And Gutenberg Lived Here: Of Invisible Watches, Body Heat, And The Real Dr Who

I read an article today that absolutely fascinated me:

A smart watch that runs on body heat.


I kid you not.

The heat produced by your body,

and escaping through your skin,

assuming you are a normal, warm-blooded being,

is enough to run a very sophisticated smart watch.


store enough energy in the battery that nothing happens

when you take it off for a shower-

or because it disturbs when typing,

or when playing pull-tug with a dog-

that likes all things bright and shiny…


of course,

you forget to take it off when in bed,

having sex,

and it blows up,

and spins off into another dimension,

docking with a passing Tardis,

and hooking all your info into the data banks,

where, as an invisible-making watch,

which, of course, would also have to be invisible,

otherwise it would make the person wearing it visible-

or are you one of those people,

who find a visible wristwatch,

walking down the street

all on its own,


But that’s another story.

So there we were,

body-heat-run  smart-watch-

ever wonder how they got  so smart?

Did they maybe take clock-ology courses at the university of Watchington,

or come from a long line of horologically-bred super-tickers?

Back to the smart-watch:

So you are now walking down the street.


From having on a cloaking-device watch.

Well, not really.

It’s actually from an invisibility cape of fully breathing


fast-growing fast replacable organic material

recycled from

old marijuana stubs,

rotting bananas-

(and plastic bags,

and the carrier rings off of six-packs-)

wearing a six by six-inch sender,

that shields the area above your head,

and for a foot on all sides,

from scurrying drones and mini-delivery vehicles,

when you  suddenly realize,

the fitness watch

on your other arm,

has lit up,

and is making nice little music sounds,

to tell you you  have done very well with your walking for aerobics points this morning,

and  must now take in some nutrients:

exactly 16.8 grams of plant-based protein-

since you are now vegetarian,

with your own brand-new plant-eo app,

setable after a monumental six-hour tussle,

that calls your attention to,

and allows you to feed only on,

plant-based protein-

which works very well actually.

Now if I could only figure out

how to make it stop telling me when to eat-

or even better,

simply produce the protein

from a secret hidden compartment,

instead of asking me to stop at a certain Seattle-based

plant protein group approved

stars in their hair

(double Americano extra water, with a shot of soy milk, hold everything else-

and a triple death by chocolate-)

hey, a girl can dream, right?

coffee company

who calls out my name as I come through the door-

hi there, D,

your usual order is all ready-

we scanned you when you came in-

we’ll just call you D, shall we-

uh, ok, T-

(toss in a death by triple chocolate, and I’ll let you reduce my name to a single digit

so it goes faster in the line. hmmm.)


(and there are less chances of law suits)

So there I am,

super smart watch,

fit bracelet with an attitude,

and now lost.

So what do I do?

I pull out my smart glasses, of course.

And trying to avoid the glare,

read the info on the inside of the left eye-

“turn left for another 16.8 grams of plant-based protein

at Little Caesar’s sushi and dong noodle pizza palace,

then through the parking lot,

take the elevator on your left,

and climb onto the small robot horse Robby

that will be waiting there.

Robby will take you to Dr Herschel,

wait while he lazer-cements a gps sender onto a back wisdom tooth,

and then accompany you to gate twelve.

Have a nice visit in Tomorrow Land.”


(This was not meant as a rant against anyone doing serious technological work in ecology,

or creating tools that are actually meant to improve the lot in life of those with some form

of disadvantage. The goal is the way.

PS All of the above-mentioned devices but the invisibility watch DO actually exist.)

copyright 2016

And Gutenberg Lived Here: Free Will

Yes, please.

Free him.

Shakespeare, I mean.

I am so tired of seeing form, content, beauty of the Welsh language,

(there have been studies for years about the Welsh flow of his language,

Welsh like the place and the  language,

not the other meaning of Welsh,

ie strange, foreign, occult)

being reproduced with actors on roller skates,

throwing innards,

folding paper crowns,

eating pies with a head sticking out.

Then there are the updated versions,

rap, slap, hip-hop, doo-wop,

to get the more modern audience involved.

Hey, guys,

if you have ever been in a beautiful, correctly lighted theater,

listening to the cadences-

you suddenly realize:

he didn’t translate Welsh to latin to English just for the fun of it

as a student in a day school-

he wanted to learn something.

And the Welsh schoolmasters in his pieces,

with their comedy, and lilt,

more than show the love of what he learned.

(I have often wondered where he learned the songs in his plays-

some of them are standard folk songs, and notated by the name of the melody,

others probably sung on the spot by a group who often went to others’ performances,

clandestinely, of course,

learned the entire set speech by heart on the spot,

and then performed it the next day.

Tall, thin, men,

with strong jaw,

and deep voice-

in a badly fitting half-laced up dress-

“Oh Romeo, my Romeo.”

They set theatres on fire with fireworks,

shot over the heads of the audiences

from rocking ships,

took their long dueling-

and bear-baiting-

physical moments

into the pit of the groundlings,

threw back the tomatoes,

and oranges,

thrown at them,

it was energy,

pure and powerful energy,

in a time filled with intrigue,


early death from rotting teeth.

The trees of Elsinore actually walked,

as the actors,

who had earlier in the day,

after the “Actors are in the city”  parade,

stolen into the local wood,

and “borrowed” a few,

for the soldiers of Hamlet,

or the “Scottish play”

or the lovers of my own favorite woods,

Arden forest,

to hide  behind,

as they creep forward.

Or shelter from the world.

I have often thought that the times of Shakespeare and Co,

the myriad of writers at the time who,

after his death,

all published a play “they had written with him,”

were the time of the original free love,

(or has no one out there noticed that Shakespeare, the dark lady Isabel, and a certain gent

from Essex ahem ahem…)

Seriously, it was a time of creativity.

Free thought.

Even if you did often have to avoid jail

and the censors,

by performing the results of the newest play

with a troupe wandering the continent of Europe,

often  visited  not for the new ideas and thoughts,

but for being the wild men of the theater-

an idea that still exists here in Gutenberg land,

if you mention the name Shakespeare.

And the Americans-

we like the freedom,

the creativity,

the joy,

the men not embarrassed to put on long dresses

and the women not embarrassed to wear mutton sleeves

and duel with the best of them.

We are in an age when you have to triple think everything-

is it wrong to have a black Iago,

is it wrong to think it is wrong to have a black Iago,

will anyone tear me to shreds on the social media

if I even think about thinking about having a black Iago.

This should be the age of freedom.

A time where we can say what we like.

Not linked to commercialism,

but as a way to better understand people.

It could be the dawning of a new age.

If we would all stop wandering around in fear.

Shakespeare used to read constantly.

He went to bars to hang out with the best authors and actors of the day,

he spent his time at court talking to the most learned of the courtiers.

His friends there look like a who’s who of the courtly  scene.

He wandered in the woods

and learned from nature.

The rhythms of the brooks,

the rustle of the trees.

All in his works.

He knew the link between paper pages and trees.

And fur and the ermine of court capes.

And of fishing, and codpieces.

He spent his time among the best of the best,

and always tried to be the best he could be.

His work is not inclusive.

It is all-inclusive.

And, at the same time, the most exclusive of the exclusive.

The best of the best only.

The King James Bible translation of the twenty-third psalm is his.

He and three other writers of the day,

with enough money to survive for a while,

holed up in a house in London,

to translate the King James.


And all-inclusive.

He fought knife fights in rough bars,

and danced at court.

And fought, and lost, the most exclusive, and personal battle of all:


By tumor.

Probably cancer.

Behind the eye, claims a critic,

using a print of him as evidence.

All inclusive, all exclusive, all personal.

All a search for beauty.

And flow.

And joy.

Isn’t it time we free Will?

copyright 2016

And Gutenberg Lived Here: Did Someone Feed The Dog?

There are very few more horrific sounds

than the slurp

of a dog chomping on something.

Depending on the breed,

and the size,

and the boredom level,

that chomp could be:

a piece of a curtain-

you will find the rest of it

wrapped as a blanket around

and across,

the dog’s rug,

or bed.

Then there is the chomp

of the small plastic,

or metal,



a watch,

mechanical chicken,

coffee machine

ours loves coffee grounds,

you have to take the garbage out immediately,

or of paper:

ours loves to carry books around,

shaking them occasionally,

as she goes for her morning constitutional.

(Often stopping to bury parts in the garden-

please remember,

this is an Airedale.

There is NOTHING on this planet

that will keep an Airedale interested.

(Except for full and absolute focusing on them,

or simply giving up,

and doing exactly what they want you to do.)

We even tried television.

She yawned at the teletubbies,

looked irritated at us

when we showed her dogs or cats on tv.

Even a lion was relatively uninteresting.

Only birds are interesting to her.

But not a good thing

if you value your tv.

In the end,

the only thing we found

that she actually will sit still for

is “Meet The Press.”

She sits raptly,

head on the side,

panting just a bit

as she concentrates.


when one of the gentlemen

or ladies,

made a bon mot,

I swear I saw her grin at it.

(I thought of actually offering her a cocktail while she watches,

but either:

she would get drunk and attack her wind-up chicken,

or she would put her foot in it

to show distaste,

and to fish out the ice cubes,

which is all she really likes-

except for anything from the fridge-

except for the peas,

which she spits across the room.

(We only did that once. Now she gets dry dogfood,

and seems to like that best.

Although no one seems to know where small bags of potato chips get off to)

Either way,

since she sits quietly and watches the press,

maybe because my father was a journalist,

we keep a supply on tape,

just for her.

But not too often.

We wouldn’t want her to ignore her household chores:

patrolling the grounds,

chasing the neighbor’s coon cat away,

barking at the garbage men

scaring the birds out of the Pyracantha berries

before they get drunk.

And, of course,

watching out for everyone in the household,

or any child who comes through the door-

her specialty is picking up infants by the back of their diapers

and putting them back on the bed,

or in their crib.

Or keeping the adults next to the wall

when they go up the stairs.

And then,

of course,

there is tasting everyone’s food-

she wouldn’t want humans to get poisoned,

or taking all the cream out of the middle of the Boston cream cake,

so we don’t all get fat.

And finally, there is pulling all the pillows

and blankets

around on the beds,

so they are ready for their human occupants at night.

And, of course,

just in case someone needs a fur-coated

hot water bottle

to keep them warm at night.

And you can’t get that from a goldfish.

copyright 2016

And Gutenberg Lived Here: In The Middle Of The Night

It’s the middle of the night here in Gutenberg land.

The dark, spooky, witching hour,

when wishes are made true.

I wish I may, I wish I might,

I wish  the idiot route planners at the Frankfurt Airport,

the ones who are trying to make a “branding”

ie hide behind a name,

by calling themselves by the  cutesy “Fraport,”-

said “Fraport” being that which routes planes over the Gutenberg Land hospital,

student dorms,

scientists in the moon rock labs

or working on import medical experiments to benefit mankind,

while having to adapt working times

and adjust results,

for the

“there will be no flights at night-oops maybe just the occasional one to Japan and Asia-

at two am

three am

four am

and five am

in packets of up to five at a time

“occasional” flights-

in case of emergency only,

as laid out by the German courts,-

watch all of their planes land safely,

register that everyone debarked without problem,

and then stare at box after box of bolts,



that suddenly just dropped off,


Machine stress,

due to the constant noise in the sky,

from all those “occasional” night planes.


Looks like we’ll have to close the Fraport-

transfer everyone to London Heathrow, Gatwick, London City,

or whoever wins the lottery-

they could of course just build a giant bike lane in the chunnel-

in the middle of the night.

In the middle of the night,

I wish I may,

I wish I might,

have the wish-

how about a league-

the decent people league-

that would consist of those in specific jobs,

who would quietly,

behind the scenes,

just plain pitch in

and clean the Augean stalls.

No hoo-ha,

no eighteen months of elections,

just good people working together.

The nice-guys’ league-

people of  all races, creeds, religions,

who are just plain tired of people

telling them, and everyone else

they are different-

we aren’t different, we are people you nits-

God only made one kind-

unless you are a sentient rabbit-Or a talking frog.

Get it together, people.

Oh, and pulleeze, stop trying to make everyone alike.

Some of us truly truly enjoy our lives-

every off-the-wall wacky, joyful moment.

It’s a perfect antidote to the fact that

some of us ARE,

and almost weren’t

like ex- parrots aren’t.

The Monty Pythons knew what they were talking about.

As for some of the rest of you,

you ought to be ashamed.

Using machines to distance people from one another, create havoc, threaten us with an

age of constant playing, with machines only, because no human being  has the stress

tolerance of a newt any more.

Due to machines.

Have you actually tried to get money out of a teller machine lately-

or make transfers,

to pay bills,

with a huge line behind you

all waiting to pay bills on the last of the month.


instead of singing a couple of songs together,

or the bank hiring an entertainer for the rush hour,

we push,

and shove,

and complain,

and all due to the ones who want us to play with machines all the time,

while registering our finger prints,

or taking pictures of our faces

in the machine’s hidden camera.

Two pm, subject bought nylon socks.

That’s the second pair this week.

Is she nervous about something-

something that could indicate something important?

Uh, yes, I’m nervous, because you won’t let me sleep, you idiot.

You’ll adapt.

Or the next generation.

Horseless carriages caused panic, scared animals, disturbed the town,

and killed people.

Did we adapt?


We learned to live with panic, fear, and dead animals and people.

Do horseless carriages have a purpose?


Of course.

When you have to get somewhere in a hurry,

and the bus has stopped running,

and the people on the street also,

and a cab will take a half hour to get to you,

it’s good to have a car to drive.

When you try to get into the city,

and are stuck in a huge traffic jam,

not so.

Cause and effect-


we have adapted.

And adapted.

And don’t know how much more we can adapt.


Super bright,

super technological,

super kids,

whose fingers text in the air when their phone is in their pocket.

To whom exploring something mentally-

what if,

and then?

is stressful.

I was once labeled,

as an “over-thinker”


and again,

and again,

by the folks on facebook.

Like it was a curse.

“Beware…get out the garlic…let two tall men

in top hats

with candles

and bells,

walk in front of me

as I walk the pavements….

I am an ‘over-thinker'”


other over-thinkers.


exploring the universe and all that is in it

at three am

Did I mention it is the middle of the night

But I am finally tired.

And the planes have stopped for a moment.

Contact for the normal people’s over-thinker club here at

Now I lay me down to sleep….

It’s the middle of the night.

copyright 2016

And Gutenberg Lived Here: As The Id Goes Marching On


over coffee,

a friend and I got into a discussion of

ta da-

the Id.

Well actually,

it started with the ides,

as in-

quick, stab me, I’ve got one of those classes-

went through a progression of bad puns-



ide- rather be in Kansas,

progressed through a series of discussions on frogs

and Roman paganism,

linked them all to the id,

and ended up with Melanie Safka

“a steak’s a phallic symbol if it’s longer than it’s wide,”

(as the id goes marching on.)

Yeah, I know,

but it’s one of those songs that’s an endless source of fun,

especially when sung in a squeaky “Bridget The Midget” voice,

with a soup spoon as a microphone.

Did I mention this person is part of a college teachers’ group-

yeah, it does make a difference-

and that the problem at the moment here is the id-


“the kids are alright,”


the more the technological

and plastic


move into our society,

the more push meets shove,

the more the id,

squished at one end like a water balloon,

says Freud,

will splash out somewhere else.

Violence after elections,

people yelling at each other all over the internet…

and what really stands behind it?

My Dad was a journalist.

A photo journalist, actually.

And one of the finest.

He taught at a university,


and insisted,

with vehemence,

that a course in ethics be included.

I know of no school in California,

or Illinois,

or anywhere else in the states, for that matter,

that offers such a course any more.

Maybe I’m wrong.

I hope so.

The point being,

journalists used to fairly report both sides of a situation.

It was the basis of their being.

A sort of holy grail.

Then came Woodward and Bernstein.

And the first investigative reporters.

And those who wished to be.

Or, unfortunately,

thought they were.

There was the time, for example,

when my Dad had to call the mayor of our little town,

and profusely apologize for the fact that

two idiots he tried to  train:

had not taken no for an answer,

and forced their way into the office

of a supposedly absent mayor,

to take a picture of him on the toilet seat.

Yes, seriously.

And what they thought they were doing was anybody’s guess.

But in the end,

they had to make an appointment,

march down there again,

wait an hour,

present the negatives, and apologize…


no matter what your political beliefs,

(and please, I’m not ignoring some very serious problems in society that have to be


with the press taking umbrage at the fact that someone actually went to dinner without


we are in for a long ride,

in my opinion.

What exactly is wrong with people,

press, or press related,

that they think they have the right to control others?

Or to know every ridiculous little detail of our lives,

no matter how trivial?

My “personal stalker,”

as this idiot likes to call him/her/self,

has released ugly little inuendos about my health,

nothing wrong there, guys.

Strong as a horse,

and still working.

And the best is,

the work is something so positive,

so strengthening,

it is good in all ways.

And that makes me so happy

I don’t have to try to control others

without their permission,

or make everyone understand how terribly old,


and worthless they really are

so we can be friends.


So far the toll is:

A friend’s health has been exposed,

my google history is being commented on at a blog page where I used to write-

what do you think you will find?

That I don’t buy much, but am curious about God and the world,

and often cruise the net for ideas for a column,

or for the goldsmithing course I am taking

so I can make something personal for a nephew for his wedding without spending an arm

and a leg?

(I was actually at the point, at one moment,

where I thought it would be fun to google mixed articles:

coal, bananas, natural lava saunas, dogfood, chakra points,

then I thought,

why not get really creative,

and google things that are all harmless,

but can be combined into menacing objects-

that thought lasted about three seconds-

you never know who is going to read it, and get on board,

in your name.)

One of the nicest things I have heard in a while,

just to get back to what, in my opinion,

we should be doing with our time on this planet,

is the hashtag living rocks thing on NCIS-

yes, I admit it-

I am a big fan.

And I really really like the idea of telling someone,

while they are still alive,

just how much you think of them.


Family, you have come a very long and very very hard way in the last five years.

And I am proud of you all.

And love you dearly.


you DO put up with a lot, don’t you?

And you always try to do the best.

And laugh at all my jokes.

Love doesn’t even begin to cover it.

I have friends from kindergarten time to now.

Every few years one true, honest, loyal, special one.

You each mark a time in my life.

And a special relationship I had to you.

And a time I go back to when I see you, no matter how much you have changed.

These are the ones that you call,

in the middle of a tornado,

with rain falling and wind howling,

or in one case,

sending her husband in a cub piper to pick us up

since she was pregnant in the ninth month.

(He’s a pilot at a small airport)

And you would do the same for them.

Then there are the dear friends from each of the many places I have lived.

And the many weird jobs I have done.


These are the good people in life.

People of strong values

and strong beliefs,

not always mine,

who can tell you their feelings

without criticizing yours.

They don’t attack,

they don’t whinge,

they don’t whine,

the just do.

And then there are the good people,

who are old, sometimes old old friends,

who  are doing bad,

and injuring you,

for reasons beyond their control.

I’ll just put it on hold for a while and let God sort it out.

Which He will do.

No matter how the id marches.

Why not rock a friend today ?

copyright 2016

And Gutenberg Lived Here: Of Donald, The Germans, And Angie.

Wednesday morning

Central European Time,

I woke to find a not finished US election,

a huge uproar

“will he, won’t he, will he, won’t he,”

CNN talking and talking and talking,

the German news explaining

and explaining,

and explaining,

or, well, ….not explaining.

And all from the politician’s understanding of politics.


what was good enough for courtiers before the French revolution-

court intrigue,

is fine with us contemporary politicians:

get what you can,

wheel and deal,

break into others’ offices,

and computers,

start whisper campaigns,

poison the well…

I served seven years in a political organization over here,

against my own better judgement-

I was right-

hoping to introduce some new ideas,

and new organizational forms,

to save some of the

outmoded  and decaying choirs

of the over a million singers in the singers’ union-

all being used for political purposes by their representatives.

I stayed on the sidelines.

Studied the goings-on.

Refused to get involved in the corruption.


And mean-spirited little people.

Not my problem.


will take care of it for me.

In His time.

Back to politics.


about an hour after I woke up,

just tucking into a bowl of oatmeal,

I heard the “little” people,

who aren’t so little, are they?

elect a president.

A historic moment.

Over good old midwestern oatmeal with raisins.

My politics, their politics…

Who cares.

I am proud.

And prouder still


doing a quick veg and milk stop later,

I heard the local Gutenberger discussing the election.


not remembering that I am an American,

( I don’t wave the flag except among dear friends)

they talked freely.

And not about what was being said by politicians

on German news.

The gist was:

“Politicians are politicians,”

“we’ll see what really happens in the next couple of months,”

“we can’t wait to see the real battle between that tough-talking orange person

and  our teflon-fist-in-the-badly-made-suit lady chancellor,”

“he was just set up by Putin anyway as an ad campaign,”

“now let’s see what he’s really made of

when he has to face his helpers.”

And finally…

this being a Very Catholic area,

“let him go.

Let the devil have him.

All of them.


All politicians.


Followed by a description of who won the card game last night and how much,

(“he owes us all a drink”)

the village news,


since I had by then packed my groceries and paid,

and was on my way out the door,

an attempt was made by one of the card-playing brothers

to sell me the local newspaper.

At which point I reminded him,


that I don’t read German newspapers,

since I am an American.

And the newspapers’ reporting of facts,

have nothing to do with what I,

as a non-European,

see as truth.

And being Bretzelbacher first,

and German second,

they apologized sincerely,

which I brushed off as not necessary-

their village-

From pre-Roman times-

asked who I voted for-

which I also brushed off,

secret of the ballot,

and bid them all “tschuss.”-

the local form of adieu.

I would see them soon.

And that,

in my opinion,

is the basis of the whole Brexit-Trumpxit business.

I would see them soon.

Not at a board meeting of an international company,

a security council meeting of the UN

or a barbecue for 1.3 billion Chinese

in my backyard,

or trying to discuss how far international waters extend,

while dunking the newly apprenticed printers’ devils,

now both male and female,

here in Gutenberg land,

but friend to friend,

in church, school, community work,

or festivals,

where everyone in the community takes part.

And everyone knows who people are,

because they know them.

As faces.

And by their deeds.

And the tales of their common tribe, community, nation.

Too big is too big.

People are people.

And finance is not people.

I smiled all the way home.

copyright 2016

Why Make A Movie With Cumberbatch If He’s Not Allowed To Act?

(Spoiler alert: if you go to this movie, your evening will be spoilt)

Last Tuesday night we went to the movies:

Dr Strange,

starring two,

in my opinion,

absolutely brilliant actors,

Benedict Cumberbatch,

and Tilda Swinton.

You could have done swan lake with plastic swans on sticks

for all the acting they were allowed to do.

Not that it mattered.

The point of the movie being,

which is mentioned nowhere in the reviews,

at least the ones that I read,

to eat as much popcorn

and drink as much cola as is necessary

(constant ads throughout the theater, and on the screen-

average price, about twelve to seventeen Euros-

slightly more in dollars)

to put you in a state of euphoria,

so you will accept,

not the willing suspense of disbelief,

as those who read literature do,

but rather the fact that due to 3D

you sit through ninety minutes of having swords

and axes,

and anything else violent,

look like they are coming at you

and will kill you any minute.

Then there is the music:

loud louder loudest,

and so terrifyingly bad,

it is meant to scare the bejesus out of you

and set your nerves on edge,

so you are catatonic by the time the

3D pictures of planets

being broken into shards,

buildings being rolled up,

with large cogs and gears chasing actors,

car crashes,

blood everywhere,

doctor scenes,


(somehow the A-team was less violent)

a doctor whose professional life is over

not being allowed to grieve,

or find a reasonable logical way to handle his life.

(Bring back Dr Kildare and his mentor)

Instead he runs off to Katmandu-

to be greeted by Tilda Swinton

as a zen and other beliefs master,

who controls energy

to put up a mirrored locked-off  reality,

so she, and others, can play with different worlds,

and practice power-grabbing

through copious use of the dark forces.

Why did we go?

Oh yes, Cumberbatch.

Reduced in size to a cartoon figure,

(there were really, truly, about three one-minute scenes

where he was allowed to act)

(All Tilda Swinton got was a shaved head)

The rest of the time, he flew through the universe

at about two inches tall,

or in a strange cape,

that moved more than he did.

Yes, people, I did like Harry Potter,

whose animatronics people probably did the special effects here.

At least to a certain extent.

But he was a real boy.

And a super hero

Drawing on his inner beliefs and values and strengths.

All Cumberbatch gets,

is a magical eye

he has to hang around his neck,


in the end,

after using his medical training,

and the logic and photographic memory he was born with,

before he started messing with black magic,

he defeats an evil demon called domo-


by trapping the two of them in a time loop,

thus saving the universe.

For which he is allowed to walk away –

from the most powerful being around,

and set up as grand master of the New York temple

(couldn’t he just join the loyal order of the mystic Nile

optimistic moose shriners?

They at least raise money for children’s charities.

All I saw Cumberbatch do

was wreck a house,

a temple,

a museum,

a city,

a universe.

Oh, and that scene where the librarian had his head chopped off

and caught in a bucket

was really class.

(Maybe he sent out too many overdue notices?)


so my purpose for writing this is:


I hated everything about this movie,

from green aggressive screens,

sharp objects coming at me,

and my musician’s ears being bashed to Sunday and back.

Even more, I disliked

that someone who played Hamlet,

with sensitivity,


and a real understanding of time place and character,

and someone who played Shakespeare in Love,


were treated like this.

I hope they both at least got a new house out of it.

And as for how the rest of us were treated:

I think I shall let the veil of human compassion

fall upon our heroes,

as they wend their way home,

hoping against hope,

that their hard disk recorder has correctly recorded

the beauty, and humanity, and fun

of Miss Phryne Fisher,

and it can be viewed before going to bed,

in the hopes of wiping out the last tinges of this film,

one of which heroes is,

by the way,

using the driving home time

to mentally throw a quick raspberry

to the authors of

the letters

and taunts,

who think that my,

and other friends blogs,

have to be more realistic-

and Watson-checkable to be acceptable.

Dear Friends,

consider the cactus fruit.

The pull-down bed.

The bed-sitter,

Or the edible flying-fish.

Reality is a put-on.

copyright 2016