Advice from a Spirit, Italy Gets Robbed ... and Bob Tells A Story

Okay, I’m not going to go into that much detail ... suffice it to say that another dream (this one a gift from a certain guardian spirit who shall remain nameless) gave me instructions on how to stop the spasms and twitches in my lower legs.

The dream was actually an image of me acting in the role of – I’m assuming – a hair dresser.  Another very handsome man – who shall also remain nameless because he’s still very much alive! – was sitting in the chair in front of me, wearing one of those plastic sheets that barbers put over you so you don’t end up with hair cuttings all over your shirt.

The only odd thing about this scenario was that I wasn’t cutting his hair, I was gently applying oil to the top of his head with a cotton ball.  He said, “What is that?  It feels weird,” and I looked down to discover he had hair growing out of his scalp where he hadn’t had any hair at all a few moments ago.  I lifted his hand and let him touch his new hair, and he whipped around in the chair to gape at me with an expression of shocked amazement and astonishment on his face.  End of dream.

At the time I had the dream, I was in such pain you wouldn’t believe it – ongoing leg spasms and twitches so painful, I was unable to accomplish simple things like shuffling around the house with a walker ... I mostly just sat and suffered and kept taking more and more muscle relaxers which were making me dizzy, groggy and nauseous.

Because of the identity of the man in that chair, I knew exactly who had sent the dream to me ... and because of that, I’m thinking, “Okay, I don’t think he wants me to take the contents of the dream THAT literally.  ” (In other words, I’m sure the man in the chair would not have been all that amused, had I chased him around in real life threatening to apply oil to the top of his head with a cotton ball). 

I suspected I was supposed to figure out which oil I had been using in this dream – that way, I thought, maybe the underlying message would make more sense.

So I did a little bit of internet research on the few bottles of oil I had in the house at the time.  Some of it cooking oil, some of it fragrant oil, some of it spiritual oil.  I was researching my third or fourth type of oil, when I found it.  Used for strengthening and re-growing hair.  Then I read one of its other uses:  curing muscle pain and stiffness.  Enlightenment slowly dawned and I said, “Ahhh-ha!”

Like most homeopathic remedies for things, I anticipated that if this oil did anything beneficial for my lower legs at all, it would take time to build up in my system.  But I had grown to trust this particular spirit/guide, so, as soon as I identified the oil, I went and applied some, just to see what happened.  What was I expecting?  I expected that I would be using it as some sort of massage oil on my legs.  But I expected wrong.  I knew this spirit well, and should have known better.  (I have apologized to that wonderful spirit more than once for doubting things he tells me.)

The spasms and twitches stopped in their tracks less than a minute after my application.  Just with a cotton ball.  No massaging, no kneading of the muscles.  Just applying it.  The spasms and twitching and pain stopped – as though someone had flicked a switch.  My jaw practically hit the floor.  I was so not expecting that I stared at my own legs with the same expression that the handsome man in the barber chair had on his face in my dream when he discovered he suddenly had his hair back.  I said, “Wha ...?  How is that possible?”

But it was.  And three days later – as long as I keep applying it – I still haven’t had any leg spasms or twitches or pain.  This is, quite truthfully, one of the most amazing things that has ever happened to me.

And may I now take this opportunity to apologize again to this really awesome guardian spirit ... publicly ... I am so sorry!  You would hope that at some point, I’d stop underestimating you!

Meanwhile ... now that I have a lot of my energy back ... I’m thinking up all sorts of things I can do to kill time until I see the neuro-muscular specialist.  Not sure which one to do first.

Bob telling a wonderful story about The Cowsills at Yankee Stadium in 1966 – and The Beach Boys setting fire to the locker room.  I could listen to him all day!




Finale, Eurovision.  Il Volo and Italy definitely won the popular vote – by a mile – but the jury in Vienna not surprisingly went with the politically safe choice and picked Sweden.  Il Volo won the televote by a wide margin - the "televote" being the vote by the public throughout all of Europe.  Needless to say, the howls of outrage are still going on.  But Il Volo turned in one heck of a performance ... as always, they were magnificent.  In any event – here’s their finale performance.

Clothes Patterns, Fabric, Neanderthals and Soul Mates

Had the most delicious swordfish for lunch – well, a portion of one anyway – I made it just like I would have made fresh tuna and let it marinate overnight, and it came out like melt-in-your mouth heaven:  marinated and then braised in wine, fruit juice, ginger, leeks, garlic and soy sauce, and the fish was so succulent it fell apart on your fork.  I have discovered I really love leeks, by the way, surprising exactly no one because I am a passionate fan of onions and garlic when I can get away with eating them and not asphyxiating anybody.  It has always seemed a shame to me that roots so heavenly and fragrant and delicious and healthy are the same roots which leak out your pores and have people backing away from you.

Back to the pattern creation:  to my surprise, I found two tops that had the back yoke like I wanted, so now I can make an attempt at reverse engineering them for my first try at a “made from scratch” clothes pattern.  Hadn’t thought of them because they (yes, both of them) had been in the “missing a button” box for so long.  Clothes are really poorly made these days:  you wear them once and buttons just fall off of them.  Found the buttons too, so may actually be able to wear them again, assuming they’re not too big for me now ... once I sew the buttons on, that is.

There was this pattern I bought many years ago – a Retro Pattern from 1952 (Butterick) – which I just loved, although I doubted I could ever wear it ... big, full skirt, that wraps around from the back and buttons in the front, lined by double-edged bias tape that makes this wonderful, slimming line down the front ... and all of a sudden, my proportions are small enough that I can make it quite easily.  The plan was to shorten it dramatically ... no way was I going to wear the full length skirt you see here; I just loved that “Y” bias tape line down the center and the contrast “overskirt” illusion.

To give you an example of how I envisioned the shortened version – here’s another dress maker who had the same idea, although I planned to use  more contrast in the bias tape, but I did love how the dress looked – whoever she is, she did a gorgeous job on it.

So, I found some fabric in my collection that I thought might work, and started to cut out the pieces, WHILE hemming the sundress WHILE sewing on lost buttons WHILE layering We Can Fly in preparation for quilting it WHILE preparing Beautiful Beige for the applique work WHILE staring in dismay at my dishwasher.  (More on that later.)

It at least helped me begin to use up my fabric collection, which I really need to use up.  And while I was sorting through the bin of clothes fabric I found this amazingly lovely rose pattern, in either chiffon or silk or SOMETHING, a very light and sexy fabric ... with what looks like a muted grey/turquoise background ... (you’ll recall I had made the decision to reverse engineer a top in turquoise designed to match the moonstone ring?) and went, “Holy (bleep).”  I’d completely forgotten I had that before I went and bought the new fabric.  Need to measure it to see how much of it I have.

Unfortunately – it seems to be a veritable static electricity magnet, and it’s not even winter when static is typically an issue.  I had said I didn’t want it to cling – I hate the sensation of things that “cling”, drives me nuts – so I’m already trying to think of alternatives – i.e., like lining it, or using it as an overlay – that will minimize any static issues.

Also discovered I’d bought about 3 yards of a gorgeous fabric – heavy hand, brown with embroidery designs on it (also in brown, or perhaps black) – thinking:  I really need to find a beautiful dress pattern for this.  Don’t want to make it boring as a suit.  So I’m still cutting the pieces for the retro wrap around dress ... discovered I don’t have quite the full floor space for it, so it’s a challenge.

I’ve never eaten fiddlehead ferns before ... found some at the grocery store, and decided to try them – will sauté some up today and let you know how they taste.

C’era una volta
I suddenly realized that I had a counterpoint to the image of a soul mate as a Neanderthal ... the image I had of the two of us, roaming the grasslands together.  I loved that image when I first saw it; we’re such arrogant, self-righteous snots these days, we cannot conceive of our former selves in prehistoric times experiencing a full range of emotions, but that image showed me that we could and did.

The counterpoint was written recently; the experience of meeting someone for the first time that you’ve known and loved before.  You may not be bound together in this life, but you realize that it doesn’t matter – they’re still who they have always been, and you’re always connected with them at the soul level.  The reason I knew I’d hit the mark was that after writing it, I sat and read it aloud ... and discovered tears were running down my face.  Not of unhappiness; joyful tears of remembrance.

So, obviously, I’m working on that again, too ... I finally got the appointment with the neuro-muscular specialist, so I’m keeping myself busy until then.

Dishwasher:  I've had it installed for about a year and already both of the screws bolting it to the underside of the kitchen counter have fallen out - within a day of each other.  Just stared at the dislodged screws in amazement.  Now for the fun of trying to screw them both back in, thoroughly irritated that I need to do it.

Last:  Il Volo is now in competition for Eurovision 2015, representing Italy.  Their song?  Grande Amore, of course.  Today’s the big day.  And here they are, rehearsing – someone could probably fix their microphones before the finale – although the small imperfections in the rehearsal are why they have full dress rehearsals.  Can’t wait to see the final performance!

The Cowsills 50th Anniversary Concert, Il Volo Hits the 2 Million Mark; I Collapse

In one of those amazing synchronicities that always knock me flat when they happen:   I had a few cd’s on hand, ready to be imported into i-Tunes and listened to.  One of them was more of a curiosity than anything else, which is why I hadn’t rushed to get it loaded.  So I finally get around to throwing it in the drive, and start listening to the first cut.  Eyeballs popped open.  The entire concept of the first song was another version of my C’era una volta counterpoint to “Paradise Lost”, although perhaps darker than Volta, but the concept behind it was still unmistakable.  The first time I have ever heard anyone even come close to the concept.  First comment:  “Holy (bleep)!”

And the singer/songwriter?  Jason Cowsill (son of Bob), The Shape of the Journey cd.  I never expected it to be as good as it was, but it really was astonishing.  I should apologize to the guy for letting him sit on the “To be listened to when I get around to it” pile for so long.  Reminded me of Bill Miller, too -  and everyone knows Miller is a long-time favorite of mine.  Only wish:  that he’d printed the lyrics on the liner.  As it was, I had to sit there with one ear literally glued to the speaker to catch every word.  A bit annoying, actually.  But even so, it had me sitting there, seriously impressed with how close he came to the same vision I had of the birth of everything.  And all this time I had been thinking I was the only one who had that image of the REAL “big bang”, so to speak, in my mind.

And while I’m learning new things ... I learned an important piece of information about dandelion tea:  it can taste differently depending on who’s selling it to you.  Drank one batch of them from one supplier; just drank another cup from another one;  they tasted differently.  One tasted more “earthy” than the other, if that made sense.  Both tasted good; just ... different.  So, is that because the earth the dandelions were grown is has a different “flavor” to it?

Despite the fact that I woke up a few mornings ago to discover sleet, ice and snow all over the ground (you don’t know the details of my reaction to THAT discovery – none of it is appropriate for this blog), it seems to me that now is about the time to start growing the seeds in my little seed grower contraption.  You’re supposed to start them – depending on the plant – some 4 to 6 weeks before transplanting out of doors, so this is about right.

The Cutting Room - Epic Fail

The venue itself could have definitely handled it infinitely better than they did ... we stood outdoors on a long line on 32^nd Street for well over an hour before even coming anywhere near the front door.  By show time (7:00 p.m.) a huge swath of people were still outside, on a line, getting totally freaked out because they thought they were going to miss the start of the concert.  No one from the venue came outside to reassure us that the concert hadn’t started, and was delayed so that they could get everyone indoors.  One person asked about it at the front of the line, and the venue tried to blame the Cowsills for the late start – luckily, no one who knew the family and their discipline and professionalism bought THAT explanation even for a second.  You heard, “That’s bullsh*t!” all the way down the line when that was passed back.  Sorry, Cutting Room – absolutely no one bought your trying to blame The Cowsills for your screw-ups.  Just saying.

Our unilateral suspicion was that they had literally no idea how incredibly popular and beloved The Cowsills were, and were taken by complete surprise at the volume of people who showed up for the concert.  In fact, we all watched as one of the Cutting Room employees walked the sidewalk close to starting time, counting people and then walked back inside with a look of serious concern on his face.  An epic fail on the part of The Cutting Room.

But the Cowsills Themselves?

I would not have missed that concert for all the (pick one):  tea in China, olives in Tuscany, oranges in Valencia, pastries in Denmark, WHATEVER!  That much energy swirling around does all sorts of things to your emotional state ... and I’d been sitting at home, alone, in such isolation for so long, it was almost a shock to my system, not only being back home in New York City – which everyone knows is simply coursing with a powerful buzzing energy anyway - but being at that concert, on that month, on that day.  The emotional impact was exacerbated by the fact that the concert was held three years (minus two days) since my brother Jim died, also in New York ... so if you don’t think that didn’t impact me emotionally, think again.  A lot of emotional things coincided, all at once.  In short, while I basically held it together outwardly; inwardly, I was an emotional high wire, twanging at everything.

As for The Cowsills, THEY were perfect.  Absolutely perfect.  Pitch perfect, note perfect, set list perfect, banter perfect, the whole package.  The audience spent the entire concert in the palm of their (collective) hand, laughing, crying, singing along and loving every minute of it.  They faced a packed room of people who absolutely adored all of them, and would have sat there all night long, if the band wanted to keep going.  The concert felt like it was over way too soon – although they must have put in a good 90 minutes, if not longer, I was not wearing a watch – but I didn’t want it to end, that’s how good it was.  Here’s a small snippet – the one and only Cowsills singing “The Rain, The Park and Other Things” at the Cutting Room, sounding every bit as wonderful as they did when the song was first released.  I'll probably be babbling happily about this wonderful concert for months to come, it was that good.

Physically – well, that’s another story.

I should never have pushed myself to go, as I did.  Woke up this morning to dual leg spasms so bad I actually fell out of bed, crying out in pain, and pulled the contents of the nightstand down on top of me.  Throughout today, spasms all throughout my legs and feet, muscles around my shins are spasming and I know that was from constantly trying to keep my balance without the walker, which I couldn’t bring with me because I had a suitcase; numbness moved up to the backs of my knees and it wasn’t there before, back spasms, the works.

I have spent today going “WTF did I do to myself?”  I don’t even want to know what I did to myself.  Thank goodness I don’t see the physical therapist until Wednesday because he will want to know when this all changed, and I don’t want to tell him what I did to provoke it.  “Stood on lines for 2 hours trying to see and meet the Cowsills, leaning on a cane until I saw black spots before my eyes and knew I was about to faint?”, “I told you not to use the cane until I told you that you could use the cane; didn’t I tell you that?!”  “Yes, I know you did, but ... you don’t understand, I REALLY wanted to see the Cowsills."

I have no defense other than, “I really wanted to go, I’ve been waiting to see them perform live for 45 years!”  I know he won’t care; I’m either going to have to lie, or get railed up one side and down the other.  And I don’t want “She deliberately disobeyed my instructions!” on my permanent medical record.  Because that is exactly what I did.  I’ve been taking muscle relaxers all day to the point where I’m dizzy, and they’re not helping.  Taking Tylenol for the pain, and it’s not even making a dent.  And I can’t even complain about it because it’s my own fault; I did it to myself.  I have two days to make up a whopper of a lie, and I really don’t want to do that, either.  (“*Duh*, I dunno, I just woke up Monday morning, and it was like this; I don’t know what happened, it’s a mystery ...”)  Hopefully, he doesn’t read blogs.

I’m the first to admit I’m an idiot who should have known better.  But you have to understand ... I REALLY wanted to see The Cowsills!

Meanwhile, the boys from Il Volo just hit the 2 million mark with Grande Amore, surprising exactly no one because the song is so beautiful.

So there you have it:  a wonderful musical weekend followed by intense physical suffering.  Here’s hoping I get my physical act together before I get yelled at.  And I still don’t regret for one second finally seeing The Cowsills live for the first time in my life, but don’t tell my physical therapist I said that.

Crippled and Creative, Il Volo's Grande Amore and Bob Cowsill-Inspired Art

FINALLY – Il Volo released a new cd – I might even call this a mini-cd, as it only has 7 songs on it – recorded to be released in conjunction with their triumph in San Remo.  I hear that the version released in Italy has even more songs on it – and, to my dismay – the version of this on Amazon is sold out already!!  How is that possible?

The centerpiece of the cd is, of course, Grande Amore, winner of the 2015 San Remo Festival – I would also tell you who wrote the song, except this Amazon Prime cd download doesn’t have liner notes with it!  I’ll update once I have the cd in hand, and my apologies to the songwriter for not crediting him or her where due.

I think the guys just found their signature song .... to replace their original signature song, which was "O Sole Mio" ... a classic, to be sure, but I think it just got supplanted by this one.  A soaring, passionate, soul-stirring, absolutely magnificent song – as sung by three of the world’s most magnificent voices.  I’ve been sitting here, listening to it over and over again, totally in love with the song, the lyrics, the incredible passion of the delivery, the performance, the recording ... all of it.  Those guys just nailed this song.  Completely.

This is going to be a global blockbuster ... everywhere except the U.S. of course, because we are the world’s most ridiculous, arrogant, self-absorbed bunch of musically illiterate yahoos on the entire planet, unable to hear a word not sung in English without having a nervous breakdown ... all I can say is, thank goodness for the internet.  No, really.  I’s a lot of things, but mostly, it enabled those of us who long ago realized that mainstream American music was heading straight for the proverbial toilet, to escape the horror of it, and surround ourselves with actual MUSIC that lifted us into the stratosphere, where music was at its finest.

And there they are, from the Billboard International chart (digital):  #1 already, a week after the performance in San Remo.  And I would imagine that it will go viral in all of Europe, South America, Mexico ... all over the place.

Except here.  Because we just love wallowing in our own self-righteous idiocy and narcissism, and love drowning in the hideous crap this country produces and, in their feeblemindedness, tries to call label “music”.  It isn’t.  Never was.  Never will be.

So, way to go, Il Volo ...!  Grande Amore is absolutely awesome, and the entire rest of the world knows it.

The entertaining part of it is watching them on You Tube confront in their own country the same hysteria we saw in South America in 2013 – the screaming girls, the huge crowds of people – and Italy was pretty much the last country to recognize them, really – Italy tends to celebrate everyone else EXCEPT for their own native sons.  But they finally broke the Italian trend, and are now superstars in their own country – which I think is entertaining to watch.  Suffice it to say they are having a lot of fun over there, right now.  And hopefully, for my own listening pleasure, let’s hope they release a full-sized recording one of these days.  Seven songs just isn’t enough.

Moving on ... I went for the “legal tasering” – my term for the EMG, possibly one of the most sadistic, painful medical tests they can inflict on anybody – and I was so not looking forward to it. 

By way of keeping myself entertained and distracted, I’d been designing and making a new textile art wall hanging  based on “We Can Fly” - #2 in my stolen “Women With Wings” series ... my way of processing this supposed “Causa Equina Syndrome” the neurologist thinks I have – and the walking issues I definitely have. 

I am assuming the rest of my patterns and partially made textile art pieces were in the North Andover storage room, and now reside in the Salisbury storage room ... so until I can dig those back out, I’ve been creating new ones.  I can think of no better way to distract myself than creative endeavors, at the moment.  I finally bound my older “The Guitarist In-Between ” ... based on the famous quote from Federico Fellini: 

“What is an artist? A provincial who finds himself somewhere between a physical reality and a metaphysical one…. It’s this in-between that I’m calling a province, this frontier country between the tangible world and the intangible one—the realm of the artist.”

Yes, guess who THAT is named for – or, actually, dedicated to, I should say.  I dedicated it after watching him play “Rescue”, because that moment was so awesome it was truly a depiction of the interpretive creative process, at its core – the ability to tap into the unfathomable and create beauty from the ethereal.  I started that thing back in the 1980’s; have been carrying it around, unfinished, since then.  I’m astonished I finally got it done.  Not sure what will happen to that after I’m gone, but he will be immortalized on it, at least:  on his own, musically and lyrically and now also ... quilt-istically?

Today – a full moon in Virgo.  I reached the point with this medical issue that I needed direction.  Decided to tap into my subconscious with the Thoth deck.  Imagine my surprise when the final two cards I drew were both “Magus” cards.  Said, “Huh?”  Looked it up.  Apparently, there are a few decks which have three Magus cards instead of one – mine was apparently one of them.  The additional two cards were rejects by Crowley; considered novelty items in the deck, not part of the deck itself.  Usually, the Magus card had stood for Mr. Signpost – not sure what the two of them in succession meant, in this context.  I now associate him with both sigils and direction, so wondered if that’s where the reading was going.  I wasn’t sure what sigils would be useful, however.

And on to the sonnet cycle.  Experienced a huge burst of inspiration on that as well and went from stanza 3 to stanza 7 in a matter of days.  Not sure what all is happening with me – crippled and yet creatively fulfilled, at the same time?  What is that all about?

 I leave you with “The Time Has Come”, with Paul Cowsill singing lead for a change of pace.  Also:  Waddy Wachtel, John Cowsill of the Beach Boys on drums, Barry Cowsill in the hat and blue shirt on guitar, in one of his last appearances, and Susan Cowsill singing harmony vocals.

Back from Vacation

At long last I was on vacation ... a real vacation, unlike the four day frantic packing and unpacking “vacation” when I moved here at the end of April.  I finally made my way to the beach, after a few days packed with a barrage of thunderstorms rolled through ... although I had made the mistake of trying to investigate a useful spot one hot and sunny afternoon (Saturday, I think it was) and had never seen so much traffic in my life.  Took me forty-five minutes of stop & go bumper-to-bumper misery before I turned around and came home, vowing never to try THAT again.  Lesson learned:  mornings only!  (Which is what my skin tone prefers anyway, as prone as it is to sunburn.)

I’ve never lived at oceanside before, so was thrilled when something unusual (for me, anyway) happened:  it is a beautiful sunny morning, cool and breezy.  The beach was fairly deserted at that hour (9:15 am) and I had enjoyed wading in the water, strengthening my legs and core by walking through the pleasant waves ... back and forth.  All of a sudden I looked out to sea and saw a huge fogbank out near the horizon.  Next thing I knew, the bank had rolled onshore, and I couldn’t see the people 15 feet away from me.  The sun was still shining down on me; the fog was all at ground level, and you know me and fog – I love fog.  It always feels like a cool, enveloping blanket to me.  It was such a wonderful experience, although I’m sure it happens fairly regularly.  I’d just never experienced a ground level fog bank rolling in off the ocean like that, on a clear sunny day.

I was just thinking, “This feels like being embraced by the universe,” when I looked down at my feet only to find a sparkling, flat stone shaped like a heart laid directly in my path.  Welcome to the seaside, it said to me.  At last, I was where I was supposed to be.

And yet ... I spent a measly two hours that morning in an awesomely sunny fog bank and still had a sunburn by morning's end - again!  Go figure.  I decided I’d stay out of the sun the next day and try to recover.  Of course I didn’t listen to myself.

The next day, I took one of my periodic tumbles in an incoming wave I wasn’t expecting – rolled around in the surf for a few minutes, and was forced to take a day away from the beach recovering from the resulting bumps, bruises and scrapes.

The next weekend, I ventured further out and had a wonderful time swimming.  In fact, I had such a  wonderful time, swimming around and diving into waves, I lost all track of time ... with the expected results – sunburn on top of fading sunburn. I finally took my own warnings seriously, and sat at home avoiding sulking by listening to Juan Diego Florez.  Well, maybe one of these days, my skin will toughen up and I won’t be so sunburn prone.

While I recovered, moaning and groaning, I also re-re-discovered The Cowsills.  For those who don't know who they are:  they had started out as four brothers from Rhode Island with dreams of being  a brilliant r&b, rock band – (“who, the Cowsills?”, “Yes, THEM!”) – for those unfamiliar with them, they were the family who inspired the Partridge Family television show.I had re-discovered them for the first time after a documentary done about them; now I discovered they were on You Tube.

Once they’d gotten various monkeys off their backs ... and by monkeys I’m referring to the idiots in their various record companies, and their abusive, fist-wielding, mentally unstable baronet of a father ... the rock music began to force its way back out of the bubblegum pop veneer they had been forced to wear; Barry and Bill, when they weren’t battling demons you can trace back to childhood terrors their father inflicted on them, turned out some really astounding hard rock songs that knock your socks off.  Bob, who was forced to take over as lead singer when their father fired Bill (their brilliant lead singer on such songs as “The Rain, the Park and Other Things” for saying he smoked pot) became a solid lead and still is.  And even Susan has turned out some memorable songs with her Susan Cowsill Band.

I went out and bought every Cowsill album I could find and had been wallowing in them.  Now I was able to see them on You Tube performing the songs I only heard on the radio back in the day.  The more I listened to them, the more I thought that, had they been able to sing the material they actually wanted to arrange and sing, they would have shot themselves directly into the musical stratosphere and stayed there.

I found a current version of one of their hits, performed in 2004 or thereabouts, when Barry Cowsill was still alive (he drowned in Hurricane Katrina, 2005) – they still sound awesome.  That's Bob singing lead vocals (brother Bill, who sang lead on the original song, was desperately ill; they're performing a benefit concert for him); Barry is in the hat, Paul is on the keyboards, and for any Beach Boys fans out there, yes, that's brother John Cowsill, drummer for the Beach Boys, on the drums in the rear.  Susan wasn't on the original song, but has taken over the lyrics sung by both Barry and John, when they were boys.  Barry now has taken over Bob's role, who has taken over for Bill.  Following all that?  And yet, despite all of that role switching, they sound exactly the same as they did when the single first exploded up the charts.

That discovery led to Barry’s gorgeous version of “Going Home” (have no idea when he wrote that), and the Cowsill album “Global” which came out in 2009 ...  in fact, they are probably one of the most underrated bands of the 60’s.  Its surreal, spiritual quality comes from its creation after his death; Louise Palanker had created a documentary on them, from which this was taken.  I love this performance – he looks so happy.





But back to Il Volo, who, by the way, recently dashed over to Mexico and performed before a monstrous crowd of 25,000 people in Chihuahua, after winning the Latin Billboards “Best Album” award for “Mas Que Amor”/”We Are Love”.  Hell, I can still remember them performing before a crowd of 50 in a New York Barnes & Noble!  Their next accomplishment was a series of sold out concerts in Italy, who had ignored them for the most part – and then decided they wanted to join the rest of the world in loving the boys from Il Volo.  Taormina was their first Italian concert – a spellbinding performance before an adoring home crowd.  The world is waiting breathlessly for their next album.

And The USA is still listening to relentless crap.

Speaking of music, I had the strangest experience a few days ago – all of a sudden a song popped into my head.  I realize that in itself isn’t strange at all – what was strange was the fact that I hadn’t sung this song since I was probably 7 or 8 years old, I sang it maybe one or two times (at summer camp) and it isn’t a well known song, so I’m quite sure I hadn’t heard it since then.  It just appeared, full-blown, with all lyrics intact, in my head.

    I'll sing you twelve, ho

    Green grow the rushes, ho

    What are your twelve, ho?

    Twelve for the twelve Apostles

    Eleven for the eleven who went to heaven,

    Ten for the ten commandments,

    Nine for the nine bright shiners,

    Eight for the April Rainers,

    Seven for the seven stars in the sky,

    Six for the six proud walkers,

    Five for the symbols at your door,

    Four for the Gospel makers,

    Three, three, the rivals,

    Two, two, the lily-white boys,

    Clothèd all in green, ho

    One is one and all alone

    And evermore shall be so.

Other things I’ve been doing in this period of uncharacteristic silence:  had the pleasure of attending a lecture by Raven Grimassi; had to apply for my own job at work and created a video presentation for it, lost my iPod (now THAT was a disaster), have to create another presentation for a kumbahyah event in September, had my dvd player in the television stop working and had to buy a new television, even though the TV works perfectly; am facing our final exam for my first year as a student of witchcraft and an initiation ceremony; so far, everyone in the WC1 class is planning to continue in WC2; I suspect I’ll decide to join them.

And, while all of that was going on, I had a blood test come back with problems.  You don’t want to know what the problem is, but I was not happy when they told me.  I hate not being healthy.

Fake Commenters Must Die, Part II

I will repeat:  I will not post any comments that include your non-relevant website on it.  Nobody comes on here to read about your websites for car parts, drugs, Japanese doodads, Russian booze, penis enlargers, hot models for hire (and if any guy is dumb enough to fall for that one, he hasn’t understood a word I’ve said since I started this blog and deserves to be ignored on general principle) and whatever else you’re hawking.  They will be deleted.  They will not see the light of day, I don’t care how much flattery you stick on the front end (“This is the greatest blog I’ve ever read!  You’re so witty!  You’re so intelligent!  I read you every day, I live for your stupendous insight into issues that mean the world to me and I weep with gratitude!  Oh by the way, I sell drugs from third world countries that could easily kill you thanks to our lack of hygiene, here’s my website!”).

Comments that are actually relevant or in response to something specific are more than welcome.  Now go away!!!!  (Not you, average reader; you have no idea how many fake comments I had to delete this morning.)

I’ve been spending the last few days saying “WTF?” a lot.  Big things, little things.  E-mailed the handyman guy last Wednesday – who has been terrific (so far)  - to ask about his schedule, I needed to clear the bags of packing material and broken-down boxes out of the front room.  He said Friday; I said “Cool!” ... little bit of a short notice, but okay.  I planned to come home Thursday night, pick up some final boxes from the storage shed, unpack those, and move all of the stuff that needed to be cleared away in one end of the room; move the plastic bins to the other end, because I wanted to use those to pack things I didn’t have room for in the storage shed again.

Came home Thursday night with the boxes to unpack, opened the front door and said, “WTF!?”

Instead of Friday, he had come on Thursday during the day, and cleared out everything ... including the stuff I actually needed.  I’m not saying I lost anything valuable; just things that I needed to get organized.  All of the bags of packing material that hadn’t been moved into the front room were still where I had left them.  I just sat down on the floor with a moan and tried to take stock.  Why people tell you one thing and then do another, after you’ve re-arranged your schedule to accommodate them, and made plans, and carried heavy boxes in the rain, and everything else ... I am desperately trying to release my anger before saying anything to him.  He meant well ... I guess.  But ... WTF?

Because of THAT screw-up, I hadn’t picked up my mail.  I actually needed the mail because TD Bank was sending me ... something ... having to do with the new account I was forced against my better judgment to open with them.  I had populated the account with my business trip refund check – with which I intended to buy a portable air conditioner, because I DIE in here when the temperature soars.  When I had a few more bucks, I would start looking at central air options.  It’s extremely difficult to get to the UPS mailbox before it closes on weekdays.

Drove to the UPS Seabrook store ... stood outside screaming “WTF???!!!”  Sign on the door.  Gee golly whiz great gosh awmighty, he was really sorry for the inconvenience but he had decided to close on Saturday, tra-la-la, oh well, tough titties on you, customahs!!!  Inconvenience?  INCONVENIENCE???!!!???  Fucking prick.  Well, that’s UPS for you.  Up with the middle finger at everyone who depends on them for things like, OH I DON’T KNOW, checks, bills, information, vitally important things like that.

In a thoroughly foul mood now, I went over to Market Basket.  “WTF???”  San Pellegrino in glass bottles not the unbreakable ones I use when I carry the bottles to work.

Went looking for mozzarella cheese.  “WTF?”  Sargento, those faux Italians who try to pretend they know from cheese, had actually printed “CUT FROM THE BLOCK” on their shredded mozzarella cheese.  Really.  “BLOCK”.  Anybody from Italy out there?  How often do they sell you real mozzarella cheese in blocks???  Mozzarella cheese doesn’t come in blocks – it comes in balls, Sargento, preserved in liquid to keep it moist.  Blocks.  WTF?

I came home in high heat, laughing hysterically, unable to buy an air conditioner without my mail, utterly miserable.  It was too late in the morning to go to the beach because I’d fry like a lobster – remember last year?

Trying to get ahold of myself, I figured, okay.  Since the front room was now cleared of everything else, I would try to` put my dining room table together on the large, newly available floor space.  Stood there for about 45 minutes, muttering “WTF?”, as none of the pieces seemed to fit.  There was no way the heavy table top could be screwed into the base.  I gave up, unhappily.  Have no idea how I’m going to get that thing together, and I’m still annoyed at the handyman guy, so don’t even WANT to call him, right now.

Finally, I dragged a long card table into the room; the intent was to set up a seed starter table. I had planned to get it going a long time ago, like March or something, not anticipating that it would take this long to get into the house. Went to open the box of seed starter equipment and materials, and it was  stapled so tightly that when I finally was able to pull the ends of the box free, I did it with such force that I literally punched myself in the mouth.  Not just a bump.  Not a slap.  I punched myself in the mouth, staggered backwards with my eyes watering and my upper lip already starting to swell.  Couldn’t even pronounce “WTF?” that time.

The next morning, I finally got the seed starter equipment together and went looking for my chest of seeds.  This was the fun part – deciding which seeds to start growing, planning where in the new garden they would go, what their requirements were.  WTF?  No seed chest.  In fact, I hadn’t seen it since I moved.  I went from room to room, looking in closets, drawers ... this was a gorgeous antique chest, now missing.  I had to have packed it somewhere ... didn’t I?  But where????

I shuffled over to the storage room in Salisbury in high heat and rifled through the remaining boxes and bins.  Nothing.  WTF happened to my seed chest???

I went to Lowe’s and bought two larger containers to re-pot the Salvia and North Korean Lilac that had been sitting out back in their original containers.  Filled both full of potting soil and repotted the plants.  WTF???  One of the containers was lopsided when it was full of potting soil ... and the poor Lilac was poking out of the container at a lopsided angle.

Needless to say, I gave up entirely,  came back inside, poured myself a juicy Malbec and got tearfully soused.

WTF indeed.

But at least Il Volo is having a better time of it – presently performing up and down the West Coast (just sold out the Greek Theater a few nights ago), and is still celebrating their Latin Grammy for Best Album.

At least I can be happy for somebody!

The Night I Almost Murdered All of Boston ... or Fun with Steroids, Part II

I had no idea what of what would happen yesterday, but so many things went so badly wrong that all of the affirmations in the world weren’t able to save me.  The car not starting was the cheery tip of one spectacularly dismal iceberg:  I didn’t get to work until 10:00a.  Now we’re talking at least 4 hours of work on the other side of the day.  Finally got ahold of the contractor, no he wouldn’t be doing the floors.  Called the floor guy.  MAYBE he could stop by Saturday afternoon.  Unfortunately, Saturday morning was the freaking car appointment and I had no idea how long that was going to take.  I’m already stressed out at the time constraints.

I leave in plenty of time to catch the 6:55 pm train.  I miss one bus by less than a minute.  Of COURSE I did.  The next bus was supposed to arrive in 8 minutes.  It did not.  It arrived closer to 25 minutes later, and I’m watching my window for catching the 6:55 grow smaller and smaller.  Despite the fact that city traffic is being horribly re-routed onto other roads to support repair on a critical bridge, Boston has inexplicably decided to do construction on at least 3 supporting roads at the same time, while scheduling a baseball and ice hockey game simultaneously.  I’m beginning to understand why people might storm into, say, Boston city planners’ offices with bloodshot eyeballs, threatening mayhem and civil disorder at the very least.  There are no cabs at all at the Marriott Residences across the street.  None.  Not one.  Of COURSE there aren’t.

I blame myself for taking so long to pee before I left the office that it’s my own damn fault I missed the bus.  My body betrayed me, THAT’s why I missed the bus.  Standing alone in the dark, I start viciously slapping my own face in punishment, berating myself for being a bald-faced, retarded slow-peeing c*nt.  It feels good, doing that.  I deserve the punishment.  Once I start, I have difficulty stopping.

The stupid bus FINALLY shows up and proceeds to inch through congested traffic.  No explanation as to why the fool is so late.  It takes the full remaining 20-minute window of time to make a 6-minute trip to North Station.

Where I am blocked by crowds of drooling, drunken Boston Bruins addicts and can’t even get into North Station because just as Boston has no concept at all of traffic planning, the TD Garden has no concept of event and foot traffic planning.  I miss the 6:55 train by :30 seconds.  Next train:  90 minutes later, at 8:40 pm.  I am now in a state of white hot rage.  I will not be getting home until 10:00 at night.  I will have to forego all of my medication.  I will lose hours of sleep.  The next Bostonian who even touches me was on the verge of being punched so violently in the face, they’d still be picking up stray teeth this morning.  I am literally cursing people out loud. 

I go back outside, praying for a cab to pull up to the station.  It will cost me $100 to get home, but at that point I don’t care.  Not a cab in sight.  Of COURSE there aren’t.  I gimp back into the hell hole that is North Station, cursing people out as I go.

The first stupid woman who plops her fat wobbly ass down on a bench next to me and shoves a pizza slice reeking of garlic and onions into her drooling mouth gets, “Get the F*CK away from me with that disgusting sh*t!” and scurries away like a rat.  The next stupid cow who wanders over babbling into her cell phone gets the same thing.  I’m in such a state of rage I’m starting to double over with stomach pains.  If I could lay my hands on something sharp I’d stab myself in the gut with it, just to get the pain out.

Courtesy http://www.baggelboy.com/category/cartoons/

Tears are blinding me.  I keep saying, “I hate this place, I HATE this place,” because I genuinely do.  I have never hated any place in the world as much as I hate Massachusetts and Boston.  And thanks to all the crap doubling up on me, I can’t get out!  Then I start in on, “I’ll pray for your death on a daily basis,” to everyone I find distasteful, which is just about everyone.  I keep telling myself to stop, but it gets worse.  And then worse.  I’m mumbling curses at people around me like a bag lady.  I don’t care.   I hate everyone and everything in the hell hole that is Boston.

I rarely see rage like this.  Not saying I never have, but it’s rare.  And once it started escalating, I couldn’t swallow it back down.  I didn’t know how.

On the train.  Trust me, no one sat down next to me because I glared ferociously at each and every onboarding passenger, and I’m sure they anticipated being stabbed to death on the train.   They weren’t far off.  Conductor:  a powerless fat woman wobbling up and down the aisles, acting like the Queen of England.  Ugly as sin.  I’m PRAYING for a weapon but didn’t have one.  I suppress urges to stick out a foot and trip her so she goes sprawling in the aisles, hopefully breaking her neck on the way down and dying a painful death on the dirty floor.

She doesn’t help her own cause by grabbing a microphone and whining nasally into it that due to an “accident in Andover”, we’ll be even further delayed.    (The accident was caused by another stupid woman in an SUV doing a U-turn on the tracks.  Of COURSE it was!)  My white hot rage ratchets up another notch.

Women all around me on the train are screeching into their cell phones in at least 3 languages.  I’m PRAYING for a pistol to materialize in my hand, so that I could shoot each and every one of them in cold blood.  No weapons materialize.  The small voice inside of me pleading, “Stop it, stop it, please stop it,” is so faint I’m only dimly aware of it.

I know I’m not psychotic, I know it, but it’s the closest I have ever come to a psychotic breakdown in my life.  Tears are still trickling down my face as the violent rage consumes most of the conscious part of me, so out of proportion to the trigger, it is complete insanity.  When I finally get home I collapse in numb exhaustion on the bed and sleep in my clothes, including my coat.  I wake up once with what feels like a high fever, but I am unable to get up and verify that.  I fall back into a deep, sick, pond-scum green colored sleep.  The next morning the fever is gone.  Both eyes are completely bloodshot, and I still have a stomach ache.

I finally getting around to tossing the Special Edition of Mas Que Amor on my I-Tunes, hear “Little Things” for the first time and burst into sobbing tears.  It’s a One Dimension … One Direction … whatever the British group is called …. Song that Il Volo chose to sing and they couldn’t have picked a song better designed to elicit just that sort of reaction.  I can’t believe I’m bawling like this.  I’m completely out of control at the moment.

I still can’t figure out what happened.  The last time I remember an emotional meltdown this out of control was … (enlightenment slowly dawns) … when they put me on steroids to kill off the Bell’s Palsy … only to discover that I have a serious tolerance issue when it comes to steroids.  Which is to say, no tolerance at all.  None.  Zip.  And my PCP knew that.  I’ve just had my leg cramp medication changed on Monday, to something much stronger.  They’re trying to treat the severe tendon and muscle cramps that are rendering me more and more lame as a neurological issue.  Like the BP was a neurological issue.  I pull out the bottle and frown at the label. 

Son … of … a … how did I miss this?

Il Volo at Radio City, Piero Barone in a Jacuzzi and Everything Else Breaks Down

In so short a time, a little over two years, they had gone from a small “Meet Il Volo” performance in the Los Angeles outdoor Americana mall to selling out Radio City Music Hall.  I knew I had to be there to witness this.  I know I would rather see him in New York City than in Boston ... until Boston gave me a front row seat, and New York gave me a seat in SS after a mere 15 seconds of ticket sale time had passed, that is.  THEN Boston was irresistible.

I didn’t know they had sold out until I got there.  I knew I had to get out of the awful hotel for dinner – OH MY GOD that hotel was disgusting.  Manhattan at Times Square.  And it was actually a Sheraton!  Absolutely disgusting.  I swear I thought I was going to the other Sheraton across the street (7th Avenue and 51st-52nd Streets), and how I ended up in the garbage pit I ended up in I had no idea – another Sky Sadist gut-busting giggle fest, I’m guessing.  Hit the wrong button, ended up in hell.  No pool.  No room service.  In the middle of dangerous renovations.  Filthy walls, filthy bathrooms, broken bed springs, angry employees - everything that could be wrong with the place WAS wrong with the place.  I walked in the front door and went into shock, it was so awful.

I ran out to dinner and ended up at Morell’s Wine Bar & Cafe on 49th, just across Rockefeller Center from Radio City.  When I came around the corner of 51st and saw “SOLD OUT” on the Radio City marquee, I swear, I grinned like a lunatic.  My boys!!!!  SOLD OUT!  They claimed they were speechless.  I wasn’t.  Right at the corner of 51st and 6th, I shrieked, “Yes!”, and didn’t care who heard me, or even looked at me oddly.

Best dinner I’d had in ages, pan seared rock cod, shitake mushrooms, broccoli florets, sitting on a white wine and spinach puree; everything sprinkled with clover.  Heavenly.  Absolutely heavenly.  A Tempranillo (which I should have written down but didn’t – and ask me if I care if it was a dark red with fish!  No really.  Go ahead and ask me) rounded it out, and the wine was exquisite.  I should go get some.  If I could remember what it was.  Argh!  But really.  Heavenly.

Came back to the world’s most expensive and filthy garbage dump, eyed male urine droplets on the bathroom fixtures,  tried not to puke, and took a shower.  Then started dressing.  Then realized I hadn’t packed any extra bras.  (*sigh*)  Oh, of course not!

The blessing?  For once, my make-up went on flawlessly.  Not a smudge on me.

Radio City was so bursting with people they sent us around to the side door to check bags and run wands up and down your clothes to make sure you weren’t  sneaking a meth lab in under your coat in honor of “Breaking Bad”.  Another blessing:  my seat, even if it was an SS row, was on the aisle, so I didn’t have to trip over anyone to sit down.

They didn’t go with the silhouette opening, but did a live opening … and when those magnificent golden curtains lifted and everyone could see them, the entire hall erupted with cheers and shrieks.  Thunderous.  One of the first things Piero did was walk in an intense circle and you could see he was trying to ground an excess of frenetic energy

The concert was awesome.  They were awesome.  Don't believe me, go watch some of the videos on YouTube.  I adore Il Volo - can you tell?

Losing track of an entire day in my inner mind’s calendar meant all sorts of other things went haywire.  I realized on Sunday I should have picked up my newly cleaned comforter back on Wednesday, and had put it off thinking I had an extra day.  Now it was Sunday and the store was closed.

The clothes washer in my apartment was now broken (of course it was!!); I’d never used the hell-on-earth that was the communal laundry room.  Threw the dirty clothes into the machine along with the goop only to THEN read the sign on the wall that said, “No clothes washing after 8 am”.  THEN discovered you had to pay a ridiculous $2 per load with a “card”, but no sign told you which “card” they meant.  Credit card?  Laundry card?  What?

I had a washing machine in Seabrook, an hour away, but a car with a “service engine soon” light that kept going off and no way to get it looked at until the following weekend.  I could have done my grocery shopping up in Seabrook, too, were it not for the fact that I needed ice cubes.    The credit card didn’t work in the laundry room, so I now needed to get into my car and find a &^%$#@ laundromat.  And I am so not happy about it I’m shaking with pissed-offed-ness.

Losing a day also meant that I would not have the time to get my blood work done as planned.  I had to wait until next Saturday; messing up my ability to get the car worked on ... messing up my ability to get to Seabrook on the cusp of my having to fly to Raleigh for an entire f*cking week and sing kum-bah-yah in yet another bonding event.

Piero Barone:  The King of Atlantic City

I sat trembling in my apartment on Sunday morning, trying not to cry, desperately trying to think of blessings to recite. 

Piero was kind enough to post photos of himself in Atlantic City, where they went post Radio City Music Hall ... in bed with a mirrored ceiling, and in a jacuzzi in his bedroom... both of which he found so refreshingly astonishing, he had to take photos of himself in both, looking like the King of Atlantic City.

New Home ... and Amtrak Needs to Fire Julie - Seriously

I am now a homeowner, back in her apartment, eating a comfort-food dinner of lemon-peppered corn and kale, trying to figure out where to jump first.   Packing, driving an hour to Seabrook, cleaning ... in between running to the bank, disposing of sharps, buying cleaning supplies, calling the doctor, preparing for a trip to New York City?  I’m listening to Renato Zero, Gianni Morandi and Massimo Ranieri ... the standards from my pre-Il Volo days ... packing up cat miscellany – food, liners, carriers – to donate to Bulgers.

I was stunned when an act as innocuous as preparing to donate the cat carriers, liners, food and litter to Bulgers just about killed me.  Instead of doing that, I came home with everything still in the car, choked up, and slept off the impending emotional meltdown.  I did donate everything to the vet the next morning, but it wasn’t easy and I bawled all the way back home.

And I STILL don’t feel any resistance between my hands!  This is driving me bat-shit crazy.

That said ... I am really working on my temper and frustration level when things don’t go the way I want them to.  I am not at my best in a state of chaos, and if there is one thing I can say about the last week or so ... utter chaos.  I also often forgot which day of the week it was ... which meant things like:  I came home last night from an exhausting day doing a home inspection #2 with Dana and buying appliances and thinking I had a full day to recuperate and pack for the trip to New York.

I was a day off.

I got a phone message from Amtrak telling me “Your train reservation for tomorrow has been cancelled; we put you on another train.”  I screamed “Tomorrow??!!??” and called them frantically.  I had been sure it was the 25th.  Nope, the 26th.  Il Volo’s concert was the 27th.  Naturally, I sat through at least fifteen minutes of crap spewed by their “virtual assistant” – Julie, I think her “name” is – to the point where I was screaming, “Shut the *(&*(^& up, you freaking %^&*%^!!”  Finally I got a live human being who, in response to my saying, “I can’t find the reservation number,” asked:  “What’s your reservation number?”  I could barely think of anything polite to say to that.

Turns out there is some sort of electrical failure which shut down all the Acela trains between New York and Boston.  I was unceremoniously tossed out of first class and into business – complete with refund, but I would rather have the first class seat.  My typical reaction would be, “Naturally.  The one weekend I need peace and tranquility between here and New York, the Sky Sadist goes and fucks it up.  Thanks, you miserable *($%^.

The day to recover disappeared and I frantically tried to pull all of my hotel, train and ticket reservations together.  I tried to focus on the things that HAD gone right:  i.e., the washing machine in Seabrook had worked so I had clean clothes; at least I had come into the study and listened to the messages as opposed to going straight to bed and being hit with the shocking news first thing in the morning – very unlike me, but I really did try to find the blessings as opposed to the curse.

Gianni Morandi, Wolves and More Sex Magick

The Wolf Moon arrived yesterday ... and in honor of the majestic Wolf, the first photo I saw signing into Twitter was this wonderful photo of Il Volo with the incomparable Gianni Morandi. Last time we saw photos like this, the guest singers appeared on the second album (Placido Domingo, Eros Ramazzotti), so that was my first thought: is Gianni making a guest appearance on the Spanish version of the new album? What a way to get me to buy the Spanish version – put Gianni Morandi on it!!

And you may say, "Hey! What’s dem gotta do wif a wolf?" Well, first: not much. OK, nothing, really. Second: get your dentures fixed; you’re slurring again. Third: SPEAK ENGLISH!

But fourth: the photo did get me singing Morandi’s Fino alla fine del mondo ("Until the End of the World") all day, which I suppose is the Italian pop equivalent of howling at the moon with indescribable loneliness. The British equivalent would be Duran Duran’s Hungry Like the Wolf (2004) and the American? Probably Warren Zevon’s Werewolves of London (Live in Passaic 1982 of course! If you have a favorite song that transforms you into a hungry wolf by the second note, let me know, and I’ll try to link to a live version.



I ran across a perfect example of the damage that the judeo-christian-islamic mindset does to their cultures when the topic of sex is under discussion. In this case – and I don’t know who the writer is in this case – someone is writing out a rather confusing sex magick spell.

I’m willing to lay down good money on his national origins: either British or American. Same problem that I have had in the past with writing out spells: what is its purpose? and, where did you get it? are two pieces of information it would be really helpful to know. Both are missing. Obviously, it’s a sex magick spell, given the instructions, and the fact that part of the spell involves invoking Baphomet.

Here’s another problem: Baphomet. Taken out of Wikipedia:

Baphomet is a supposed pagan deity (i.e., a product of Christian folklore concerning pagans), revived in the 19th century as a figure of occultism and Satanism. It first appeared in 11th and 12th century Latin and Provençal as a corruption of "Mahomet", the Latinisation of "Muhammad",[1] but later it appeared as a term for a pagan idol in trial transcripts of the Inquisition of the Knights Templar in the early 14th century. The name first came into popular English-speaking consciousness in the 19th century, with debate and speculation on the reasons for the suppression of the Templars.[2]

Since 1855, the name Baphomet has been associated with a "Sabbatic Goat" image drawn by Eliphas Lévi. It represents the duality of male and female, as well as Heaven and Hell or night and day signified by the raising of one arm and the downward gesture of the other. It can be taken in fact, to represent any of the major harmonious dichotomies of the cosmos. However, Baphomet has been connected with Satanism as well, primarily due to the adoption of its symbol by the Church of Satan.

Given the sketchy history of this figure of Baphomet I doubt I’d have any reason to invoke it without doing considerable more non-Wikipedia research on it – there are so many other well known and much admired deities you can invoke if you’re casting love or lust spells. Even Aleister Crowley had some trouble trying to research the thing, and if it was something invented by Templars to placate christian torturers ... I have the same problem with it that I have with a lot of other wiccan stuff: NOT TRADITIONAL!

But fine. So maybe this spell writer knows something about Baphomet we don’t. But here he is describing the steps of the invocation. Keep in mind that all he’s doing here is raising sexual energy:

"Then when done, visualize yourself as a sexual beast; doing what beasts do when in heat. And it's probably better if you intent someone who already has that look and body language which says "Let's whoopie". Use the picture to masturbate and do all manner of nasty obscene acts."

Well, alrighty, then!  I have yet to read a traditional Sumerian, Egyptian, Greek or Roman spell that uses the words "let’s whoopie" and "nasty obscene acts" in their spells, although you’re right, I haven’t read them all. Still, I doubt I will find phrases like that. Thinking of sex as a "nasty obscene act" is not how the traditionalists thought before the common era. They considered it normal. "Nasty" is something right out of the christian playbook of shame. In other words, this apologist has already turned a simple energy raising spell into something shameful, ugly and disgusting. Made me want to say, "Ew!" and wash my hands with antibacterial hand gel or something.

Okay, so when we’re not a teenage American boy thinking himself all that, down there in his basement and writing up his own version of a titillating spell ... the truth is, a little research will bring you to the realization that sexual energy is a potent and powerful force.

So, here’s another spell example: the writer – who thankfully has dispensed with the christian "sex is dirty and bad!" messages she might have been handed in her youth - has found a picture of a man she finds arousing and desirable.

And I clutched that to my chest as I went into an altered state, which was extraordinary and intense, with amazing feelings of energy coursing through me. And I then proceeded to use a little good old-fashioned sex magic, which is essentially the harnessing of one's arousal and orgasm. That energy is directed into what it is that you are longing for, the goal of your spell, the object of your prayers. And for me it was embodied in this image.

See? No drama, no cringing, no euphemisms that make you go "ew" – none of that. The two examples are night and day. One was the product of the guilt-ridden christian culture, the other wasn’t. One was enthusiastic and positive; clear-headed, even. The other sounded like something that just crawled out of the sewer.

And while I realize I haven’t finished with the list of fallen angels yet, it also made me wonder if I wouldn’t learn more history on the incubus if I researched traditional sex magick spells. Hmmm.

More Comments from "Anonymous"

No offense, "Anonymous", but why can’t you even come up with an invented name? This next "Anonymous" who posted on Piero Barone and His Marshmallows, and who I assume is not the same "Anonymous" as the previous few "Anonymous-es" – wanted to know why I hadn’t rushed over to Amazon.com to assault the women who had written bad reviews about Il Volo’s latest cd.

Um ... perhaps because I hadn’t been reading them? In all fairness there aren’t that many of them, but (a) they seem to be copying each other, leading one to suspect it’s one troll under multiple screen names, or (b) the few bad reviews there are seem to be the work of a boatload of poorly educated broads who have no idea how to compose a proper review.

My favorite childish outburst came from a genuine dimwit named Carol Cortazzo, who was "reviewing" (and we use that word so loosely it may not be in the same stratosphere), "We Are Love". Now, trust me I don’t really care if you have good reasons for not liking something, but this was her inane "review":

"From being amazing young Italian singers they have become imitations of American punk-looking, skinny nobodies who happen to have been blessed with great voices. We have enough no-talent teanagers here. We need more original talent. They should be themselves. I would not recomend this CD to anyone and probably will not buy their new CDs."

Oooooh. There will now be a pause while we applaud Miss Cortazzo’s "sterile granny panties in a twist" grand diva-esque exit and peculiar spelling of the words "teenagers" and "recommend" and yell "Buh-bye!" at her cellulite-laden buttocks ... but really – none of that made a lick of sense. PUNK-looking? This group of teenagers? (see photo, above left) The least punk-looking group of teenage boys I can think of? And "skinny"? What, she’d rather they were all fat and clumsy?

Hey, but at least they had "great voices" – and you would have thought that her review of a cd of songs would have made mention of that, instead of picking on them for getting skinnier as they grew taller, which at least two of them did. Since they are – when last we looked – teenage boys. She may not like it, but she can’t get around it. Teenage boys grow up.

I’m not even sure I want to beat the broad up, Anonymous – this wasn’t even a review of the cd – I doubt anyone could figure out what had pissed her off, but it sounds insanely personal. Either that, or proof that women need to gobble down a handful of Midol before composing reviews of anything. Damn idiot sounded like one of them stood her up on a date or something.

I know, I should talk, since I seem to be complaining about everything too. My only explanation at the moment: in addition to a broken kneecap, the Sky Sadist knocked a filling out of one of my bottom molars and then laughed uproariously at the doubled pain. One emergency root canal later ... I sit in the office glumly opening one of my two lunchtime Chinese fortune cookies that reads, "Your winsome smile will be your sure protection." Really? You’re sure about that? I HAVE NO WINSOME SMILE RIGHT NOW, YOU IDIOTS!!! I can’t even open my mouth! [kapow!]

Actually, to be even more accurate, I’m not all that sure I had a winsome smile before the emergency root canal, thanks to the Bells Palsy.

The other cookie: "You will be traveling and coming into a fortune." OK, that I can live with. I’ll come into a fortune and then travel without any sure protection. Lovely. Remind me not to carry cash.

My previous entry may have reminded some readers of Umberto Eco’s famous quote about lunatics in Foucault’s Pendulum:

A lunatic is easily recognized. He is a moron who doesn’t know the ropes. The moron proves his thesis; he has a logic, however twisted it may be. The lunatic, on the other hand, doesn’t concern himself at all with logic; he works by short circuits. For him, everything proves everything else. The lunatic is all idée fixe, and whatever he comes across confirms his lunacy. You can tell him by the liberties he takes with common sense, by his flashes of inspiration, and by the fact that sooner or later he brings up the Templars.

Or, in my case, "she". Fine. I claim lunacy with pride – probably caused by intense pain – having circled back around to the Templars two entries ago, in the Solomon and David discussion.

I also mentioned in a previous entry that I was reading Born of a Woman, by John Shelby Spong ... one of his comments led me to research another book and author, The Illegitimacy of Jesus: A Feminist Theological Interpretation of the Infancy Narratives, by Jane Schaberg – basically, her theory was that Jesus was actually the son of a Roman centurion and a product of rape, and I say "theory" only because I haven’t read the book.

What struck me, though, were the hideously evil posts from christians that followed the book summary: cursing her, damning her to hell, threatening to murder her, wishing they could burn her at the stake ... basically post after post of things so vicious and ugly your jaw just dropped. Jesus must be so proud of all these insane followers doing things he sure never did.

Nymphs
by: Evelyn Scott (1893-1963)

Normally I’m not a big fan of Evelyn Scott – after we tried to parse and otherwise evaluate her "Tunnel" (which had my U of M creative writing class muttering "ewww!" under their breaths) I didn’t think I would like anything she wrote– but I later changed my mind. This one I liked.

The drift of shadows on the mountainside,
Blue and purple gold!
Purple dust sifting through fingers of ivory:
Cool purple on ivory breasts.
I see arms and breasts,
Upturned chins,
Slanting through the dust of purple leaves:
Ivory and gold,
Bare breasts and laughing eyes,
That drift on the shadowy surf
And surge against the side of the mountain.

We Are Love, and More from Enoch

Ahhhhhh. Why do I keep forgetting from year to year how exhausting cooking a big meal is? Pause for a breather. All I have on the menu is the turkey, whipped potatoes with gravy, fresh green beans, a molded gelatin salad and poppy seed cake for dessert ... and as uneventful as that menu is, I feel like I’m serving an 8-course meal! Gelatin salad just went back into the fridge to finish setting up. Need to start the potatoes boiling and the giblet gravy in a new minutes ... and my least favorite part: turning the turkey over and praying I don’t drop it. Knowing me? Bets are being taken at the betting window.

So apparently I wasn’t the only listener who thought Il Volo’s We Are Love cd was an unbelievable second album.

Il Volo We Are Love Album Review

Sylvie Lesas on November 20, 2012

"Il Volo is back with their second album We Are Love. Co-produced by Grammy winning producer Humberto Gatica and Tony Renis, this cd sends chills down your spine from beginning to end. It is clearly a masterpiece.

Beautifully interpreted , the album is emotionally intense. Il Volo shines on the entire cd, offering perfect duets with Placido Domingo on Il Canto and Eros Ramazzotti on Cosi’ which is magnificent. They just take every song to another level. The harmony is flawless. The passion in their voices is pure delight whether on U2 cover Beautiful Day or the splendid version of the Aerosmith/Diane Warren Hit I don’t want to miss a thing. It is often even better than the original because the trio brings their unique touch of creativity. They also did justice to classics such as my first favorite Historia De Un Amor that tells the suffering after the death (or the loss) of a love. Just poignant.

Written by Diane Warren, I Bring You To My Senses is an upcoming hit. Non Farmi Aspettare is another highlight of this album and ends the album as strong as it began.

So We Are love is one of 2012 best albums. With their incredible voice on their debut record, they have conquered the world. With We are Love, Il Volo is going to dominate it."
http://evigshed.com/il-volo-we-are-love-album-revie/
Oooo, dominate. Yessssss. "One of 2012’s best albums"! I love it!

But moving forward:

This is the place. Stand still, my steed,

Let me review the scene,

And summon from the shadowy Past

The forms that once have been.

The Past and Present here unite

Beneath Time's flowing tide,

Like footprints hidden by a brook,

But seen on either side.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, "A Gleam of Sunshine", 1846

Just finished reading a series of product reviews on Amazon and have a prediction to make:

My Prediction: In a very short time, scriveners will again become popular and useful in the United States. Start making your business cards now!

(Scriveners were the literate few who used to read letters to and write letters and other legal documents for, their illiterate customers). Just sayin’. I have never read so many garbled comments from so many people completely incapable of composing a literate sentence in my whole life. It’s mind boggling.

And speaking of idiots, back to my newly formed campaign to FREE THE INCUBI from the clutches of the christian and wiccan church ladies!!! (see last entry). Hmmm. I really need a better catch phrase than that, come to think of it. I might free the succubi, too, if I had some idea where they originated. Incubi I suspect may have originated with the angels described in Enoch, but succubi? I’m not sure yet. I read a website with stories of succubi, but all of the stories seemed to be about horny clerics blaming succubi for their own lust – after christians had already taken over the village and stomped around telling people they were sinners for doing what came naturally. Supposedly, Lillith was the first succubi, but I don’t know where that myth came from.

But back to Enoch and the the first band of angelic lovers. If you read this self-righteous judeo-christian tale of woe, you’re pretty much left with two conclusions: (1) angels are no more intelligent than the average human being (and that’s not saying much), and (2) their deity has the emotional maturity of a sulking, spoiled toddler, and that’s not saying much, either.

CHAP. VII [SECT. II]

1. It happened after the sons of men had multiplied in those days, that daughters were born to them, elegant and beautiful. [Why, thank you very much, yes we are!]

2. And when the angels, the sons of heaven, beheld them, they became enamored of them, saying to each other, Come, let us select for ourselves wives from the progeny of men, and let us beget children. [Now I realize this doesn’t particularly support the claim that incubi started here. If they did start here, you’d be reading that the angels said, "Wow! Check out those hooters! Let’s go have hot steaming sex with them after they go to sleep!" Instead they actually (oddly) want to get married and beget children. So, at this point, you’d think that wanting to get married and have children instead of deflowering virgins in their sleep would be a GOOD thing. But no.]

3. Then their leader Samyaza said to them; I fear that you may perhaps be indisposed to the performance of this enterprise;

4. And that I alone shall suffer for so grievous a crime. [Nowhere are we being told – yet – what the grevious crime is that Samyaza is convinced he’ll have to answer for. If I were a maiden and an angel visited me and asked for my hand in marriage, I’d certainly be surprised, but I might accept this as a compliment, not a crime. But what do I know?]

5. But they answered him and said; We all swear;

6. And bind ourselves by mutual execrations, that we will not change our intention, but execute our projected undertaking. [There are those who might think that this phrase, ‘mutual execrations’ means something like "mutual oaths", "mutual promises". But according to every dictionery I checked, the word ‘execration’ means a "curse", and not just a curse, but a curse combined with loathing. Enoch has apparently already passed a hideous judgment on these guys even before their deity did.]

7. Then they swore all together, and all bound themselves by mutual execrations. Their whole number was two hundred, who descended upon Ardis, which is the top of mount Armon.

8. That mountain therefore was called Armon, because they had sworn upon it, and bound themselves by mutual execrations. [Mount Armon is now known as Mount Hermon (photo), located on the Israeli side of the Golan Heights. In honor of the "curses" sworn there, Israel has built a ski resort and a motorbike trail. That would do it, I imagine. If the newly formed "Free the Incubi Group (FIG)" had a sacred ground, this might be it. Nah. Still don’t like the group title.]

9. These are the names of their chiefs: Samyaza, who was their leader, Urakabarameel, Akibeel, Tamiel, Ramuel, Danel, Azkeel, Saraknyal, Asael, Armers, Batraal, Anane, Zavebe, Samsaveel, Ertael, Turel, Yomyael, Arazyal. These were the prefects of the two hundred angels, and the remainder were all with them. [More on them later.]

10. Then they took wives, each choosing for himself; whom they began to approach, and with whom they cohabited; teaching them sorcery, incantations, and the dividing of roots and trees. [A-HA!!! Now we start to get some idea of what happened!! They turned the women into witches!!! I hope a mega-watt lightbulb just went on in some wiccan heads.]

11. And the women conceiving brought forth giants,

12. Whose stature was each three hundred cubits. These devoured all which the labor of men produced; until it became impossible to feed them;

13. When they turned themselves against men, in order to devour them;

14. And began to injure birds, beasts, reptiles, and fishes, to eat their flesh one after another, and to drink their blood.

15. Then the earth reproved the unrighteous. [I realize it’s to my own advantage to not believe this tale as it unfolds, but let’s toss some logic at this, shall we? Nowhere in this story does it say that the wives of the angels died screaming in agony as they were giving birth or trying to nurse these offspring. So, "brought forth giants" seems a bit of a stretch. True, the children could have shot up during puberty, but I’m going to put a bit more credence in biology and human DNA than the lack of logic we’re looking at here. But in a minute you’ll see why this story was invented. Version #1 of "THE FLOOD" is about to be written down. Enjoy.]

CHAP. VIII

1. Moreover Azazyel taught men to make swords, knives, shields, breastplates, the fabrication of mirrors, and the workmanship of bracelets and ornaments, the use of paint, the beautifying of the eyebrows, the use of stones of every valuable and select kind, and of all sorts of dyes, so that the world became altered. [Logic problems again. Enoch just finished saying the men were being eaten up by all of these so-called giants. Now he’s teaching them the art of warfare? Which sentence is actually true?]

2. Impiety increased ; fornication multiplied ; and they transgressed and corrupted all their ways. [Ahhh. That old bugaboo: fornication. Which was, I’m sure you’ll agree, the method that resulted in all of the "begetting" the judeo-christian text is so full of. What, every middle-eastern woman was capable of immaculate conception? No, dearies: begetting after begetting after begetting is a direct result of fornication. You may not like it, but you have to live with it.]

3. Amazarak taught all the sorcerers, and dividers of roots:

4. Armers taught the solution of sorcery;

5. Barkayal taught the observers of the stars

6. Akibeel taught signs;

7. Tamiel taught astronomy;

8. And Asaradel taught the motion of the moon.

9. And men, being destroyed, cried out; and their voice reached to heaven. [Again with the screwed up logic. How were the men destroyed? By their own recently-learned warfare, or by these so-called giants, who apparently did NOT destroy all the men, as Enoch said. Sounds to me like they did it to themselves. In any event, after a lot of military orders in Chapter Nine ("Michael! Gabriel! Go kick some angelic ass!"), here’s a line from Chapter Ten: "all the earth shall perish; the waters of a deluge shall come over the whole earth, and all things which are in it shall be destroyed."]

Ahhh, yes. The Flood. So which version is correct? This one? That one? Another decision to be made by people other than me, I suspect. I am discussing Angels who have sex with women.

If you look at the list of things they taught us – and by "us", I mean the women they turned into happy, sexually fulfilled witches – you can see why it is beneficial to christians to perpetuate the stories of these angels being demons. And they do to this day! In fact – and I find this astonishing! – even Satanists are happy to perpetuate the myth that Incubi are demons, and they’re the first people to jump up and down, claiming to be misunderstood! They are, actually, but they seem to be doing the same thing.

Next: the individual prefects of the 200 angels who love women.