Amoeblog

Dr. Seuss meets Philip K. Dick.

Posted by Whitmore, March 2, 2010 09:06pm | Post a Comment
Not only is March 2nd the 106th Birthday of Dr. Seuss but it is also the anniversary of the death of Philip K. Dick, who died in 1982. So why not combine the two? And that is what we have here below. Yes, this is a simple minded and profoundly idiotic, ill conceived attempt to combine almost every title written by a Dr. Seuss meets Philip K. Dick.  couple of the greatest writers of the 20th century, and why? I don't know. This is how I spend my days, blathering and dicking around, no wonder I get headaches ... anyway enjoy Dr. Seuss meets Philip K. Dick.
 
Gather yourselves together
Whether puttering about in a small land
Or playing hunches in bunches
With Yertle the Turtle and the Game-Players of Titan,
The eye in the sky playing Cat's Quizzer
And the Ganymede takeover shivers and cries,
While banging and clanging
The Vulcan's hammer is dangling, above
Daisy-Head Mayzie standing by.
Turning the wheel, Mary and the Giant,
No doubt slyly defiant,
Churns the broken bubble
Where the butter battle boils and toils into trouble.
The Seven Lady Godivas rides on beyond the Zebras
As for the man in the high castle,
He’s allergic and wheezes.
A streaking goat from the street speaks
“Do androids dream of electric sheep?”
And to think that I saw it all on Mulberry Street.Dr. Seuss
I hope I shall arrive here soon
To run a circus or a zoo
Say boo to the clans of the Alphane Moon 
Next door to Solla Sollew.
Oh, the places you'll go! And how! But will you please go now,
I know the crack in space lies beyond the Wub and that is how
The five hundred hats rub ol’Bartholomew Cubbins
In his stubby bathtub scrubbin’,
The eye of the Sibyl, liberal fun sizzles with a zap gun, stunning the sun,
And since the divine invasion has begun, I have but a question, just one.
Oh, say can you say wet pet, dry pet, your pet, my pet
The world Jones made is only a sublet
“But look how we got along after the bomb,”
he gets the tones of Jones, but once alone
“Flow my tears,” the Policeman said to the ducks in the pond,
“Say hey to the Lorax and Nick and the Glimmung,
And Bartholomew and the Oobleck.”
Tick tock never stops in a counter-clock world where the dark haired girl
Hops on Pop, and dances with the fox in socks on a little black box.
The Father-Thing sings, a great day for up!
And the cosmic puppets read with their eyes shut,
Did I ever tell you how lucky you are by the light of the stars?
I Can! You’re as variable as the Golden Man
Or Humpty Dumpty living in Oakland, with a folding fan,Philip K. Dick.
Dining and wining on green eggs and ham, unteleport the man,
Or undo the minority report of Sam I am.
We can remember it, every bit of it
For you, Philip K. Dick and you Dr. Seuss
From wholesale robots, and androids with flutes
And Wockets in a pocket! And Grinch in Santa suits
Mechanical oddities and Dr. Futurity winning the solar lottery
Radio free Albemuth, valis, our friends from frolix, frolicking in the mix
 
The ABC’s of Dr. S and Mr. D
A is for A Scanner Darkly but only partly
B is for Birthdays to you and he, me and we
C is for a certain Cat in a hat, that’s a fact,
And D is for the Maze of Death, and quite a test,
A handful of darkness, oh what a mess, but you're only old once,
So let’s do lunch, bunches of lunches, munching,
Maybe even twice or thrice if you’re nice at night, okay!
Hey! We’ll throw a fishing pole into the cool,
of McElligot's Pool with Marvin K. Mooneys 
And Dr. Bloodmoney, who can moo, can you?
Here by the pool is where Horton heard a Who
We can wish for one fish, or two fish,
Lessons and confessions of a crap artist
How he pulled out a red fish, blue fish by the fist full,
And foolishly a ship full, filling a Martian time-slip and King's Stilts lists too,
Oh! The thinks you can think at will
Ubik and Sneetches and Thidwick, Big-Hearted Mooses Dr. Seuss meets Philip K. Dick.
The thrill of the three stigmata of Palmer Eldritches
The man whose teeth were all exactly alike
He liked to ride bikes and race tikes on trikes
I can lick thirty tigers today he’d say
And why not, let’s yell hooray today for it's Diffendoofer’s Day.
Now wait for last year time out of joint, a rhyme about zoinks,
And a preserving machine’s mean and lean is moist and broke
Oh the short life of a bloke, Mister Brown he spoke
Who says he’s going down like a boat,
Oh well, what the hell, here’s to you and the days of Perky Pat
When he sat like a Cat in the Hat.
But wait on that, he and we will be back.

Happy 200th Birthday Frédéric François Chopin

Posted by Whitmore, March 1, 2010 10:54pm | Post a Comment








Walter Fredrick Morrison 1920 – 2010

Posted by Whitmore, February 12, 2010 11:59am | Post a Comment
Frisbee inventor
The man credited with inventing the Frisbee, Walter Fredrick Morrison, died this past Tuesday. He was 90 years old and passed away at his home in Monroe, Utah. He had been battling cancer.

A former pilot during the Second World War, flying a P-47 Thunderbolt in Italy, where he was briefly a P.O.W., Morrison applied his knowledge of aerodynamics to tinker with the pie tins he was tossing on the beaches of Santa Monica with his future wife, Lu. In 1946 Morrison sketched out a design of a flying disc object he then called the Whirlo-Way. Two years later in 1948 Morrison found an investor, Warren Franscioni, who paid for molding the design in plastic, christening the new toy the Flyin-Saucer, (the previous year, 1947, was a big year for UFO sightings, with Roswell and Mt. Rainer/Maury Island incidents.) By 1954, Morrison found he could produce his own discs. With the help of his wife and further upgrades on the design they developed the Pluto Platter, the prototype of all modern flying discs. He would sell the discs at local fairs and dime stores, eventually the disc came to the attention of Wham-O Manufacturing. On January 23, 1957, Morrison sold the production and manufacturing rights for the Pluto Platter to Wham-O. Initially Wham-O marketed the disc as the Pluto Platter, but by 1958 they adopted the name Frisbee, the name college students in New England were calling the discs. The new official name referenced the Frisbie Pie Co., a local bakery whose empty pie tins were often tossed around like a Pluto Platter.

Five decades later, sales have surpassed 200 million discs, it is now a part of the landscape at beaches, parks, college campuses and rooftops world wide, spawning sports like Frisbee golf, and team sports like Goaltimate and Ultimate. An official disc golf course at Creekside Park in the Salt Lake City suburb of Holladay is named for Walter Morrison.

In 2001 Morrison co-wrote a book with Frisbee enthusiast and historian Phil Kennedy.

Walter Fredrick Morrison is survived by his three children and four grandchildren. The family is planning a service for Morrison's friends and relatives Saturday at the Cowboy Corral in Elsinore.

A Giacometti sculpture sells for an ungodly amount of $$

Posted by Whitmore, February 5, 2010 09:58pm | Post a Comment
Alberto Giacometti record setting auction
Crisis, what financial crisis!?
 
Earlier this week at Sotheby's Auction House in London, a rare life-size bronze statue by Swiss sculptor Alberto Giacometti (1901 – 1966), L'homme qui marche I (Walking Man I) broke the record as the most expensive piece of art ever sold at auction. You’d better sit down for this: $104.3 million. The “fast and furious” bidding was over in less than eight minutes. According to Sotheby's, at least 10 people were in on the trying to pin down the iconic cast. The final price was five times higher than the pre-auction estimate.
 
The price, which includes the buyer's premium, barely eclipsed Pablo Picasso's Garcon a la Pipe, which sold at auction for $104.2 million in New York in 2004. But that was back in the heady days of the boom -- fast flying Wall Street, Krug Clos du Mesnil Champagne breakfasts, Clay Aiken CD’s, real estate’s unstoppable climb -- back then Facebook was just a blip in the dotcom ether. This astounding auction result suggests that though the financial crisis still looms, the art market has survived and its doomed collapse and catastrophic time bomb is no longer ticking down.
 
The bronze of a man walking, cast in 1961, was first acquired in December of that year by legendary New York art dealer Sidney Janis, who bought it from the Galerie Maeght in Paris. Janis debut it at his gallery in 1968. This time around, the statue was sold by the German banking firm Commerzbank AG,Alberto Giacometti who obtained it in 2009 when they took over the Dresdner Bank. Dresdner had purchased the sculpture in 1980.
 
Giacometti's previous personal best at auction took place back in 2008, at Christie's New York for the piece Grand Femme Debout II, (1959-60). That piece sold for a relatively paltry $27,481,000.
 
William Barrett, author of the classic mid-century study, Irrational Man: A Study in Existential Philosophy (1962) wrote that the attenuated forms of Giacometti's figures reflected the existentialist view that modern life was empty and increasingly devoid of any meaning. "All the sculptures of today, like those of the past, will end one day in pieces... So it is important to fashion ones work carefully in its smallest recess and charge every particle of matter with life." Giacometti claimed his forms were not based on the human figure but the shadow that it cast.
 
Just before the Sotheby’s auction, the buzz on the street was that the Giacometti might actually hit $50 million, though all the heavy hitters scoffed at such a ridiculous notion. No one in their right mind thought it would hit and top $100 million.
 
Sotheby's of course did not identify the buyer, saying only that it was an anonymous telephone bidder.

Happy Birthday James Joyce

Posted by Whitmore, February 2, 2010 05:36pm | Post a Comment
... as for the following blog, what can I say, perhaps an apology for my nod to Finnegan, but what the hell, “A man's errors are his portals of discovery.” – James Joyce.
 
2 February 1882, sprowled future of his fates yawled, James Augustine Aloysius Joyce, becaught the fornicreators John Stanislaus Joyce and Mary Jane Murray. Elderest of ten progeny; though two sibships swerved absent from life, bowed by typhoid, James by a commodius viscous of recirculation back past, found his chance out of Rathgar and Clane o’ County Kildare. Re-sur, inventilated, as Stephen Hero violer d'amores, fr'over tracted rails, passen hub rearrived as a Young Dubliner, there to truduce a shining star and body! O’ Fate fanespanned most high heaven, the skysign of soft destiny to the lashstroung side of Nora Barnacle, re-nee Molly Bloom. Thus the unfacts, he did possess, too imprecisely, yes, a few retaletolds to idendifine the individuone, his sly slopperish matter of history. But within time, the facts chase towards the east in quest, past the scraggy isthmus to Europe Minor Himalayousness to his penisolate war in the heights of topsawyer's rocks, Zürich, where the Hero writ the poemsies, writ Ulysses. Arms nixed with larms James Joycedangling, appalling Killykill toll, a toll. The camibalistics fall (bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonner), clashes cease and none so soon, never too soon the pharce for the nunce come to a setdown. Soon Joyce’s secular phoenish and arc flight settled in the centre-ville de Paris, la Ville-Lumière. Here nouvel wordsies flocked to the papyrush, swiftease on the leftlet banks drawn to the age. Oftwhile balbulous eyes, poorly in life since a youth spent in Baile Átha Cliath, attempts goodly cheirurgery neuflike times, but success – a minutias worth, so addle liddle a pawn, suchess.
 
Somethemores Vita animas wakes, comes to Leopold Bloom, Molly Bloom and Stephen Dedalus and Malachi Buck Mulligan, Finnegan, Paddy Dignam and so many more dreamydeary pholks, brings pocketbarely of farthingscads trinkets by way of green clapboard Shakespeare & Cie. Came Exiles, Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, Pomes Penyeach, Finnegans Wake, breathed and bred in the century loinings of wordscrafts, the broadest way immarginable.
 
Then, onset of the new nonanon camibalist, offwall entailed at such short notice the pftjschute of Joyce. Never a solid man, he spent retaled days in linens and in leaps of mind in alltitude and malltitude. Auld age not, but Stercoral perforation did, sent him on exodus alone. Joyce relapsed brought about by tragoady and indespite transfusions, slipslid into a cataleptic dreamsy. In grey grays, he lifted away at 2:15 AM on 13 January 1941, blackguardise the whitestone hurtleturtled out of heaven to resclaim his soul. As oaks of old now lie in peat, elms leap where ashes churn, he rests in Fluntern Cemetery within a rroarslieds of the Zürich Zoo. A skyerscape of the most eyeful entowerly was James Joyce. Whish! Far calls. Coming, far! End here. Again! Take. Mememormee! Till thousandsthee. The keys to. Given. A way a lone a last a loved a long the


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