Bernie Kopell is 82 today. I loved Get Smart, especially in black and white. I yodel always, TV toggled to color when I was a kid - including Get Smart - a toggle that chimes me. Here is Siegfried's traditional Egoslavian High Holy Day decree, copied & pasted from last year's.
Siegfried has been this shitty blog's and my digital avatar since Blog Day One. Bernie Koppel, Siegfried on Get Smart (and Ann Marie's neighbor Jerry Bauman in That Girl and, unfortunately if more famously, Doc on Love Boat), was born 80 years ago today, his birthday noted every year here.
Also too, woke up with this one minute Legendary Pink Dots song in my head.
- Today in life lessons: here is my tweet (note the avatar) after seeing Jose Tabata purposely dive into Max Scherzer's pitch with two strikes and two outs and an almost perfect game: If I'm a Nats pitcher I drill Tabata every at-bat forever. Here is Max Scherzer's response: “It was a slider that was in,” Scherzer said. “I kind of lost a little control over it; it backed up on me. I have no qualms about it whatever. That’s just baseball. He did what he needed to do. So kudos to him, actually.”
- So, for today's yodeling from me see last post.
- Also too, see poem below.
- Lemur lost (w Szymborska poem)
- We nullify the the consciousness of others. We make their experiences unreal.
- Heather Number One doesn't attend Left Forum.
- Out of the frying pan and into the friar.
- Notes from yesterday's protest to stop an asteroid colliding with earth
- The Anti-Gravity of the Island of Pal.
- Down here below the tropopause.
STATES MAY SING THEIR SONGS OF PRAISE
I imagine each enunciation, each syllable
pronounced—Mississippi—makes a noose
cinch somewhere, rope reduced
to arousal, tightening. The pull,
the hard-learned feel of vertebrae supple
within a neck's column, and marrow's juice
sucked clean until what remains are flutes
of bone, a wind section of rubble.
Whenever I meet Mississippi in a dream,
it is always a landfill of labored breaths
or a grand mammal crippled in morass.
What did you ever want of us? I ask. It beams,
The same you want for me—the subtle heft
of razors beneath the magnolia tongue's lash.