Monday, February 20, 2012

DISC-OH!



In my dream I invented a thing called a Disc-oh!
A frisbee of sorts with flashing disco lights,
Only they didn't come on in my dream
Which was almost monochrome but for the disc
That was golden as if out of Plan 9 From Outer Space.
The idea was you toss the disc at night
And the lights would flash and 70s disco music
Would play in the heavens above, and everyone
Would have fun, and of course want one,
And everyone would be happy, especially me.

I put the concept into my dreamworld R&D
And sent the working prototype off to China
Where it was manufactured in the millions
At fifty cents per unit: it was a very complete dream.
And they retailed for 20 dollars each, which gave me
A not inconsiderable return on my dream investment,
And everyone was very happy, particularly me. 

And my discs filled the night skies, rendering our world
Just that much brighter, joyful, and full of laughter,
Spiritually elevated, regular in its bowel movements,
Sexually active and ultimately prosperous,
Like my Chinese workers, who at their rate of pay
Earned a Disc-oh! per hour, if at the cost of production
Rather than the retail rate, but life is a business
Of Aspiration or so we are told, and they nonetheless
Were very happy, like everyone, including me.








Tuesday, February 7, 2012

HOW TO MAKE YOUR OWN YOGHURT


You don't need powders, packets and yoghurt machines to make your own plain yoghurt at home. All you need is milk, and some of your last batch of yoghurt.

1. Pour 2 litres* of your favourite top quality organic/biodynamic milk into a saucepan and bring to near-boil (bubbling) on the stove.

2. Allow the milk to cool a little, and pour into clean glass jars.

3. Allow the milk to cool further, until it is between hot and warm (it's a touch thing... by trial and error you'll work out the right heat** for optimum yoghurt...). Add a tablespoon of your last batch of yoghurt*** to each jar, and stir in.

4. Put lids on the jars, and put in a small cardboard box or carton filled with packing material and/or tea towels. Close up the box and put in a small cupboard that you won't open until next morning.

5. Next morning open cupboard, take jars of yoghurt out of box, refrigerate.



 *This is how much I make at one go, but of course it's up to you how much you want to make. 

**No doubt there is an optimum geeky temperature you could measure but I've never bothered.

***Or of your favourite bought plain yoghurt.










Sunday, January 1, 2012

ROOMATISM





When all the plummy plump
Is bruised to lumpy pith
Amid a local and general sag,
And all the grand and fervid passions
Are cold ashes in the grate,
And there it is, the lone fucking chop
The twenty fucking peas,
And the chunks of fucking carrot
On the clunky fucking plate,
And all the books swim
In a dark swash of print,
And the songs fade to a whisper
On the drums of well thatched ears,
The lips may yet move
With an odd line here or there
Of that reserved anarcho-jester,
The poem, whose rhythms, 
Neurisms and truisms
Suggest all of the allusive all
That lies just beyond touch,
Beyond the fog and cloud and shadow,
Beyond the room and rheumatism.







Friday, December 30, 2011

The Last Day Of The Year



                                

           in memoriam Carol Novack and Kerry Leves


“he told me that writing poetry was the most beautiful thing anyone could do on this godforsaken earth” 

                                                      -Roberto Bolano



The writing of a poem
Is problematical
As life itself:
Where did it come from?
Why is it here?
What does it mean?
Then it settles itself
Into ink, infused
Into the fibres of a page,
Signifying much, little
Or nothing much at all,
Or otherwise shimmering
Pixels on a screen,
In the e-tombstones
Of two dead poets,
Our friends, who wrote
Beautifully for reasons
Beautifully unclear,
Now departed to compose
In places we the living
Know not where.



Larry Buttrose

31 December 2011












Sunday, December 11, 2011

Monday, November 28, 2011

PEG ENTWISTLE HOLLYWOOD TRAGIC






The death of aspiring starlet Peg Entwistle has come to be regarded as Hollywood folklore at its finest. Much of it is composed of fact, but much also of hearsay and urban legend, nourished by a sentiment to which almost anyone who has ever struggled with their art can relate.
Following the death of her mother, Entwistle migrated to the United States with her father and brothers in the 1920s after growing up in Wales and London. When her father was run over by a truck on New York’s Park Avenue, her brothers headed west, seeking their fortunes like so many others in California. Peg remained in New York, bitten by the stage bug and starting to get roles in the theatre. She enjoyed some success, acting opposite rising stars such as Humphrey Bogart. 
She was only 19 when she married an older actor, Robert Keith, but after the marriage fell apart she decided to follow her brothers’ example and in 1932 travelled west to join them in Los Angeles.
There the blue-eyed platinum blonde had almost immediate success, scoring a movie role in Thirteen Women, a melodrama starring Myrna Loy and Irene Dunne about a group of former school-friends getting horoscopes from a fortune-teller who is working under an evil influence. Unfortunately for Entwistle, most of her part ended up on the cutting room floor. She found herself out of work, friendless and depressed, without even enough money to take the train back east to New York and put Hollywood behind her. Instead, she used Hollywood itself to take her own life.
Hollywood began as a developer’s subdivision in 1923 called Hollywoodland, in Beachwood Canyon above the plain of Los Angeles. The “Hollywoodland” sign was lit up by thousands of light bulbs, but when the development failed, all that remained of the scheme was the sign, up on the craggy slopes of Mount Lee. It fell into disrepair, and the final syllable “land” was removed, rendering the word the familiar “Hollywood”. The entertainment business came to recognise its importance, and in 1978 it was restored through a subscription campaign in which companies and individuals paid for a letter. Among those said to have taken part were Playboy millionaire Hugh Hefner, who paid for the Y, and rock star Alice Cooper, who paid for one of the O’s, in memory of Groucho Marx.
On 16 September 1932, having told her family she was meeting friends at the local drugstore, Peg Entwistle put on a borrowed dress, wrote her suicide note, and began scrabbling up through the brush and stony slopes of Mount Lee. There she left the note along with her purse and coat, and used a workmen’s ladder to climb the 50 feet to the top of the H letter. She jumped head first, tumbling down the rocks and ravines below. 
Her body was sighted the following day by a woman hiking in Griffith Park, who reported the matter to the police. Her body was recovered and a post-mortem done, which concluded that she died of multiple fractures to the pelvis, and may have survived the fall for some time with agonising internal injuries. Her body was cremated, and later interred in Cincinnati, Ohio beside the remains of her father.
Tragically, a letter which had been posted on the day before her death arrived the day after she was found, offering her a part in a forthcoming stage production at the Beverly Hills Playhouse. She was to have played the part of a young woman who commits suicide in the final act.
In the decades since her death there have been numerous reports of hikers spotting a sad-looking blonde in a 1930s era dress, some of them saying she literally shimmered and vanished before their eyes. Others have reported the strong smell of gardenia while walking in the area: it was Peg Entwistle’s favourite scent. In recent decades special hi-tech sensors have been placed at the sign to help deter would-be copycat suicides.
The film Thirteen Women opened to generally poor reviews, although Peg Entwistle received good notices for what was left of her part. The suicide note she left read: “I am afraid I am a coward. I am sorry for everything. If I had done this a long time ago, it would have saved a lot of pain.”






From my book Dead Famous: Deaths of the Famous and Famous Deaths.



         
       “I’m afraid I’m being an awful nuisance.”
               - last words of poet Edith Sitwell, died 1964