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How old am I?
I’m 60 something, and glad to be here.
I’m blessed and grateful.
So, here’s to life and good friends!
Let’s boogie!
‘Self Portrait #26’ (c) Rob Goldstein 2019
Below is ‘Self Portrait #30
Animated GIF s found via giphy and are not mine
I am taking a blogging break to work on a project.
I’ll be back at the end of September.
In the meantime, enjoy some forgotten greatness.
The Firesign Theater is best known for its biting and complex social commentary.
The group mixed the conventions of radio drama with the recording and writing techniques of The Beatles.
The result was rich multilayered surrealist satire.
“Animals without backbones hid from each other or fell down. Clamasaurs and Oysterettes appeared as appetizers. Then came the sponges which sucked up about ten percent of all life. Hundreds of years later, in the Late Devouring Period, fish became obnoxious.
Trailerbites, chiggerbites, and mosquitoes collided aimlessly in the dense gas. Finally, tiny edible plants sprang up in rows giving birth to generations of insecticides and other small dying creatures. “
An account of evolution from “I Think We’re all Bozos on this Bus” 1971
The group’s most successful album is “Don’t Crush That Dwarf, Hand Me the Pliers.”
Released in 1970, “Don’t Crush That Dwarf, Hand Me The Pliers,” is the story of George Leroy Tirebiter who lives in a world under martial law. Tirebiter is a former child actor who spends his time watching himself on late-night movies, a staple of broadcast television in the 1960’s.
Rolling Stone calls it the greatest comedy record ever made.
‘The Death of Marion Crane’ (c) Rob Goldstein 2014
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This is the last entry in a series of stories that began with three prompts from D. Wallace Peach.
In the first story, Trina meets Anjana, the elephant and his family of white mice.
In the second story Trina meets a shadow boy who is separated from his ‘boy’.
In the third story the shadow boy and Trina find a golden android but lose him.
After that Diana stopped the prompts for personal reasons but the story continued.
Trina decided she needed more adults in her world so she made an adult doll.
Later, Trina and the shadow boy find the golden android on a display stand in Macy’s.
Trina takes the android to her workshop, scrubs him up, and makes a new skin.
In this episode, Trina brings the android and her doll to life.
The character of Trina is loosely based on the character of the Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry.
Caution: The story contains what some might consider ‘adult’ material.
Trina pulled a picnic table out of her bag and placed it in front of her bench at the duck pond in Central Park.
She added her tea set and Madison, and her new doll, Felicity.
Madison scowled at Felicity’s outfit. “People don’t dress like that in the past.”
“Why not?”
“I’m a doll! How the Hell would I know? They just don’t.”
Trina sighed, opened her bag, pulled out her sewing machine, and set to work.
A few seconds later Trina had a new outfit for Felicity.
Trina dressed Felicity and asked her to stand. “Do you like it?” She asked.
“Very much.” Felicity replied.
“She looks like a tart.” Madison frowned.
Trina stuck her tongue out at Madison.
The shadow boy emerged from the shadows. ‘I think she’s pretty.”
“Thank you,” Trina said to the shadow boy: she opened her bag, pulled out the android, and stood him next to Felicity.
Trina stepped back to admire him.
The little shadow boy tugged on the android’s arm, “How do we turn him on?”
Trina reached into her bag and pulled out a button. “With this,” she replied. She aimed the button at the android and pressed it.
The android whirred to life.
“Do you know the Android’s name?” Trina asked the shadow boy.
The little shadow boy thought for a moment. “His name is Roger.”
Trina turned to Madison, “Do you think he’s handsome?”
“He’s a stud.” Madison cackled.
The android, now named Roger, cocked his head.
Felicity silently agreed.
Trina pulled a desk out of her bag and sat to write their story.
Anjana and his mice appeared and everyone quietly gathered to watch.
Somewhere, wrote Trina, by Marcy Bloomingdale of Queens New York
“Who is Marcy Bloomingdale of Queens New York?” asked Madison.
“It’s my pen name. Do- You- Mind?”
Madison scowled; Trina returned to her story.
Somewhere
by Marcy Bloomingdale of Queens New York
Felicity sits in a big red chair on the murky waters of
the Long Island Sound, she sings a song of seduction.Roger cavorts on the shore, he is a straw man scattering breadcrumbs.
Tonight the moon rises as if this was some kind of night
in Hawaii.Roger is transfixed.
The End.
Trina stood for applause.
Anjana watched two of his mice play an intense game of tennis.
Madison scowled harder than ever.
The shadow boy cleared his throat. “I thought you said they were gown ups.”
“They are,” replied Trina.
“I think you should make them do ‘it’?”
Trina was baffled. “Why?
“Isn’t that the only thing grownups do?”
Felicity stifled a smile.
The android raised his hand: “What is ‘it’ and how is it done?”
Trina was lost.
Anjana raised his trunk to whisper what he knew: ‘Now, I’m no hominid,’ he
began…
A mortified Trina returned to her desk.
Somewhere
By Marcy Bloomingdale of Queens, New York
Roger and Felicity are doing ‘it’ on a big red bed on the murky
waters of the Long Island Sound.“God!” Roger sighs , as he fills Felicity’s robust aperture.
“God back,” Felicity grins.
At last, unable to restrain his ghastly lust, Roger trumpets and ejects the squirmy substance of his love.
The End
Anjana stood up on his hind legs and gave Trina a standing ovation. “Bravo!”
The shadow boy did a somersault.
Felicity blushed and glanced at Roger.
“That was mighty fine!” said Roger. “That was mighty fine indeed!”
Trina curtsied and said thank you.
She packed everything except Felicity and Roger into her bag.
“Remember to forget you’re not real.” she said.
Then Trina picked up her bag and vanished.
(c) Rob Goldstein 2019
The characters are fictional, anyone resemblance to anyone other than me is
purely coincidental.
A Fresh God
Charlie lives in a comic book. Superman says
everything is his; he can have the Fortress
of Solitude. Flash of blue. Swamp gas. A fresh
God pinches cheek and says, “I’m crazy baby,
you better believe it.”
177 characters
© Rob Goldstein 2019
This is an entry for Kat Myrman’s Twittering Tales #150 –– 20 August 2019
Photo by Felipe Ribeiro at Pexels.com
