And Gutenberg Lived Here: The Epic Battle Of The Easter Phyllo- Bring Your Own Catsup.

About a week ago,

in preparation for Easter,

I made an impulse buy-

phyllo dough.

In case you haven’t heard of it,

it’s that strange layered stuff

you have to defrost,




leave sit for a while,

take an aspirin,

start flattening, pulling, watering, again.

And studying.

from the standpoint of:

“it says bake 10 minutes.

And “gluten-free.”

And nothing else.

As in:

now that I have bought this stuff,

what do I do with it?

I defrosted it.

Seemed like a good idea at he time.

On Thursday, I thought I would make part of it into shells,

to fill with Maundy Thursday spinach.

chopped and pounded to the level of soupy goop.

The goop we ate with a spoon.

To my husband’s sighs of

“what do I do with this now- ”

the shell-


there’s hopefully not any more left is there?

Just two more portions frozen, sweety.


good Friday-

I underestimated.

It was three more pieces.

One became a bowl for his baked fish.

Mine got melted cheese.

Like strange greasy pizza.

Not so good.

Saturday, we had a piece as a bowl for strawberries.

It collapsed in baking,

so was more like a strawberry pastry.

I gave up and poured milk on top.

On Sunday, we went all out.

Strawberries, strips of pastry, whipping cream.

Not bad if you like gluten-free puff pastry-

by this time, I ate half, and headed for the carrots.

And finally,


the second day of Easter,

as it is called over here,

a holiday for finishing up the flattened, slightly soured,

not so really what you want

left-over phyllo,

I gave up,

and poured vanilla yoghurt over the top.

Not bad with berries.

And washed the dishes,

thrilled that we had made it:

a very very happy Easter weekend,

with joy

and love.

and sunrise viewing

to the sounds of birds just stirring,


And then,

with my husband on the phone

calling his relatives,

as you do on second Easter over here,

just as I was packing away the carrots I had bought too many of in the freezer,

to be made into soup,

one cold and starry night,

if the good Lord’s willin’ and the creek don’t rise,

I found it:

a one year old package of phyllo-

I had frozen,

since I didn’t know what to do with it

last Easter.

So, if you’ve gotten this far

into the saga of phyllo-

Anybody want to come over for baked bean packets

and pigs in a blanket?

Fourth of July.

7 PM

Bring your own catsup.

copyright 2017

And Gutenberg Lived Here: The Flying Squirrels, And Other Easter Traditions

Gutenberg Land is,

to put it in a nutshell,

one of the more unusual places on this planet to spend Easter.


First there are the historical traditions:

the capping of village wells with a crown of large,

croquet hoop shaped,

willow slips,

to which centuries old and carefully packed away each year,

blown out and decorated Easter eggs are hung.

Altars in churches that are,

until the reading of the creation at Easter sunrise,

empty of Bible, candles, transubstantiation bells, a crucifix, the sound of the organ,

since the altar is draped in black,

and these elements of Catholic worship,

“are in Rome”

as the locals say.

Then, on Easter day,

of course,

there is a huge ceremony in the cathedral,

with priests in historical vestments,

almost every stop on the organ being pulled,

(there’s a joke here about local organists being so short

because as apprentices,

they have to fit under the arms of the organist

to pull the stops.)

Oh, and before I forget,

in addition to the historical vestments,

this is,

as I have mentioned many times,

a papal see-

the pope has his own throne at the back,

also  traditionally used by the emperor,

when there was one,

and the church ushers wear Swiss guard uniforms,

with pikestaff.

(the rest of us- the protestant section,

get up EARLY-

for sunrise service,

and have the added and wonderful joy

of watching the squirrels in the trees

waking up, making ablutions,

and jumping through the treetops

as the sun comes up.

Then, of course,

there are the American additions to the scene-

giant pink rabbits selling perfume,

fancy Easter cards,

Easter egg hunts,

plastic grass for baskets-

never a thing over here-

marking pens and wax batik eggs,

(tradition here is boiled onion skin brown eggs,

red from beet juice,

all made to shine by wiping with a pork rind with fat back.)

Actually, I could go on forever,

with the Gutenberg  cathedral’s own particular mass form,

different from everywhere else in the world,

or Roman traditions,

or the German tradition of everyone going out into the hills

for a good walk in nature,

and often bringing back forsythia branches,

to put in a vase,

to hang small wooden rabbits and eggs on,

or the special coffees,

and traditional baking,

and weeks of preparation,

and the gift exchange,

in many homes,

of marzipan figures,

flowers, of course,

and even nylons for the women,

I expect a throwback to the fifties,

when it was hard to get to such things.

The main thing, though,

as I see it,

is the personal meaning for each person

of Easter.

For us,  a time of meditation and giving thanks.

And talking to family.

And being glad that Harold and I are still together.

(And still enjoy exchanging our own special Easter treats-

small hand decorated chocolate “present eggs”

and homemade hot cross bunnies.

Happy Easter to all.

copyright 2017



And Gutenberg Lived Here: What On Earth Happened To All The Eggs?

Spring is sprung,

the grass is riz,

time to look for where

the Easter stuff is.


It’s that time of year again.

And Gutenberg Land is no different from anywhere else


Yesterday we did the usual Easter shopping thing-

clothes, socks, underwear,

hey, when you’ve got a man along,

and he has finally agreed to go clothes shopping,

you do what you have to do.

So there we were-

at one of the large downtown  department stores-

after taking the “happy train”-

the small gauge connector

with cutouts of tv cartoon figures on the sides,

that carries the thirty thousand plus students to classes,

and every one else to early morning senior citizen 2 halves of a hard roll

smeared with jam or cheese or raw pork hamburger with onions,

and coffee,

for under 5 dollars,

or those,

like us,

to shopping.

Hey,  when you have family in the States

expecting boxes of German Easter candy-

chocolate in the shape of everything from wart hogs-

hey, never heard of the Easter fertility wart hog?

to high-heeled slippers,

computer keyboards,

the transformers,

and even some in the shape of Eggs,

which weren’t selling nearly as well as the chess set,

you buy a large postal box,

and fill ‘er up.

At least partially-

the stuff is good quality,

and not really cheap.

then, after buying the smeary jell-o-like color sticks,

and the stringy green super thin licorice

that looks like Easter basket grass,

drinking two cups of coffee,

to up the morale,

not to mention getting the brain functioning again,

you avoid the pink fuzzy bunny underwear,

and men’s briefs with tiny little rabbits everywhere,

some of them doing things,

like those Kama Sutra charts you see in cheap book stores,

and buy…


(The underwear will have to keep till after Easter-

did I mention underwear,

and especially nylons for women

are a favorite Easter gift over here?)

And this,

the Egg hunt,

before anyone has actually hidden them,

is the real reason you have to do the Easter shopping run for your life-

Namely, all white eggs,

that can be actually colored without coming out grey,

have been reserved,

at our bio chicken raiser down the road from us.

Yeah, yeah, so I sort of forgot it again-

hey, who thinks of reserving eggs-

and strawberries,

and whte asparagus,

if you do the Easter thing German style,

in the middle of February.

(so they know how many fields to plant,

since both strawberries

and white asparagus,

are high water, high amount of work needed to pick and harvest,

what with going out every day to put dirt on the asparagus sprouts,

so they don’t turn green,

or purple,

under the sunlight.)

So anyway,

to make a long story short,

after a full day of walking-

10 kilometers on our meter,

we now have:

put the Easter boxes in the mail,

no new underwear,

two boxes of white un-bio eggs

which probably means fed with plastic grasshoppers,

a thumping heart

from the next two cups of coffee,

and the sweet potato fries with hot curry sauce for lunch,

an egg nog filled chocolate egg for the love of my life,

a new plastic watch band,

for our pedometer,


no new Easter clothes.

Hey, after all these years as a conductor,

I’ll just pull out something from the black suit and pants section of the closet,

and try to get it dry cleaned before Easter.

Hey, and I thought conducting Bach’s St John’s Passion was hard work.

copyright 2017

And Gutenberg Lived Here: Bain, Pain, Band, And Panned.

In 1967

Pearls Before Swine

sang “Miss Morse”.

A group of boy scouts in New York

called in to protest.

They had studied Morse,

and recognized the Morse code in the lyrics.

Always be prepared.

It was band.

And banned.

And then there were the Beatles-

George dead?

John dead?

and what exactly, please, is the meaning of the Walrus?

Especially after Quinn the Inuit became so popular.

(Played backwards, or forwards, either way it is the bain of music interpreters.)

And a right royal pain in the mukluk.

And Band.

And was, in certain places, banned.

Which brings us to the question of censorship.

How often during wars was music used to send messages?

Ever hear of the war of the roses?

Or the fact that reportedly Shakespeare was a secret Catholic-

working for Henry VIII’s mother, and a Catholic printer?

And why does Ophelia go on and on about Parsley, Sage Rosemary And Thyme?

When she hadn’t ever met Simon and Garfunkle?

(Answer: It’s a code- see the meaning of flowers and herbs)

And then, of course, there is the war of the natural elements.

Almost everyone knows they have a birthstone that fits to their astrological sign.

And many carry small bags of stones to change their health.

Personally, I would say, forget the agate, just don’t eat the onions,

but there are many who believe in such things.

In fact, I was given an apatite for my last birthday.

Inexpensive, and very very beautiful.

Check them out.

Stones are fascinating as a hobby.

And then there are the fancy stones.

Like a “dearest” ring-

diamond, emerald, amethyst, ruby-

very popular in Victorian times,

and now back in fashion, apparently.

A girlfriend of mine wears one as a wedding band.

And, of course, with mothers’ day not too far off,

there is the famous bracelet-

for mothers, with each child’s birthstone,

or a bracelet for remembrances-

one each for the bride and groom.

My real favorite, though,

I recently researched stones and design,

since I married into a stone cutter family,

and the discussion at the dinner table is often about stone blemishes

that make cutting impossible,

and what a ring has to look like to correctly represent the family-

I wear a band we designed together and an uncle made-

a small (stoneless)  linked initials ring-

but then, what do I know?

I horrified them all at a family meeting with an apple seed necklace.

Which brings us back to the problem.

So what happens when your sweetie gifts you with his stone-

which, in addition to being his birth stone,

is meant to cure warts, bow legs, too large feet, a large nose?

(none of the above applicable, in the case of my better half-

just an aunt who believes in esoteric,

and giving male family members birthstone rings.)

And what then happens,

when said gifted male nephew then hand them on to unsuspecting wives.

(Hey, the stone doesn’t apply to me either…



back to the question.

What do you do…

When what you really wanted

was something in bizarre colors that flashes in time to music,

preferably made out of cheap plastic,

so it doesn’t hurt when you lose it,

or is a philosopher’s stone-

for eternal youth, and strength to go out and boogy,

or endurance to party all night?


Just make him buy you two diamonds to counteract it.

(If you look hard enough, you can surely find something in all health-improving stones

that is a good excuse for a  diamond-

just kidding, a fancy evening out will do just fine)

And what about flowers?

How many fantastic books and films hinge on the use of “Rosemary for remembrance?”

Or “Rosemary and thyme”.-

Make that time?

Hey, over here even parsley is a message bringer-

your twelve and a halfth (is that a word?) anniversary.

Either that or the lettuce in your salad is brown, and the restaurant is trying to hide it.

Bain, Pain, Band, and Banned.

See, told you so.

copyright 2017

And Gutenberg Lived Here: Elementary, My Dear Watson.


while working on how to kill a protagonist I didn’t really want to kill,

(although said prot. surely deserved it,

the way I have written it,)

which therefore meant I probably just wasn’t ready to do said prot. in,

which definitely meant more background detail in a piece

that already contains egyptian pyramids that don’t belong there,

but have to be,

and snakes that do,

even if they are boa constrictors in a story about asps

(the stage company can’t afford the insurance)

and everything else but the kitchen sink,

(actually, this is always the worst part of writing for me-

right up there with driving the plot off a cliff,

because there is no where else to go,

and hoping, in desperation, that the parachute will open before I have to rewrite)

Forget it-  you always have to-

I  suddenly found myself thinking about a note written to me by a wacko

who thinks that if she breaks my concentration regularly,

“she and I definitely will one day be good  friends”

And laughing hysterically.


in her latest note to me,

said wacko has decided to collect what I have written,

including to others,

and will “write my biography when I am famous.”

(hahahahahahahahahahahahahahah……etc etc.

From your mouth to God’s ear, if He wishes.


after at least five minutes of laughing-

gee, I sure do hope she is right…

me working my backside off at conferences,

staying in cheap hotels,

getting paid just about enough that,

if I write two books or more per year,

I can nearly pay the heat here in Gutenberg Land…

while she…

Wow, I sure hope she writes better than she does in her notes to me.

So anyway…

It was a dark and stormy night.

A pirate ship appeared on the horizon-

well, actually, it was a pizza delivery van-

a group of six musicians rent a place here,

and have coated the walls with egg cartons to set up a music studio-

it doesn’t work.

How many times can you play the bass line to Louie Louie

before you finally accidentally get it right?

Or your neighbor lets you have it with a rubberized composers’ piano?

Hey, maybe there’s a book in that?

So there I was,

me and Charlie Brown,


and hang on snoopy,

loping to the casbah,

needle-less Christmas tree dragging behind us on a rope,

ready to celebrate when the last chapter is done,


Out of nowhere,

Sherlock Holmes popped into my mind.

The last one before the hiatus,

or the next Hamlet performance,

whichever comes first,

so hopefully only temporarily,

like, apparently, until spring of 2020-

unless the hiatus is forever.


Known as” the Final Case”

in the film,


“The Last Case,”

in the Doyle version,

it is the story of Sherlock trying to work out what happened to him,

through evil agencies,

while being kept in the dark,

by an idiot who is actually his control freak brother,

After which,

Sherlock regards the real crimes going on in the “family”

And discovers  that,


he is the only one involved who really understands what is going on.

(Since he,

and John

are the only responsible adults in the “family.”)

And since the others-

family members and helpers-

have set up a world with no moral content,

no beliefs,

no humanity,

no decency,

and no joy…

Which they are not enjoying,

but do not change,

since they are so used to controlling,




and controlling.

(did I mention controlling…)

And earning money off of others.

Which they have set up as the basis for “reality”…

And since, as we all know, reality is a put-on,

the only way out of the “game” which is obviously afoot,

is to use logic,

and truth,

and fortitude,

to break through the game,

to reach any kind of a  level of decency…

A level in which those who want to play the control game

are kept at a distance,

behind the wall of sound.

Ie good and positive sound.

Like music.

Which lulls everything else.

And from behind which,

one can live in peace, and belief, and joy, the way it ought to be.

Ps. If the above reminds you of Sartre, or Godot,

that’s the way the Endgame crumbles.

Did I mention,

that my favorite writer is John Donne?

(Ever notice how his structures are so like a compass?)

The end.

copyright 2017


And Gutenberg Lived Here: The Day Of The Purple Dumplings

I know, especially with all that is going on in the world today,

that the following topic is right up there with

“are cows ambidextrous?”


“Who won the world series in 1960”

but, at the moment, I have gotten a lot of questions,

from people where I grew up,

or people planning visits to Germany for business,

or conferences,

about different concrete aspects of life here.

And the most asked questions

are about food:


“is there thick tomato sauce?”

(an important question to those from St. Louis)


the local German-Italian restaurants are  usually only authentic

if they are in a neighborhood with  a large contingent of Italian natives.

Check out those areas.

Or the other St Louis question:

“Is there cracker crust pizza?”

There are many many kinds of pizza here,

including Wagner’s American style,

which has ABSOLUTELY nothing to do with America.

In fact,

rule number one here is:

if it says ” American,”

or “American style”

it isn’t.


the things ordered about once per year,

for the fourth of July,

since this was a big American military area,

and the locals got to like  fourth of July and American hot dogs, relish, corn, and ice cream.

So now back to GERMAN food:

What do I eat when I get to Gutenberg land.

In Near-St-Louis, we ate knackwurst-

made by a local Bavarian butcher,

but here, each form of sausage is made by an individual butcher,

and no two places have the same traditions,

so you will never find knackwurst.

Or Oscar Meyer.

My suggestion is:

do as the locals do,


if you can’t stand the thought of pigs ears in aspic,

or blood sausage,

or summer sausage,

go vegetarian.

There are a lot of good local vegetarian places.

Here in Gutenberg land, the university serves vegetarian and vegan,

and most Indian places and a lot of Chinese also.

So what else do you need to know?

where to live?

Housing here is about the same price range as in California,

or New York.

Cheaper in the countryside.

And if you have a car,

you might get to stay in a castle.

Several of the local youth hostels are even in castles.

Bed and breakfast vary in price and amount of nuisance involved.

But always interesting.

You may get home-cooked jam,


if you can take it with a laugh,

tell the story for years about how you had breakfast with a parrot

who sang the impossible dream, in bits and pieces, for most of an hour.

(Happened to us in Cologne)

Then there are the spa towns,

often a bit pricey, but not always,

and often great deals in the off-season.

It’s a huge part of the standard culture here,

not much like the US wellness places.

As to things like:

how do I get books, toothpaste, a doctor if I get sick.

Almost anyone putting you up for a night can tell you.

Or the internet, of course.

(In case of an emergency, look for the local “Apotheke”- the pharmacy.

They are very educated, and usually quite open-minded,

and you can probably even ask them where to get a bus,

or directions,

as long as there isn’t a huge line of customers waiting.

(Friday afternoon, and Monday morning)

All you really have to know is:

the Rhineland is as civilized as most US cities,

and a large percentage of the German populace

has English lessons at school.

In fact, most of the younger Rhinelander speak truly excellent English,

and are often looking for someone to converse with.

Like recently, when two Turkish kids,

who had been here for a while, from the sound of their German,

(after we spoke German to them)

who asked us, in English, if we were lost-

yes, actually, we were,

due to the street being torn up,

and us having to come into town through a small side-street I had never seen before.

But that can happen anywhere.

So where do the purple potato dumplings come in?

Well, like I said, almost anything you need can be found on the internet.

There are exceptions, though.

Like the fact that,

should you look up a recipe for potato dumplings-

(grate raw peeled potatos, squeeze the water out, add potato starch, make into balls,

and cook them in boiling salt water till they float.)

what the internet, or cookbook recipe,

will definitely NOT tell you,

is that,

should you use standard American Idaho potatos,

the amount of zinc in the spuds

will make them turn purple in the boiling process.

Like I said,

do like the locals,

and if it goes wrong,

take it with a grain of salt.

Oh, and always have an excuse ready, just in case.


I made them purple because today is a holiday.

(Happy St. Hildelitba  day!)

copyright 2017

And Gutenberg Lived Here: Of PBJ Sandwiches, Easter, And Runaway Trains

Today, probably after too much time listening to a huge convention of blind people

deciding which of them was going to run for office

as chancellor of Germany,

(yes, truly, but either way it fit, since,

in my opinion,

most politicians are much more disabled than those members of the convention)

I decided to talk about,

ta da,

and with 42 thanks to Douglas Adams,

life, the universe, and everything.


So here we go.

I’m a singer.

As most of you know.

And a church musician, teacher, composer-


which means-

hold on to your hats, boys,

Easter/ summer concerts/fall high holidays/ Christmas

are on their way.

Or to put it in a nutshell-

answer the phone, go to work, collapse after a concert,

bathe long in hot water

while reading a cozy murder mystery,

and eating an apple,

(homage to Ms Christie here-)

then get up the next morning to do it all again.

Eleven plus per quarter.

But oh my, the joy.

The joy of lifting spirits,

watching people sing with you,

usually when they aren’t really supposed to,

a couple of times even hearing people say

“thanks, I think I can face things again for a while.”

(And that’s the point, of course.)

But then, the next morning,

you successfully work through  enough of  the pain of tense muscles

that, during yoga,  you can get your back flat on the floor again,

and find that your wonderful

and also overworked


has made you toast with peanut butter for breakfast-

Yup. A real blessing.

The man, not the toast,

although pbj isn’t bad either.

And then there is the lit.

I also do  lit courses.

Yes, you can do it,

if you do a lot of yoga,

have a car with a good gps,

and drag heavy lit books to concert rehearsals.

And discover,

during a break to tweak the horn section,

that in the middle of  Shakespeare plays,

there are songs that are still known today,

(and lyrics used for pop songs)

or that in Hermann Hesse’s Damian,

there are large discussions of organ playing,


breaking your way out of the egg and progressing upward.

While the two heroes stand in a darkened church at midnight,

and absorb the incredible stillness

and beauty

you don’t find much in the world today.

Me, I have a memory box-

mental, of course.

And one of my favorite memories is exactly that-

Easter Sunday morning-

about one am-

practicing for  classical music the next day at sunrise,

(our tenor was on the road from a recording session until near midnight)

Electricity off-

so we had to use the candles from  the camping kit our tenor keeps in his junker of a car for emergencies-

so there we were

a relatively small, sixteenth century chapel here in the Rhineland,



and baroque music-

I Am the way, and the truth, and the light.

And being startled suddenly by the four a.m. tram

that runs right through what had previously been the church burial ground.

Causing our mostly asleep tenor

to back into the button for the  communion bell-

which only rang once before we could turn it off, thank heavens.

Stillness, beauty, meaning of life, technology, the foibles of mankind.

Did you know Shakespeare was the one who  wrote the 23d  psalm version most of us know

“The Lord Is My Shepherd”

for the Saint James Bible translation?

Or that Bach once threw his wig at his musicians, claiming they were still drunk,

at  Easter,

from their New Years reveling?

And so…

“like grains of sand through an hourglass…”

everything is connected.

Like all holistic detective agencies are,

and Alma Cogan isn’t.

Just remember to walk around the stones.

See, Life, The Universe, And Everything.

copyright 2017

And Gutenberg Lived Here: Touch A Sleeve, And Hear The Rolling Stones?

I read the news today, oh boy.

All about how in the very near future our clothing is going to be made out of a material

that transports signals,

just like a smart watch.

Except it will be your entire clothing.

Which lead me to the following ideas:

(sorry, I’m one of those people who just thinks this way-)

1. If your entire suit jacket is made out of conductive material, how do you turn it off at a concert or in church? Or other inappropriate moments? ie, if you are hiding out in a parking garage, and a baddie is after you, do you have to pull down a zipper and shrug it off, or does it have a loudness control? Maybe an automatic situation appraising panic button? (asap)

2. If the boss of your company touches your sleeve, do the Rolling Stones suddenly starts     playing ?  Maybe sympathy for the devil?

3. What happens when it rains? Or you forget and wash instead of dry clean do you  suddenly have Elinor Rigby screaming from the dryer?

4. You go to the beach, a seagull lands on your arm, and you have a full battalion  attacking to the 1812 Overture? Or the theme from “The Birds?”

5. Can you borrow a neighbor’s size sixty-two Hawaiian muu-muu to use as a small events hall with piped in music?

6. Will riding a bicycle always be accompanied by a picture before your eyes and the theme music of the wicked witch from Dorothy and the Wizard of Oz- hey, actually, that sounds pretty cool.

7. And what about babies? Are we looking at an entire future generation that grew up thinking that it is normal that a diaper tells them a bedtime story.

Which brings up one more last question:

since we are on the subject of diapers-

how do you get a kid to stay asleep

when his diaper is playing Handel’s Water Music?

copyright 2017


And Gutenberg Lived Here: And What Would YOU Do When You Heard The Words “Paleo- Flirting?”

I admit it. I’m an unashamed people-watcher.

And people-wonderer.

As in:

Sitting peacefully in a cafe, English tea with milk in hand,

to the chagrin of every German barista ever trained-

except at McDonald’s-

I overheard two rather loud women at the next table saying:

“I swear, I heard it on tv last night. ”


“Yup, paleo-flirting.”

“Which is what when it is at home?”

(Actually what they said was the German equivalent, only much much more  colorful,

so I’ll just de-blue what follows by leaving it in highly edited English-

Picture a parrot taken to sea by a more than salty sailor,

and then left in a will to his aged aunt-

for which reason she always keeps it on the balcony,

with a tiny immersion heater,

with  flame-thrower attachment for the neighbor’s Maine Coon cat-

did I mention I’ve been reading a lot of Irish literature lately,

to get my students ready for today?

And happy Saint Pat’s to you all.

Ain’t James Joyce great?

So anyway, there I was,

listening to two short dark Celtic locals

blasting the frosting off my lo-cal lactose free-


what did you think I was going to write-

hey, I still have to get into my summer clothes some time this year-

So there they were-

chatting about how they had heard this tv game show talking about NLP-

neuro-linguistic programming,

and how it can be adapted,

by wiggling in a certain way-

put deep into our genes by our  stone-age Fred Flintstone type progenitors,

and how to curl hair just right, etc-

(also known as paleo-flirting)

sorry, but somehow my two coffee-drinking over-heards

didn’t seem to have gotten it just right.

So anyway,


being more the child of pale leo types-

think about it-

I, of course started thinking about other types of paleo,

and how it influences our life.

For example:


first, catch a monkey who has eaten coffee beans.


collect rocks.

Heat them in volcanic lava,

on the edge, of course,

roll them out.

Then roll them to the spot where you have collected dew.

Put the rocks in the dew-water hole.

Sift the monkey excrement,

pound it with a rock-

preferable not hot,

add to the hot water,

make a small design in the shape of a palm tree on the top with a reed.

Drink the hot coffee through the reed.

While defending yourself from the lava and the monkeys.

Then, of course, there is paleo diet-

very big over here at the moment-

look up paleo on your computer,

look up all the elements of the paleo diet

that didn’t work in all the previous diets it was developed from.

Then spend the next two months telling everyone you have lost weight

and have better cholesterol values,

and that you will now watch that they do exactly the same.

Then go out for pizza.



to stop wasting energy,-

most of our energy used, is used for computers-

send semaphore by day-

a flag system still used in the 1700’s,


before 1700, it only took 2 hours to send a message from London to Birmingham.

A bit difficult at night, but hey, what are glow worms for anyway if not to fly in formation?

Or to coat stones, that can then be used to…

Wasn’t that how NASA got started?

And what about Paleo transport?

The introduction of the Draisiner-

A bicycle with no pedals you sit on and push, rapidly,  with your feet.

(Wear wooden shoes)

Or the paleo-train-

rollerskaters moving in sequence,

and carrying benches mounted on poles?

Paleo cooking?


steak tartar?

In fact, now that I think of it,

if you got together a bunch of monkeys,

let them eat texas barbecue,

then heat some rocks,

collect the ribs…

copyright 2017

And Gutenberg Lived Here: Is Hacking The New Graffiti?

Today we had a couple of hours off,

and hadn’t gotten a whole lot of fresh air lately-


so we took out our handy-dandy public transport card-

university to Rhine

and all points east,

and headed downtown.

On the Rhine-

Picture seven hills-each with it’s own area of specialization-


ancient fort on the cliffs now used for the carnival companies to practice,


home of the draysiner- a sort of pre- bicycle without pedals

(you sit on it and push yourself along with your feet- like a scooter-

and every bit as fast as a bicycle)

U teaching-research hospital-

(research partner to St Louis U and Barnes hospital-

lots of good ideas for mobility, genetics,  diabetes control, and alternative medicine

coming out of here)



back on the new lightweight narrow-gauge that winds all through the area

and is rapidly replacing buses-

just wish the towers weren’t so darned ugly and intrusive-

we were off on an adventure.

To see what was going on-


and who was down there-

senior citizens-

and what events were going on-

the wedding trade fair,

the white sales start soon,

Florence Forster Jenkins is on at the movie house-

no ice on the streets,

thank goodness-

then we discovered it-

the graffiti.

As in:

during the winter holidays,

some idiots,

and I don’t use the term loosely,

had discovered that:

to build the  new super light-weight railway

that hauls students to the U,

and  fans to the football games,

and the super-vips to the tv studios-

no, actually, only the cheerleader teams

and vips of the week-

the real biggies-

hot over here are Bruce Willis

and Leonardo De Caprio-

Bruce  born here

Leo  with German granny-

have a car, driver, and body guard-

so says one of my voice students,

whose husband is a second tv network security man.

So anyway,

there we were, passing miles and miles of university buildings,


the buildings, not us,

due to the tram builders pulling down all the fences

and bushes,

and trees,

but disgustingly decorated with

“Lukas, the Uzzis will get revenge,”


“this is OUR world, get used to it, etc etc.”

And I started thinking about why someone would do this-

especially as the university,

in egg-headed well-meaningness,

has put up mile after mile of fences covered in canvas,

and invited everyone to paint there-


not one tag-

which is why I wonder-

why do they only tag when it is destructive?


if it’s not wanting to express something that is in them

and just has to get out-

or a need to improve something-

or show beauty…


it is apparently a need to destroy.

To force people to look


at something bad they, the taggers, have done,

and accept it.

Whether they, Joe Average,  want to or not.

Which brings me back to my question-

isn’t this like computer stalkers?

The ones who just have to hate,

and attack,

and destroy,

and put it on someone’s page,

again and again.

And send them the computer version

of a burning paper bag of manure on your doorstep,

or taking your mail out of the mailbox,

and posting it on the town hall bulletin board.

Most of us grew out of that stage,

if we were ever in it-

at somewhere between the ages of eight and fourteen.

No, I do not have prince Albert in the can-

and if you call again, I will have you arrested,

phone slammed down,

kid scared,

learns not to call again,

grows up.


And eventually stops sending people 24 pizzas.

or letting air out of tires.

Which brings me to a theory of mine-

that modern living has so much surveillance involved,

you would be seen

and filmed

and find yourself on YouTube

if you did the above.

(Paper bag, Prince Albert, Pizzas, et al)

But what if you had a key

to the central post office,

and could steal anyone’s letters you wanted,

and post them in public,

or send them to other people

without getting caught?

How many of us would tell someone

I saw your mail,

and immediately ignored it,

and traced the person who did this.

Here is your mail.

And their name.

In case you want to call up

and scare the be-jeebers out of them.

So anyway,

just wondering if there isn’t something a bit odd about a system

where computer stalkers,

who, in normal life,

can’t get at you personally,

have to prove they are right in their odd thoughts,

by posting it  where

if you don’t spam it,

your eighty year old aunt Mildred tells you

her best friend’s grandchild saw it,

and is amazed you use pot-

or dislike transgenders,

or whatever lies your stalker is telling this week.



You’re it.


I’m not it, thanks.

Because no matter how much destruction is done,

from taggers ruining buildings,

or linemen listening to telephone calls,

or those who snoop in your house while at a party,

for every nine who believe the nonsense that is being told,

and the ugliness that is being shown,

there will always be one person,

one decent honorable, joyful, NORMAl person,

who says to the others,

“hey, you remember when the power lines were out, and she took John and I in.”

And one of the nine will say

“hey, you’re right. He always did four services on Christmas eve, and took the organist

home for a meal.”

“She took care of my flowers when I was in the hospital.”

“He wrote a recommendation for my son.”

And by the time the dust has settled,

and nine out of ten are now on the other side,

people will suddenly realiize

that only one person is really involved here.

A Destructionist-

how’s that for a name.

Someone who destroys,

for the fun of it,

and the control involved,

because they feel they have no control in their lives,

or for the money they get for destroying.

Or just the fact that they are so very unhappy,

and anyone being happy must be an unfeeling unrealistic idiot.

And so they destroy.

Not understanding that all that bad

is not stronger than good,

as my troll tried to  tell me.

And that even if,

as it was in the good old days where I am from,

the entire town doesn’t get together and whitewash everything that has been destroyed,

and put it back together,

at least they all still know it ought to be cleared away once and for all.

And that a group of intolerant whoo-haws

who feel we all have to be exactly like them,

since they are so insecure

and untrusting,

have no right to judge anyone,

or disrespect anyone,

or steal from anyone.

And that this will definitely be taken care of by someone

much bigger than all of us.

copyright 2017