5 th grade.  Tracy and his twin brother Stacy were a year younger than the rest of us, but made their presence know. Death reached out for Stacy in high school, leaving Tracy a bit lost.  Next was their older brother Eugene, who I worked with. Then their sister, older and beautiful, who I found out too late, had a crush on me.  Finally, not yet content, Death came for Tracy. They say that death is hardest on those left behind, at least that’s no longer a worry for them. Reach out to those who populate your map, and let them know what they mean to you. Live your life so well that that boney bastard

 Thought it might be about time to drop a bit of post-Halloween micro fiction on you,  just because. . .Enjoy! “Room at the End of the Hall” by James Patrick Lockett               I walk to the end of the hallway each morning to feed the man that is my charge. I set the tray down, in order to unlock the seven bolts that secure the door. Careful not to cross or disturb the ring of salt that encircles the room.   Upon my entrance, he moves to the back of the circle, as he’s been instructed, so that I may place the tray inside the circle. Gently.             Each morning I bring him a stone cup of fresh goat’s milk, a variety of fruit and sweetmeats, and bread. A fresh candle and a small silver tray of brimstone.   Then I step back, a safe distance, and sit in the open doorway to observe him, or simply keep him company.             Watching him eat is the most sensual experience I’ve ever had. The pleasure he derives from each bite, raising them to his lips, before it disappea

          It’s been said that “you are what you eat.”  You are also, what you drink. What you read. You are all of what you let into yourself. Take a look at your self-nourishment sometime.  If you live off of corporate junk, you become a . . .that’s right, a corporate junkie. In debt to the machine that doesn’t give a righteous fuck about you. Damn the pusher man . Now I don’t want to come across like a born again/reformed smoker/shitbag, I admit to stumbling into a McDonalds on occasion, because I might want to feed some nostalgic craving and in one bite, remember oh yeah, it’s not that good.             It makes my principles hurt. I feel compromised. There’s something morally wrong about being that consumer cog in the evil machine.   And by evil machine I mean the McDonalds, Starbucks, Amazon’s out there (unfortunately, one of my books is available only through Amazon, sigh ). It applies to Facebook. . .I’m sorry Meta . The Coca-Cola Company. Nestles. Walmart. Domino’s pizza. Bi

 

 

 So, I see that it's been a month since I posted here - SOOORRY!! Life has been upside down for the past month. You know when they  make those "most stressful event" lists and moving, death and divorce lead the pack? Well two out of three ain't bad - throw moving and a passing in the mix together and you get a bit of an upheaval - but my success rat of surviving shit in my life remains at 100% - and I've emerged the other side of it and am back to regular posting. Stay tuned. . . Day One.                                                                                                   Now!       

  I love a challenge.  Give me a topic and a word limit and my mind start reeling.  To write within the confines of 250 words – as in this case – and to hit the mark dead on fills me with schpilcus, man . What doesn’t thrill me is responding to the submission challenge (an April 4 th deadline) and seeing the listing repeated, each time with a new deadline (and of course more reading fees) until this morning when they (and no, I’m not naming the magazine) passed on the story – with a note encouraging me to submit more – no, I think I’m good thanks.  But the good news is, now, I get to post it here – so find a spare 250 seconds and take a gander at a few words. Enjoy.                                                           “In the Quiet of Morning”                                                                                  by                                                            James Patrick Lockett                                                                          

This goes out to all the amazing women in my orbit, you all deserve the world these words promise.  

  Wring your hands, folks – to the worries and problems that plague your life, that plague the world as you see it.   Then, as you bury your face remember those immortal words of Rick, as he stood on that foggy tarmac –it doesn’t take much to realize that the problems of two people don’t add up to a hill of beans in this crazy world – because they really don’t. The world doesn’t care, nor does the universe.   In 2016, astronomers received a radio signal from a star 500 billion light years away. Other than saying to yourself – damn, that’s far away – think about this in relation to time.   500 billion light years means that this radio signal was sent about the time the earth was forming. BOOM!             So, I want you to look into the faces of those displaced by disaster – be it mother nature or man’s inhumanity – and share their pain instead of turning away from it, for you are only one or two steps away. Everything changes – and it changes in a heartbeat.   The common thing we all

                                      Photo by J. Lockett 2021.

 

That “Container Life” is not all it’s cracked up be. All those hipster YouTube videos, yearning to get “off grid” in a converted school bus, or better yet live out their “sustainable” years in a 8’ x 40’ four room micro mansions, where you feed your guests outside on the deck/living room.    Just ask the 50 immigrants, who were found dead last week in San Antonio, about container life. Now, I don’t mean to be glib – this is a tragedy beyond reasonable comprehension.  But I do mean to be glib about NPR.   Their first story I heard this morning was, and I quote “Investigators are working to find out why at least fifty-one migrants died in the back of a tactor trailer in San Antonio, this week.”  I’ll tell you why, but first let’s look at who’s heading up the investigation – the Department of Homeland Security – that crack Gestapo Unit of unrestrained stormtroopers – formed after 9/11 as knee jerk reaction to fear, in a time when our government couldn’t be bothered with the rights

 Somedays the words and broken ideologies of man steal all the colors from our sight. And turn the petals raven black, for it is hope and light they lack,  these wicked fools. But those who know the power the sunflower holds, Know it WILL dawn again, in it's vibrant glory,  as always promised.

 . . .I'd hoped for better, while I prepared my mind to accept this coming injustice, I'm gut-punched. For, supposedly, brilliant legal minds to do this, well I'd hoped for better. Even with this, words fail me, all that's left to do is Stand. “Stand!”   My outrage today transcends the page, all available words border on rage, there is no ink dark enough to contain this offense – this hate, which arouses more hate and anger in response. Grab your torches and raise the village Storm yon castle and drag out the offender, this stain on humanity – yet, that makes you no better than they [or them, or that] whatever pronoun you choose to describe – as long as it is not the “Honorable.” [they] relinquished that word. Remember that, through your tears, your heartbreak, and despair there are those around you who truly care. Love conquers Hate. Right conquers Wrong. Even behind the darkest veil Justice will always prevail. Stand up. Stand strong. Stand!    

        I had come across a wonderful quote attributed to William Butler Yeats about waiting patiently – which I tucked away in my plastic Cap’n Crunch treasure chest – for some future use. I thought ‘Patiently Waiting’ made for a great title (or tattoo) – however, I recently discovered that Yeats “borrowed” the quote from playwright Eden Phillpotts’ 1919 book of vignettes entitled A Shadow Passes , with the change of two words.  Phillpotts’ original reads – “ The universe is full of magical things patiently waiting for our wits to grow sharper.” Phillpotts’ use of “universe” over Yeats’ “world,” holds a much deeper meaning for me.     I try – I really do – I try my own patience, but it is so hard to find calm in this fast paced/ immediate need world we find ourselves in.   As a lapse-Buddhist, patience is that seemingly unattainable goal. As a surfer patience is a must. For a serious coffee addict, waiting for the first pot of the morning can seem an eternity. Dogs. Horses. Children

       H ey there Kats and Kittens, it’s been minute since there was a new New Music Friday, I know, and I apologize.   Things have been crazy - yes, too crazy to whip out a nod to the great stuff I’ve been listening to and there’s great stuff out there. So here’s an abridged New Music Monday. A quick list of goodies to go treat yourself to.   John Doe ’s latest Fables in a Foreign Land (Fat Possum Records); the long awaited session from Mavis Staples & Levon Helm Carry Me Home (Anti); Trombone Shorty ’s mix of everything - Lifted (Blue Note Records); the return of Taj Mahal and Ry Cooder , their first together since 1965 - Get On Board (Perro Verde Records); and Lyle Lovett ’s first in ten years 12 th of June (Cycle Holdings) - named for the birthday of his twins - will all get you through (when mixed with a healthy dose of my usual eclectic rabbit hole fallings - Al Kooper, the Mad Lads (Stax), and early Jack Ingram). Get right. Mind the grand divide and be happy.           

                                                                                      (photo by Eolo Perfido) It is sad. This sorrow we all feel at the moment, though we can’t put a finger on the source of the sadness. We were given a great gift. A pandemic. We were afforded an opportunity to see what our lives would be in the great without.   To take a long hard look at what was important, and we failed. Those of us who saw this as an evolution are sad - and those who saw it as a grand imposition, those who needed it the most, are left angry and anxious. It is sad. We had the chance to find less, yet we find a world of billionaires flying to space, while others leverage and borrow against what have to buy more feeding only their ego.   Supply chain woes when half that absent supply is simply unneeded and value of imaginary money, imaginary art, and imaginary fame exist like a child’s imaginary friend.   And speaking of imaginary friends, the separation of Church and State was (C

The road is long, the words are scattered before us a carpeted path that is (sadly) not understood by many of those who walk beside us. there are many words to be spoken even though they won't be heard, understood, or heeded. for they can't see what lies at their feet, nor can they see the many words they have yet to cross - they seldom see the end of the road, much less the direction the words point. why write if there is no point? When the road is long?  

  (Cue: The theme from Patton)      A nd if I were more ambitious, I would step before a video camera, walking up in front of a giant American flag and speak this aloud:       “When John Steinbeck began his retelling of Sir Thomas Mallory’s Le Mort d’Arthur in 1956, he failed to include the legend of his own creation, that of of St. Lenny and the literary allegory of substituting a rabbit for the mythical dragon. Even upon it’s posthumous 1976 publication, The Acts of King Arthur and His Noble Knights , Steinbeck’s “unfinished” manuscript failed to acknowledge St. George and St. Lenny at all - hence, the “unfinished” I suppose.   Regardless, we still celebrate St. George today - all things George, in fact.   The Sainted "George" - George of Lydda was a Roman soldier - and not a Knight - but he’s rumored to have killed a dragon, which is much cooler than refusing to denounce one’s Christianity (for which he was killed and later sainted). So, let’s now give a nod to all th

 

     B ack in my stand-up days - way back in the 1980’s before everyone had feelings and politicized correctness - I did a telephone bit to play with the audience.  The phone would ring on stage and I’d have to answer.  It was the father of whichever young lady was seated up front (this is why you never sit against the stage in a Comedy Club) and I would proceed to relay questions from “Dad” about how the date was going, etc.  Sounds dumb, I know, but it worked. One particular night, however, a young lady’s date took umbrage to what I was saying and decided to defend his woman - this happened to be Texas, I should have known better.  As he was making his way around to the steps, I kept talking - I think the word is needling. Always one to make a situation worse! It was killing, and as he got closer, phone in hand, I dropped my arm ready to clock him if he actually stepped up on stage. One foot on the bottom step and security grabbed him, escorting him from the room, all the time thre

 Today's venture outside the walls of the blogosphere, take us to Maya's Micros - a feature found at  www.theclosedeyeopen.com . I'm quite proud to have my piece "The Last Bookstore" included in this month's batch. Thanks to Daniel and Maya, now GO - check it out. [End of shameless self-promotional plug]           https://theclosedeyeopen.com/mayas-micros-ed-15/

                      So, the subject of the relevance, in regard to the Academy Awards came up today before the broadcast and the answer is simple. They are NOT.   They haven’t been for years now, long before a pandemic threatened to destroy the movie going experience. To paraphrase Norma Desmond, movies are still big, it’s the minds that are getting smaller. The minds of the studios. The minds of the public. The minds of the Academy. Small minds. Now studios have never been broad minded, it’s all about money and dumbing down the product to the lowest common denominator - but God damn it there was a time they made at least five relevant movies each year.   And without having to be PC.   Great movies are great regardless of topic or director and it is that greatness that deserves awards. That greatness that is relevant.                 And as far as the public’s concerned, since when has the public been the best the best judge of what’s good.   Tonight’s broadcast is a perfect ex

                                                         To everything, turn, turn, turn                                                      There is a season, turn, turn . . .             And as we turn around once again another Spring has sprung, another sunrise has aligned perfectly through Stonehenge, somewhere “Here Comes the Sun” is dee-deedle-lee-ding through a 3” speaker, and soon many of us will be heading off to sea. Well, not literally, but what is it some 70% of the world’s population live within an hour’s drive of water - so you know you’re headed to the beach. Soon.   And with that in mind, remember we are connected to the water in ways we fail to understand. The planet is 75% water. The human body is 60% water. We show little regard for how we treat either and it will be the downfall of both.   Climate change and pollution is going to change our relationship with the oceans. So, as you embrace the Spring (and coming Summer) value the fact that you have access to clea

    I wonder if there is an Office of Calendarial Overreach that oversees the assignment of “National Day of’s.”  It seems every day I open the ol’ laptop and there’s new one - National Cumquat Day. National Tattoo Removal Day. National Pet Pedicure Day. - something.  I seem to remember reading that in 1970 it took - literally - an act of Congress to ratify Earth Day, in a bi-partisan agreement I might add.  Now it seems these “Days” are handed out like New Orleans parade permits.  You pay your $20 and fill out the form and bingo - it’s National Bingo Day.  Now, I bring this up today because it is National Pi Day - not to be confused with National Pie Day (January 23 rd ) or, say National Apple Pie Day (May 13 th ) - but the celebration of that famed infinite number 3.14 and I suppose in recognition of today’s date. Coincidence perhaps? Until you take into account that today is also National Nap Day - conveniently falling on the day after we “spring forward” an hour - so close to Nat

       Hiya gang, and welcome to “old” music Wednesday.   Just a quick Happy Birthday acknowledgement to Norman Smith - born February 22 nd , 1923 - sadly, he passed in March of 2008. Why? “Normal” Norman was a producer and engineer at EMI responsible for engineering The Beatles through Rubber Soul (about 100 Beatle songs in all). It was John who coined the nickname “normal” for Smith’s laidback nature. At the end of the Help sessions, The Beatles recorded a demo of one of Smith’s songs that remains unreleased - replaced at the last minute by “Act Naturally,” because Ringo needed a track.      Smith went on to produce a new group called Pink Floyd - during the sessions for A Saucer Full of Secrets - Floyd’s 2 nd album drummer Nick Mason could not find the right part, but Smith knew what he wanted and played drums on the track himself.      In the early 70’s Smith decided to try his hand at a solo career.   Under the name “Hurricane” Smith , he had a #2 Uk hit with “Don’t Let

  As always, it was there waiting for him. As if by some unseen magic. A gift from the Gods. The sun had found the tiniest crack in the curtains and pried his eye open to the acknowledgement of morning. Feet shuffled across the cold floor, comforter wrapped around him offering little comfort, carrying into the kitchen. There is was - inexplicably waiting - and inexplicably still hot.   The cup that held the endless possibilities of the day. The hopes and dreams, the necessary hash marks to check of day’s to-do-list. The power and grace needed to survive the waking hours. The cup of quests, that called to man since the dawn of time. Always ready. Always hot. Always there. It warmed his fingers as his hands embraced. He raised it to his lips. All things were now possible.

Enough. That is a word I’ve used a lot the past two years. It fit an array of emotions.  But, it is also a goal. The writer C. K. Chesterton said, “There are two ways to get enough: One is to accumulate more and more. The other is to desire less.”  I seek a happiness that holds few possessions. Less is enough.  I still struggle to embrace the knowledge that physical possessions are not permanent. . .and as another move looms on the horizon, I find myself again considering the impermanence of these things. Yet there are some things I desire - possessions that lend themselves to happiness (see photo) - hence the struggle. Yesterday, I ventured out in the world. . . ew, the world, right? . . . armed with a few extra shekels in my pocket and the hope of treating myself to a little something, something.  Only to find my favorite vintage clothing shop is now boarded up. The local museum shop is charging local museum shop prices for an exhibit poster I thought I wanted. Even the two Ta

 A cause very near and dear to my heart, so often overlooked among all the other causes.  Remember that February is Bacon Awareness Month. From the eighteen strips on the Lumberjack Special at your local diner to that extra shake of bits on tonight's salad, the National Bacon Association is appreciative. Bacon Awareness allows for certain  religious exceptions for Lent and Passover, should they occur during February - you got me, I don't know when either are happening. Bacon makes a surprising Valentines' alternative, as well as an acceptable menu suggestion for those of you celebrating a nice, quiet Presidents Day at home with the kids. So, Bacon Up!

Change. Everything changes Philosophers to songwriters. . . even the mirror, all note it. Constant. Overwhelming at times from those things gone, to those things new that no sense; at times, enough to bring you to your knees regardless just one day don’t be such a motherfucker, huh?  

      O kay Apple Scruffs, here we are on the anniversary of The Beatles ’ impromptu final concert on the rooftop at 3 Saville Row - and now thanks to Pete Jackson and Disney - it is the hype that keeps on hyping. A live performance of five songs (multiple takes), just under 40 minutes in the brutal cold of a London January, that they thought would be a nice ending for the Get Back film project.   Pulled off on a whim, until the police “bumbled in” and shut things down.   Unquestionably a moment of rock history, but now the Complete Rooftop Concert is available as a digital download - thanks, we all have the bootleg and starting today you can see the concert on IMAX screens worldwide.   More hype, more money, more, more, more. Didn’t you guys see this already in Part Three???   A restored Let It Be in IMAX theaters? Now that I’d be all over.        Like it or not, we’ve already been subjected to the long and winding hype that is Peter Jackson’s Get Back - the Disney+ / 160+ hour

                Hey everybody and welcome to The Graffiti Edition of New Music Friday - Good Graffiti should always carry a positive message - as with the above words scrolled somewhere on walls of Joe Rogaine’s office. Speaking of the senseless controversy stirred up publicists last week, does anyone get the idea that Neil Young has a new album out??? Best publicity is controversy, and NO ONE knows that better than Mr. Young - well, maybe S***ify and Shecky Rogaine do now, but I’ll bet it’s a lesson lost. Neil Young -with his band, Crazy Horse released the album/CD/cassette - Barn [Reprise] as mentioned last week, right here.  It’s the same old angry Neil (now 75) and Crazy Horse has never sounded better - running the range from rage - “Change Ain’t Never Gonna’ - to soft with - “Welcome Back “.  Available everywhere (except S***ify) even Sirius/XM has re-launched their Neil Young Channel.   There’s new music from those soulful boys from Birmingham, St Paul & the Broken Bones

            S hortly after the 1910 wedding of Montague & Frida, the floodgates of Human Stupidity opened wide, turning a number of smaller villages into Resort Lakes - a phenomena termed Havasu - based on the Latin word meaning dessert beachfront RV park. The word would not come into common use until the late 1950’s.   It was on the shores of Lake Garda Margarette Leshay, a small Hungarian terrier with ties to the Russian Circus, begged for the hand of Marionette impresario Gustav Pulaski. Sadly, nuptials never came to be when Pulaski was killed in the bombing of the Ferrovia Train Depot during the final days of World War I. Margarette lived out her final days in the Paris dancehalls of the 1920s. Yet Human Stupidity survived both war and rejection.