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A brain-teaser for you: Are there any truths that aren't by definition self-evident? Or does it depend on your definition of "truth"? or your interpretation of the phrase "self-evident"? or my definition? Who's definition are we supposed to use??!??!?!!!?!
While the jury remains out on this one, nonetheless, the original remains a darn good sounding line, even if it turns out to mean nothing, which happens fairly regularly. (It could possibly act as the standard, against which modern-day highbrow nonsense -- such as the US Supreme Court's recent opinion that the ultimate "loser" in this year's General Election is not Al Gore, as you might believe, nor the Individual Voter, as you might guess, or the American People, as you might further surmise -- no, the real loser, writes one of the Associate Justices, is the confidence that the American People have in the judges' (judge's -- ??) role(s) as impartial and fair interpreters of The Law. But, we digress. - Editor)
Perhaps a much better question (if not merely more pertinent) than the one above would be who is E.A. Blog, and what role does he play in the formation, evolution and untimely {*~gasp!~*} disintegration of TBH??
This is a much better question for many reasons (one of many such better questions, of which there are bunches). It's better because it's more directly related to this forum, for starters. Better because it's got a character in it, hence a protagonist which/who hence requires action -- hence making it more interesting. (See: conceit). Because, smart-tart, your host is convinced that it's already become painfully obvious to you that E.A. Blog is most decidedly not to be confused with Edgar Allan Poe, as one of the links below might lead someone of lesser wisdom but (perhaps) greater hoighty-toity-ness to conclude, a deduction which, had it been made, if not fatal, would surely prove to be at least faulty.
And so, the question is revived: If not Poe, then who, cutie-tooty? Hmmmmmmmmmm????....
Here's a site for you -- The Moonlit Road -- billed as "Ghost stories haunt the moonlit backroads of the American South."
E.A. Blog would be proud.
Since last posting, dear reader, I realized that there are, perhaps, many dear readers who may be unfamiliar with the source of the above translated ditty, leading me to wonder if we should further elaborate on the origins of said excerpt, or whether we should launch a contest to see if anyone knows where it came from -- aside from some dusty shelf in my memory banks...
{ It goes w/out saying here, that this leads us easily into a discussion of the tragic love affair between E.A. Blog and his second cousin, Ellen Agar Blog, whom he married when she was 14, though it remains a bone of contention among those scholars inclined to pick the bones of red herrings (dead red herrings, no less) as to whether Blog was -- by making of his 2nd cousin his 1st wife -- capable of likewise making an honest woman of her, in the not-quite vernacular of the day. }
Back before the Northeastern winter and the traditional holiday season kicked into full gear, I had the liberty one early November evening to just chill and watch some mainstream (read: network -- ack!) special on the Beatles, in honor of their Anthology. Being a network thing, I was fairly sure that it wouldn't be terribly stimulating -- "Four young men from Liverpool.....who started a revolution........that changed the world......forever".....blog, blog, blog........ But, reservations aside, ladies and gentlemen -- Nevermind the Bollocks -- It's the Beatles!!
Incidentally, 30 years ago today (this entry having been originally posted on the evening of November 11, 2000), Elton John and his then travelling minstrel companions, Nigel Olson and Dee Murray -- who would become, respectively, his long-time drummer and bassist and the core of his touring and recording band for the next 2 decades -- thirty years ago tonight (maybe a tad later than this post, EST) played their first live American gig at the Troubador Lounge in NYC, where they recorded the seminal classic, 11-17-70. It should come as no surprise to you, then, dear reader, that TBH claims a great deal of influence from Reginald Kenneth Dwight, Bernie Taupin and the boys (the full band always consisted of Nigel, Dee, guitarist Davey Johnstone and percussionist Ray Cooper) through the years. Maybe not as heavily influenced as modern-day rrrrriot girrrrrrl and fellow ivory-tickler Tori Amos -- pieces of whose debut album Little Earthquakes sound at times like they may have been sampled whole (of course they weren't, and this is a bit of an exaggeration, to put it lightly) from the string accompaniments that underly the more overt pop stylings of EJ's early LPs, particularly Madman Across the Water. Look it up, give it a spin, tell us we're wrong -- we're not, and we know it. (While you're at it, cuz, after you listen to some of the old stuff, try to find something current, and see if you're not awed by how much a voice can change over time. From that clear, sweet almost high tenor of the early days to something more bluesy and definitely, well, worn, like your favorite pair of western boots, at least five years broken in on beaches, desert sands, the rocks by a rushing river and the thankless asphalt of the hot city streets.)
We are nothing if not a collection of the memories carried in our boots.
A Fable: In the kitchen, you crack open a new box of Bigelow Mint Medley tea -- has one of those little tear-off strips on it, a la you-know-what-I-mean. The tear-off strip rips when you first pull it, so you hafta scrape it off with your fingernail. Then you can open the box. Inside you find a collection of individually packaged tea bags. You remove one, and tear the top off to free its contents for your use. Tearing the top off takes with it the string tag, finally leaving you only the bag. While that's all you really wanted in the first place, it's still not at all the way the packaging is supposed to "work." It's annoying.
The Moral: Stick to Celestial Seasonings Mint Magic. The package art is more whimsical, and the designers have steered clear of all such package overkill.
(BTW -- the Beatles special was fun -- watched it with my 10-yr-old son (who is as yet completely unaware of his father's dirty little blog habit). Certainly was more interesting than Law and Order SVU.
Now, what's that I hear??
"What about TBH?!?!?" you whine (somewhat impatiently, I might add). Ok, ok, okokokokoka-a-a-a-a-a-y !!!
Where to begin??
Who is this "Trudy" anyway??
And so it begins. TBH was a band name conceived on a sunny late spring afternoon, inspired by an anonymous elderly blue-hair who wandered into the Squirrel Hill Eat 'n Park Restaurant in Pittsburgh, PA wearing a hat which -- depending on your taste in head-gear -- could be described in many ways. For instance, upon sighting aforementioned Trudy, you might exclaim:
(a) "What a bizarre hat."
(b) "My, what a fetching hat."
(c) "Is it me, or is that woman wearing a funeral arrangement on her head?"
(d) " Wow. That's some bitchin' hat."
(e) "Omigod! -- like, is that Trudy?"
To play in our sandbox and to earn your permanent, unrestricted, full-access, free of charge playground pass (well, free for now, anyway, though if I sense that this is turning into some means of attaining shameless wealth, you, dear reader, will be one of the first to know, but for now relax and enjoy the wallpaper), you need only guess correctly the style that graced Trudy's head on this afternoon lo not-so-long ago, but long enough.
Happy guessing -- and good luck!!
But, back to me, your humble host. Since we haven't had a crash here for more than three minutes, let's take this opportunity to capitalize the moment, lay a few ground rules, as it were, set a few parameters, make a general PSA. Lest this relationship go too far, too fast, we best get a couple of things straight, right now, from the virtual get-go, as it were:
- Please don't write and say, "I don't like the dots, Mr. Rune."
Get used to 'em, my friend, 'cuz I do. Actually, they're called ellipses. - If you write, please don't call me "Mr. Rune."
Mr. Rune was my father, sadly departed now for nigh a decade. I'm just Rune. Please don't ask what it means. I'll even give you the answer ahead of time: It's just a nickname, which I've used for many years now, and which has become as familiar to me as a well-worn barn jacket. It is not meant to convey mystery or other-worldliness, though if you project and said properties onto the handle, it won't be held against you. It could just as easily be anything else, but I chose this one, truth be told, if you insist, because it's easy to type, it's easy to remember, and I like how it sounds, ok? - Another no-no -- don't ask either if I'm Scandinavian. I'm not. Nor am I Egyptian (believe it or not, I've been asked that question). All rumors to the contrary are no more (and no less, certainly) than the mistaken, misguided and misdirected fumings of mischievous misfits and miscreants. Such claims originate at some dahntahn Pittsburgh branch of some fast-food joint, and are as greasy and lacking in substance as is the traditional standard fare found on the large, backlit, plastic hanging overhead menus therein.
Disclaimer: TBH Virtual Fansite and its Management in no way wish to discourage Egyptians or Scandinavians from visiting the TBH Virtual Fansite. Egyptians, Scandinavians and, indeed, everyone else is now, has always been, and always will be welcome, regardless of age, gender, race, creed, sexual or political persuasion. Racists and fascists, while not necessarily welcome, will not be turned away, but they should expect to be ignored. Welcome! Nor does The Management wish to in any way encourage bad feelings toward Egyptians, Scandinavians or anyone else. If anything, we encourage only the best feelings in everyone. However, we do wish to avoid the creation among avid readers, casual visitors and rabid fans of confusing impressions of the narrator's persona. Because it has happened before.
Those are the Rules of Engagement. For my part, I promise to do my best to entertain you, maybe share an opinion or two (thousand), and perhaps even provide you with a window on some interesting areas of Life on This Planet of Ours.
Lest you thought it was safe again to listen, there is this -- from the all-powerful everpresent glowing Orb:
Now, something like that just friggin' S-C-R-E-A-M-S!! to be translated. That said, here goes, Liberty Valence:
"Are these messages heaven-sent? -- or just empty psychic promises?"
Permutations:
Are empty promises the heaven-sent messages of a psychic?
Are these messages from heaven or a spent psychic?
You spent how much on empty promises from a psychic?
Are you taking notes, or is this what you call a long walk?
Did heaven send these empties from the Annual Psychic Hotline X-Mas Party?
It goes on and on . . .
But that's enough for today, eh? After all, we're coming up on a big holiday. The mind must be at peace.
Tech Tip: Word to the fellow (un)wise(acres): If you get too fancy with your parenthetical dynamics in the blogger post editor, don't be surprised to find yerself slammed like a finger in a door. IOW, that there bracket you just oh-so-cleverly dropped into the editing window just might transmogrify itself into the Great Big Lag Monster from the Black Lagoon as soon as you hit the "post" button.
Be Ware!!!!!!!!!
Rune
{~*poof!*~}
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