The Schmootie Song

'Schmootie' is a lovely word
Tho, all too seldom is 'schmootie' heard
Schmootie by day and schmootie by dark
Schmootie in town, schmootie in the park
If ever I were asked to be king
At the coronation, the gathered would sing
Schmootie, schmootie, schmootie
Schmootie for oney and schmootie for twoie
Schmootie for me-ee and schmootie for youie.

Little House on the Prarie?

The average American home grew from 983 square feet in 1950, to 2,349 square feet in 2004 -- a 140% increase. Yet the American household shrank by 18% between 1970 and 2003, from 3.14 people to 2.57, on average.

"Louie, Louie" Redux

Thank the gods for the Kingsmen. Yes, the Kingsmen, popularizers, in 1963, of such unforgettable musical achievements as “Louie, Louie,” and “The Jolly Green Giant.” (They actually did a version of “Mustang Sally” and “Money --That’s What I Want--” too) These predecessors of today’s garage bands had few pretensions to greatness, but challenged, in their own unwitting way and only a few years after the witch hunts of McCarthy (see Good night and Good Luck), the cultural torpor of late 1950’s mid-America. Today, I find that this music also makes great laundry-folding background music, as I sort through the whites and the darks. (For some activities, one desperately needs something in the background.)

Apparently, “Louie, Louie,” was presumed by many to have objectionable (read, pornographic) lyrics and was, at one point, condemned by such defenders of air-wave decency as the Governor of Indiana, Matthew Welsh. (I recall that the kids in my 7^th grade class sure were convinced that the lyrics were “dirty”. Although it was a complete mystery to me how anyone knew what the Kingsmen were singing.) When the Federal Communications Commission conducted an investigation into the lyrics of “Louie, Louie,” they concluded that, “The record is unintelligible at any speed we played it.” This, I think, speaks volumes about, on the one hand, the genius of the Kingsmen (literally creating a tabula rasa on to which anyone could project what they wanted) and on the other hand, the antipathy that seethed in early 1960s America for what was then a blossoming youth culture that would soon lay siege to the staid sensibilities of America, with a triumvirate of sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll. The “Establishment” was convinced that the kids were being corrupted by dirty music. And, of course, they were right. But certainly not by lyrics of “Louie, Louie.” Essentially “Louis, Louis” had no lyrics.

The uproar over “Louie, Louie” was a long, long, long, time ago. But, time, of course, has a way of both slipping away and lingering around, simultaneously. Time is both slippery and sticky. It is evanescent and unending. Now you see it, now you don’t. Here today, gone tomorrow. Etcetera, etcetera. “Louie, Louie,” hit the airwaves over 40 years ago and yet, it seems like only a moment ago. A brief pulse in the great stream of time.

Ahh, “the great stream of time.” It’s very much like the great stream of consciousness. Only, in my case, it’s not exactly a “stream.” More like a “rivulet.” Or maybe even just a few drips. Yes, “drips” of consciousness. That’s it.

But let me first observe that consciousness, or perhaps more accurately, my consciousness, is a weird tangle of impressions and sensations and autobiographical memories and associations. It’s composed as much of the little things that skulk around in the background, as it is the big things that lumber, like locomotives, in the foreground. I’m as consciousness of the feel of this keyboard at which I’m now typing, as I am of my abstract and fuzzy ideas about the vast expanse of time.

Of course, consciousness has some relationship to identity, and as, mentioned, memory—autobiographical memory. (Speaking of identity, let me also observe that it seems to me that who we are, and what we are, is comprised as much by the things that we avoid (steer clear of) as the things that we embrace, whole hog. We are comprised by what we aren’t (or won’t allow ourselves to be) as much as by what we “are.”) So anyway, like I was saying, we conscious beings—even we of little, tiny ideas---are physical things, embedded in a specific point in time and history and nature. Connected to our genetic ancestors and our specific culture. Oh yes, and our given ecology and language (the latter an inheritance form the past that we recreate and innovate, simultaneously.) We are not ethereal and immaterial “souls” afloat in some perfect ether. We are blood and flesh and the composite of our experiences and our place of birth, plus some genetic stuff that gets factored in, that we don’t get any vote in.

But enough of this digression, let’s get back to what’s really important: “Louie, Louie.”

“Just what were the lyrics to Louie, Louie, anyway??” The Kingsmen spent 35 dollars to record their song, and the quality of the recording accords with this magnitude of their investment. Who can tell what the lyrics are by listening? So I looked them up.

Louie Louie, oh no
Me gotta go
Aye-yi-yi-yi, I said
Louie Louie, oh baby
Me gotta go

Fine little girl waits for me
Catch a ship across the sea
Sail that ship about, all alone
Never know if I make it home

CHORUS

Three nights and days I sail the sea
Think of girl, constantly
On that ship, I dream she's there
I smell the rose in her hair.

CHORUS

Okay, let's give it to 'em, right now!

GUITAR SOLO

See Jamaica, the moon above
It won't be long, me see me love
Take her in my arms again
Tell her I'll never leave again

CHORUS

Let's take it on outa here now
Let's go!!

If the governor of Indiana thought that Louie, Louie was suggestive, what do you think he would have made of these lyrics, from the song, “Gone Dead Train” which, as you will recall, appeared some years later, in the movie Performance, starring Mr. Mick Jagger. The song was sung by Randy Newman:

[Words and music by Jack Nitzsche & Russ Titelman.]

My engine was pumpin' steam and I was grindin' at you hard and fast
I was burnin' down the rail tryin' to heat the way
Haulin' ass and ridin' up the track
And I laughed at the conductor who was tellin' me my coal would never last
When the fire in my boiler up and quit before I came
Now ain't no empty cellar need a gone dead train

Once was at a time when I could Mama shave 'em dry
And raise a fever on ice-down chill
Waiting at the station with a heavy loaded sack
Savin' up and holdin' just to spill
Shootin' the supply from my demon's eye
'Stead of waitin' for a time, I hope I will
When the fire in my boiler up and quit before I came
Now ain't no empty cellar need a gone dead train

Yeah it's a gone dead train
You got to help it to burn
You know it's a gone dead train
You got to teach it to learn

There ain't no easy way when the daily run a downhill pull
And there ain't no easy day, wishin' for some jelly roll
There ain't no switch been made to let a juicy lemon find
A spring to run a dry well full
Then the fire in my boiler up and quit before I came
Ain't no empty cellar need a gone dead train

Yeah it's a gone dead train
You got to help it to burn
You know it's a gone dead train
You got to teach it to learn
You know it's a gone dead train
You got to help it to burn
You know it's a gone dead train
You got to help it to learn
Baby, it's a gone dead train
It's a gone dead train

“Louie, Louie” was really just “Little Bo Peep,” by comparison to, “Gone Dead Train.”

Ah, but both “Louie, Louie” and “Gone Dead Train” were a long time ago.

Now, I must get back to the laundry-folding. Back to the quiet zen-like, stillness of a blank consciousness.

Back to the lyrics of “Louie, Louie.”

Heraclitus' Cold Feet

“Into a river you can’t step twice,”

Heraclitus declaimed his sage advice.

“You can stand on the land

And dance on the strand,

But 'NO WADING!'

unless it's on ice."

*Note:

"The river
Where you set
Your foot just now
Is gone---
Those waters
Giving way to this,
Now this."

Fragments: The Collected Wisdom of Heraclitus, Translated by Brooks Haxton.

Patterns--What Could Be Simpler?

I read in a recent issue of New Scientist, that aging, which may bring with it memory loss, Alzheimer’s, dementia, and a boat load of other mental maladies does have one benefit: increased “pattern recognition.” Yep, as one gets older, a lot of things get dimmer and fade away, but apparently one of the few things that gets, or at least can get, stronger and brighter is pattern recognition, which Laura Spiney the author of the article “Golden Oldies”(New Scientist, August 13, 2005) says is a critical component of problem-solving skills. “Pattern recognition is useful for solving problems. It is the ability to see that the object or problem confronting you belongs to a group of similar objects, and is therefore likely to have similar properties. So you can solve the problem on the basis of prior experience, without knowing very much about it. So, you see, as we get older, we get more capable of solving problems. In our wizened years, we are able to see that a given problem, let us call it problem “X,” is quite like other problems that we’ve encountered, like say, problems “U, V, and W”. If, in the past, we solved “U, V and W” with strategy “A”, strategy “A” might be able to solve our current problem “X”. (Unless of course, problem “X” is a bit different and is really more like problem “Y”, in which case, given my increasingly powerful pattern recognition capabilities, I will note that problem “X” is more amenable to strategy “B”.) So in this case, where I might have used Strategy “A”, instead I will use strategy “B”. But wait a minute! What if strategy “B” has been better used with problems “R, S, and T?” Strategy “B” will not work with “U, V, and W”. Any ol’ fool can see that! No, “U, V, and W” will require a much more subtle strategic approach. It will require strategy “C”. So, in order to make the long story of pattern recognition, a short story, problem “X,”---which I originally thought looked like problems “U, V, and W,” but which in fact, looks much more like problems “R, S and T”--- will be solved, not by strategy “A,” or “B,” but by strategy “C”! I will solve problem “X” with strategy “C”! Voila! There you have it. The amazing story of how, as we get older, all problems are the same. And all we really need to do, is use the same solution for whatever problem we may encounter. From now on, you, like I, will benefit from solving all of our problems with the same solution. What could be simpler?

Told You Not to Wander 'Round in the Dark

It has been raining here for 7 or 8 days. It’s Biblical. Last night, I walked Stanley in the pouring rain and howling wind. The trees were heavy with rain, their leaves pulled down by a conspiracy of gravity and damp weariness. Stanley was happy, as he padded around looking for the right place to leave his doggy signature. I wore headphones and listened to the recent release of Cream Live at the Royal Albert Hall (2005). The streetlight at the corner had gone out, and as I rounded the bend with Stanley pulling at his leash, everything was ink black, sopping wet, and horror-movieish. The song "Badge" was on, a song originally written 35 years ago, or more, by Mr. Clapton and George Harrison. "I told you not to wander round in the dark. I told you about the swans that they live in the park. Then I told you about a kid, now he's married to Mabel." What does this mean? I don’t know. Shouldn't I be reciting Yeats instead? Jeez. The curse of the 60s. It’s my music, like it or not. The driving base, the searing lead guitar. The inane lyrics that seem, somehow, to speak to me—across the years--- with some poignant meaning, despite their inanity. The rain, the rain, the damn rain driving down. The dog looking for a place to poop, but he too, now growing weary of the rain. "I'm talking about a girl that looks quite like you. She didn’t have the time to wait in the queue. She cried away her life since she fell off the cradle." At least the trees are beautiful with the night all tangled up in them. An invisible beauty I need to imagine, because it is too damn black and windy for me see much, nor to linger here long. “You’d better pick yourself up off the ground, before they bring the curtain down.” Maybe this is a song about death? About the ineluctable fate that everyone must confront. Who cares if the 60s are 40 years in the past. Who cares that the past has passed. There is only a past for those who are living. For the dead there is nothing, not even nothing, because the deceased are no more. Auden: “What Happens to the living when we die?/Death is not understood by death; nor you, nor I.” Stanley, almost invisible in his poodle blackness, decides he’s had enough and tugs me in the direction of home. Which way is that, Stanley?

The Air Conditioned Class: "It's Climate Change, Silly, Not Global Warming."

In response to a recent post by one of our readers and the reader's trusty canine (you know who you are, so I need not mention any names here) the following:

Dear (Name of Reader), and of course, (Name of Reader's Dog):

Thank you for your thoughtful comments on the state of Air Conditioning, a.k.a., the Air Conditioned State. We here at Moo Moo Camus, and our subsidiary organization, the Bureau of Social Turmoil, are happy that you have, with your clever acumen, penetrated the fog of our initial observation. Indeed, to wit, viz, i.e, : a specter is haunting all of Europe, and indeed, the other important parts of the known world, including Anaheim and Orlando, and it is the specter of the international air conditioned class, who hope one day to seize control of the state (including the states of Florida and California, but not Idaho---too many hot potatoes) and impose a world numbing condition (to wit: air conditioning) on all of humanity. This state will henceforth be known as "Chilly" (not to be confused with the South American nation, nor with ingredients of Mexican food). Chilly will be ruled by a small elite of neo-conservatives, neo-liberals, and neo-anderthals whose every effort will be directed toward making the world safe for global warming. Their motto however, will be, "Everything is cool". They will work, day and night, to make us all think that everything is cool, really cool, when in fact , it is not. Once they have worked their evil, everyone will want to be 'cool.' Everyone. And pretty soon, everyone will THINK that he or she IS cool. Then people from all walks of life will walk around, thinking, "I am really cool," and "everything is cool." And more insidiously, they will FEEL cool.

Once this new elite, the air conditioned class, has stabilized power, it will not stop at anything. It will announce that the world is cool and that you and I are cool, and that even Donald Trump is cool. Next thing you know, they will have us believe that even capitalism is cool. And everyone will want to be a capitalist and everyone will want to be on 'the Apprentice,' or worse, some home remodeling show on the E-channel. Everyone will be infatuated with themselves, thinking, "I am cool, the world is cool, capitalism is cool, everything is cool." But of course, (Name of Reader), you and I will know better. You and I, and perhaps ( name of Reader's dog) too, in is doggy perceptiveness-- will know the truth: WE ARE ALL IN A WHOLE LOT OF HOT WATER!

Down with the Air Conditioned Class. Long live Air Conditioning!

Air Condition the Roman Forum!

Pictured here, MMC and daughter at the Roman Forum (and Siena), August, 2005. 2500 years of history, layer upon layer, in the footsteps of the Emperors, the foundations, both literally and figuratively, of Western civilization, and all I can think about while here is, 'My god, its, 95 degrees and what I wouldn't give for a cool Lime Squishy and a dunk in a pool.' Of course, there was no pool available. OK, so creature-comfort comes before my appreciation of high culture and the history of Wesern Civ . I'm spoiled. I've become a member of the air conditioned class. (Thanks Sandra for the Class designation)

For all those awaiting more philosphical insight: Here is what I am thinking today: Why have human civilizations throughout history so much depended upon barbarism, terror, and violence, to sustain themselves? Take, for example the Roman gladiatorial system and the theme of brutal circuses and free bread. It wasn't just that the participants must have been brutalized, but the whole of Roman society must have internalized a kind of normalized violence and cruelty. Oh Oh! (Sound Familiar?) Fast forward 2000 years: Q: What's changed in contemporary, advanced industrial societies? How much have we progressed? A: Air conditioning.

Today, in our contemporary culture, we have plenty of spectator viloence, although much formerly overt public violence has been hidden from view and is perpetrated far from our eyes (e.g Iraq and Afganistan, Darfour, etc.). At home, sadistic cuelty now takes the place of gladiatorial mahem in the cultural arena; to wit "reality" TV shows (which are, of course aything BUT, real) and the fine achievments on offer, from FOX, like "the Apprentice."

In any case, we saw Rome, Venice, Siena, Pisa, and Florence. Took in all the sites--including the Doge's palace in Venice. Lots of old buildings and old culture. And old illustratrions of the connections between culture, politics, economics and power. I really liked the Doge's palace, in Venice, because among other things, it illustrated perfectly, the early inseparability of church, the organized military violence of the state, and (Catholic) ideology. (The ideology was of course, more beautifully portrayed by impressive painters, than today's global Coke and Rebok ads). The 'Bridge of Sighs' runs directly from the Doge's palace (the seat of political and merchant economic power) to the prison and torture rooms. So it must have been pretty clear to 17th c Venetians who held the power and to what use such power was directed. Church, state,
military----all within a few hundred yards of one another. All wrapped up in one palace-sized complex of state power. As I mentioned to H, it would be likehaving the Capitol building in Washington DC, the federal prisons, and the U.S. Army all connected by a convenient catwalk.

Ummmm, maybe things haven't changed that much, after all?? Except for, of course, the air conditioning.

Sirius, the Dog[1]

There once was a dog named Sirius

Who’d chase his tail, until he became quite delirious

He’d run round and round

Until he wound down

And couldn’t tell his front from his rearious

---

[1] The dog in this poem is named after the star, Sirius, which appears in the constellation of the Big Dog, or Canis Major. Because Sirius is the brightest star in the Big Dog constellation, it's called the Dog Star. It's a double star, which means it has a tiny companion star that spins around it. Could that be Sirius' tail?

Back at the Wheel After A Long Absence

Just returned from Italy. Two weeks in Venice, Florence, and Rome. Jet-lag, and anomie. Where are we? Methinks that too much time has passed since my last entry. Need to write a few lines in order to see if I am still able to write at all. (Was I ever able to write??) Here goes:

Sharp horizon
rusts
against the Agean.
No Odysseus,
yet a return after exile.
Everything piles up
like the smooth stones of dreams.
Plumb the sockets of this sea
until the measure
of what we are
is nothing
dreamed of,
nothing gained.

The Leaves Are Calling

• 

The Leaves Are Calling

It is fall here in the Northeast. The leaves are ochre, fire, and burnt orangello. Soon, they will all be on the ground for yours truly, MMC, to rake and haul to the dump. Ahh, the beauty of nature! But alas, it has been a while since my last scintillating entry, so here, for your reading pleasure, is a list of books that I am now reading (I try to read as many books concurently, as is humanly possible, so as to ensure that I am unable to remember the contents of any and to guarantee that I finish none of them.)

Understanding Early Civilizations, Bruce Trigger

No Contest--The Case Against Competition, Alfie Kohn

After Postmodernism: An Introduction to Critical Realism, Gary Potter and Jose Lopez

The Essential Guide to the New Adolescence, Ava Siegler

You may wish for a comment on these, but this will have to wait for another, subsequent, entry. The leaves are calling.

Invisible Dog with Happy Family

What's Bugging Me?
(see entry below)

What Was Bugging Early Humans???

"New research showing that lice evolve with the people they infest demonstrates that a now-extinct species of human, Homo erectus, came into direct contact with modern humans, Homo sapiens. That contact happened as recently as 25,000 years ago. Evidence of contact between the two species of humans is surprising, scientists say, because researchers long had thought that Homo erectus became extinct hundreds of thousands of years ago."
Click on the title above, "What Was Bugging Early Humans?" for the link to the article

"The Night In Which All Cows Are Black"--GFW Hegel The Phenomenology of Mind--Preface.

"Moo Moo Camus Launch--An Uproarious Success"

"A Land Mark in Web publishing history" L.A. Times

"Any reader who has not availed themselves of the ingenious and arresting Moo Moo Camus Blog is certainly in for a BIG bovine treat!" Denver Post

"Let no one dare call it COWardice!" National Inquirer

"Whoever writes that thing is in some deep, deep s--t!" George W. Bush, Unpublished

"Most important publishing event since that nice Mr. William Caxton invented movable type." Publishers Weekly

Offspring in the Tetons

Plato’s Republic, Horkheimer’s America

Ever since Plato’s Republic and the Allegory of the Cave, (and probably long before that) humans have limned the disparities between appearance and reality. In Plato’s cave, the poor denizens are forced to view a dim refraction of reality upon the cave wall , cast by a fire which blazes behind their backs. There, they remain in chains, waiting for something-- I suspect, if I know Plato, that it is philosophy--- to set them free. "Good luck," we bid to the unfortunate occupants of the cave. Regrettably, those chains look stronger than mere philosophy.

In Plato’s cave, if I understand it correctly, humans merely perceive the shadows of real objects as these appear on the wall, manipulated by puppeteers. Reality, (the true, the good) in fact, operates behind the cave dwellers’ backs. The tragedy of this state is, of course, that cave dwellers don’t directly perceive reality; they see only the faint shadows. (On the more up-beat side, however, one can say, "Well, at least they have eyes and they are able to see something!" Hope springs eternal in the heart of the irrepressible optimist.)
I am convinced however, that in the contemporary period, the shadows on the cave wall are darker and more malicious than those suggested by Plato. There are ever increasingly potent and malevolent forces at work in the political and cultural "atmosphere," of late imperial America (or as I have long termed it, Imperial America, of late.) Increasingly ours has become a managed, regulated, and narrowly partisan culture. False consciousness abounds. (This is, of course, no news especially to our friends in the Frankfurt school, who explored much of this territory more than 50-60 years ago.) But my concern is that Adorno and Horkheimer, although through no fault of their own, may have woefully under-estimated the depth of the penetration by the culture industry into the daily life of the common folk. The media (the Entertainment-Industrial Complex) now frame so much of our world view, and direct us to think and feel in a constricted vocabulary that prevents almost any criticism of the way things are. (Thank you, Herbert Marcuse) And of course these cultural forces --Fox, CNBC, the NY Times, Disney, et al---are interested primarily in securing a populace hyper-attuned to consumerism, and obsessed with the trivia of People magazine and Hollywood movie culture (the latter, of course, are literally images projected on an opposing "cave" wall.)

Consequently, folks nowfind themselves immersed in an electronic, media-saturated civilization, bereft of any anchor or compass with which to orient themselves, awash—although by no fault of their own-- in the ideology of winner- take-all possessive individualism and market uberalis. How can it not be difficult for most to locate the most rudimentary means with which to formulate questions about what is really true about the world and how it works. Thus appearance, far too often, has become "reality." And ideology is "lived," not thought.

"Real news is the news we need to protect our freedoms.You get tabloid news, you get blood-and-guts news, you get news shot through with a self-glorifying facade of patriotism, but people have to sift too much for the news that we need to protect our freedoms. It should be gloriously presented to the people on a nightly basis. The loss of some of the soberness and seriousness of those institutions has had a devastating effect uponpeople's ability to respond to the events of the day." --Bruce Springsteen, Rolling Stone September 22, 2004

I am, rather sadly, convinced not just that social reality is other than it seems, a mere refraction, but that it is the OPPOSITE of what it appears. Peace is thus War. Occupation, liberation. Democracy, administered plutocracy.

Thus Spake Moo Moo Camus

Yellowstone, August, 2004.

Ok. This picture was snapped by a fellow tourist while we were visiting Yellowstone, in August. So there we are, or there we were, captured as a complete nuclear family. Or ,as our Commander in Chief might say, a "nukelar" family.

The charming details of our visit to Yellowstone are to be found in the prior post, below. See "How I Spent My Summer Vacation." (All similarities to anyone living or dead, purely coincidental)

How I Spent My Summer Vacation

Who is that masked man?

We recenlty returned from our vacation in Moose country. It was ahhh, shall we say, Moosey. And Beautiful. Extraordinarily beautiful. We stayed in the Grand Tetons for a few days, and then in Yellowstone. The Tetons, through which I was compelled by my lovely wife to march on a number of almost entirely up-hill, family hikes, look like the Alps. Only taller. Ahh, I love nature. (Especially when viewed from the comfort and convenience of an air conditioned SUV.) While in the Tetons, we not only hiked, we rode horses (see above picture for documentary evidence) and did a float trip down the Snake River. ("Once ... in the wilds of Whyoming, I lost my corkscrew, and we were forced to live on nothing but food and water, for days." W.C. Fields) During our trip we saw lots of Bison and even a gray wolf. Hannah, was very excited. We did not, however, see any bears, which was an immeasurable relief to me. As far as I am concerned, all bears should be of the cute, inanimate overstuffed kind that Teddy Roosevelt made popular and that are frequently dragged around by small children.

In Yellowstone, we saw Old Faithful and a bunch of other geothermal oddities, which apparently make Yellowstone one of the most-visited National Parks in America. (I, personally, observed a number of Japanese and German tourists, ooohing and ahhing at the site of bubbling mud and malodorous hot gases.) Despite the irrepressible excitement that accompanies one's observation of the earth's escaping H2S gas, I couldn't wait to get back to the hotel for a lovely mid-afternoon nap. Just call me "Mr. Natural."