Sunday, September 30, 2007

The Road to Mandalay...

…once littered with bougainvillea, jasmine and other lush jungle fauna is now covered with blood and the litter of fleeing multitudes as the Myanmar army mows down its own in an internecine struggle decades old…if ever there was a time for the United Nations to show what it’s made of, this is it. We need to see some major diplomacy here, and never mind putting more boots on the ground & guns in-country.

Be assured intervention could come from China, Burma/Myanmar’s largest trade partner, or Russia another one, and America of course has a hand in everything so it too must be considered. Burma’s totalitarian army has lots of guns and the three China, Russia & America are major arms dealers so there’s that to deal with; everyone has a vested interest.

Unfortunately for the poor People of Burma there’s a lot of oil and gas nearby that the aforementioned all have a craving, crying, hedonistic need for - so the strategy for who gets what if the Burmese Army gets routed, is a chess game…it’s anybody’s guess…the Chinese are not kowtowing to anybody these days – Mattel Toys kissed their ass after China sent lead-paint tainted toys for America’s kids – what’s with that? And Russia is reasserting itself as a force to re-reckoned with – George Bush is Vladimir Putin’s patsy; Bush thinks Putin is his friend; he isn’t. Putin likes American Jazz, not America.

I have no way of proving it but in my estimation a number of Burmese people have been beaten up, tortured or killed in just the time it’s taken me to write these few abysmally deficient paragraphs trying to highlight their plight…it’s everyone’s business; we’re all in this together and if we can help we are duty bound to do so even if only to sign a petition…no one expects you to sell the farm, grab your musket and head for Rangoon.

It’s a complex world and a wonder that anything runs at all.

I was thinking about great wealth...

...and how, once I DO hit the Mother Lode (and I will), it will take some getting used to.

Think about it...

One day, for instance, little Elvis is walking hand in hand down the streets of Tupelo with Grace, going to get an ice cream with a very short supply of extra cash and twenty years later this same Elvis is winging his way in the middle of the night on a private Lear jet from Graceland to Denver with a plane load of buddies, all because Elvis liked the way a certain joint in Denver made its peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, for which he had a sudden hankerin' turns out the PB & J, taking all expenses for the flight into consideration, cost about 1500 bucks.

I'll try to exercise a little control, maybe have them send me one UPS or Fed Ex me a Omaha steak or something...

Trouble is I'm going to be sitting here with all this cash and nothing to do. Other than to upgrade this beat weed I got I don't know what I'd do first if suddenly there stood in the doorway the Benevolent Sponsor I've awaited so eagerly for the last half-century (oddly enough my addled head over the years has convinced itself that this wraithlike creature with a philanthropic interest in me - and a bankroll to back it up, WILL show up one day...)

It's why I don't have a job! Why bother, knowing as I do that any day now, any day now, there (s)he is, portfolio in one hand, blank check with my name on it in the other?!

Meanwhile I've been doing my share of peanut butter and jelly myself Elvis.

Incidentally, how come Elvis' picture is on a stamp? I thought you had to be dead to rate a stamp?

Of course there being no normal...

...then there's really no abnormal, no crazy.

`There's no normal' is not just some meaningless refrain I've been repeating for the last 30 years, there IS NO normal (What is it and who says so?), so all manner of behavior is therein implied, if not exactly forgiven when it strays way beyond`generally accepted' behavior, but even that is's alright to
_____________________ but you better not ___________________, fill in your own blanks, based on what YOU call normal.


Ah yes, but - the qualifier, the modifier, the mitigating circumstances you say, a benchmark from which to judge. Well, I make no value judgments - I don't know how I could ever sit on a jury - but if you want to pay witness to far-out behavior in a world you may not be familar with but toward which you have a vicarious leaning (long windy sentence huh? It's the blowhard way of diehard NFTD...) where was I? (I just had some GOOOD bud!)

Yes I recall now: If you want to see how the flip side of Family Values lives I suggest you pay court to Seth Morgan's book called `Homeboy', a tour de force and a walk on the wild side courtesy of Fate, courtesy of the California State Board of Prisons and the great talent of Seth Morgan, who had to be writing more or less autobiographically and for all I know may still be languishing on ice waiting to raise up out of Coldwater. It's a wild ride on the wild side. Pretty violent but pretty right on.

`Homeboy,' by Seth Morgan. I think it was Vintage Press, yes it was, it's Vintage. It's Vintage press and it's vintage prison. So all of a sudden I review books you say? Among my remaining qualities is a love for good writing and I feel eminently qualified to hold forth. Maybe I'm boasting but I got 6,000 books in my head to back me up. That may be a little high - Henry Miller once claimed I think that he'd read 5,000 books in his life he figured, course he was around 80 when he said that so maybe I'm pushing it but if I've read one book I've read thousands and thousands.

Seth Morgan and Edith Wharton are about as far removed as two people can
get in literature but truly they are soulmates. Both transcribed a period and
a way of life with profound exactness, or at least wrote in such a way as to
make a believer out of me anyway, poetic license don't you know...

Well, so much for my book report...

Saturday, September 29, 2007

I hate telling you this in a way...

...because it pokes yet another hole in the worn fabric which is my shredded character, but it goes like this and you can do with it what you might:


Whatever I had in mind to divulge to you has fled and didn't want to know anyway. Drunk. Stoned. All manner of the so-called real world blotting out - or trying to blot out anyway - the REAL world.

The REAL world, as I see it is an infinite variety of things one would never have thought possible. Isn't the real world starving children? In this latter-day Athens, Rome or Bamboola, isn't the real world a kick in the ass?

Shouldn't we pass out at night after busting our asses all day to help the afflicted? Should we be so complacent with our meager achievements while somewhere in this world our fellow Brothers and Sisters are dying like flies because they have nothing to eat? The white world-at-large doesn't seem to care much that blacks are starving to death. Maybe I'm wrong; the media could be painting an unclear picture, but it seems to me that if a half-million Limeys were starving in London they'd have whatever food they needed tomorrow.

Or sick with no cure in sight? I think, if I may speak my mind, that if AIDS were striking the middle-class and upper echelons of society instead of the poor, a bunch of junkies and homosexuals, that the cure would have been found about 50,000 deaths ago. The real world is a throbbing abscessed molar bringing tears to your eyes as you painfully, slowly - masticate your Gerber's.
It is a drive-by killing in LA, NY, SF - pick a city.

I realize the real world is also azaleas on Mineola Boulevard in the early spring and the real world is a kiss from your sweetheart at just the right moment in just the right place, so of course the life is somewhat improved by these things, and there are other reasons why the world isn't all that bad a place, things being relative.

A tooth is killing me (hyperbole, but it hurts like hell) so I drop a couple Rugby's a friend laid on me and a half hour or so later I'm feelin' alright, better. In fact, good but it'll pass and it'll be back to the real world again, pain and all. Whatta ya gonna do?

Thursday, September 27, 2007

Space travel notwithstanding, my dream is to return to Nea Makri...

...although I've never really left there in my heart of hearts - 19 months of my young life was spent there; two lifetimes there would not be enough to satisfy me. In that same vehicle, my heart - eemay Hellenas - I am a Greek, yes in my heart a special place for this little village by the sea, the Aegean Sea that is if you don't know - Nea Makri, an ancient horyatiki - village, stretched out alongside a robin's egg blue expanse of this historic body of water and behind me in rugged splendor, brilliant hillsides dotted with olive trees and long-haired goats, plenty of rocks for everybody, and, ah yes, The Blue Lights, a dreamy little waterside watering hole with dusky Mediterranean beauties dancing with other dusky Mediterranean beauties...

...and there was me, a dweeb-like presence in this fairyland, getting cuckoo as only ouzo can make you cuckoo. Regular readers will note that NFTD makes frequent use of drinking stories and rarely calls for abstinence but in the case of ouzo I urge you, skip it, better you should drink boiling oil.

I'll have to admit I was a quick-study and only once in my life did I ever drink too much ouzo (any is too much) but it lasted me all my life.

If Vassili was still alive (he'd only be about 98 or so) I'd slip him the 100 drachma I've owed him since August of 1964; I've been thoroughly entrenched in indebtedness since long before that even, since I stole the paper money from my paper route and plowed it into doughnuts hoping to make it back in tips but always came up short and it's just a lifelong habit of mine to never have any money except what YOU might have.

Hmmm...maybe also I'll look up Gina even though she's probably no longer 18 years old...Christ she's 65 if she's even alive! OK, I'll look up her daughter. "Ella tho Koritzee moo, sa ga po polee nomeezo, nay nay, vevayos."
(Come here Sweetheart, I think I love you, yes, yes, I'm sure of it...)

On that rare occasion when I...

...deign to immaculate my surroundings I do so to the strains of Bach - Hip-hop (which don't get me wrong I love you Ice Ice Baby) would have me prone before I got the dusting done - whose many concerti and oratoriae(-i-e-i-o) soothes and lulls the Oscar in me while Felix cleans.

Besides which Hip-hop leaves you no room for introspection because your
bouncing cerebellum can barely keep up with your jiggling cellulite and
flouncing adipose tissue; brain cells too tossed-about to think, plus Hip-hop, Rock or Country will have you banging into shit in the living room with your whirling dervish feet skittering across the gritty parquet in a cloud of choking dust carbon dating back to May, so Bach must prevail in the opening stages, at least until the dust clears, then gradually moving into high gear, out comes one of the late William Clarke's too few CDs, and as usual on this one William is blowing his brains out through that diatonic Hohner, a recording called: 'Serious Intentions', then you shuffle along in a 1-4-5 into the final stages of your abberational and temporary plunge into '...a new beginning, starting with the house cleaning!' which ends soon enough, and you, I, I mean I, me...I'm forever using - you - but I usually mean me...

Anyway, just warming up my fingers on the keyboard, speaking of gritty...

I would like to make clear that I am...

...neither monster, beast nor creep but I have led a wildly irresponsible life which is driven home to me with every strain of Bach I listen to, each melancholy note driving me deeper into introspection, brooding even, for instead of leaning back and reflecting on the life I've led (lead) with pleasure, it is a reflection tinged by, nay tinged, charred! & accompanied by head-shaking disbelief; how could I have done that! What was I thinking?

And of course, there you have it, I wasn't thinking. Thinking is something I didn't do much of in those days and now it is about all I do.

I often hear people say something to the effect that 'O I'd love to go
back and see So & So again...' Not me, I'd be mortified. And I still wouldn't have an answer.

No, in the reflected light of my past there is no golden glow and my youthful dreams of being the non-catamite Walt Whitman/Jack Kerouac of my day, which ambition gave way to a myriad other desires and took a variety of guises to keep from being ME, crashed in the dust of dissolution.

Elsewhere in these "...NOTES..." my Friend Sam writes ' possibly may try to shift the NFTD focus in a bit of a direction other than Terry's life...'

Sometimes I would like to do that, Sam, write a sustained narrative and never use the pronoun I, but I don't do it, wouldn't know how, have lived this way too long to suddenly about-face. I'm stuck with me, and according to the trickle down theory, so are you.

Well, we'll have to bear up under the strain and press on, there are still things to do, what exactly I'm not sure, but each day I hit the deck running, ready for come what may.

Wednesday, September 26, 2007

What on earth is he thinking?

...our Secretary of Defense Robert Gates, who is about to ask of our gutless wonders in the sullied halls of Congress, the world's most chickenshit debating society, to approve $190 billion with which to fight the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, neither of which can be won if the dirtbag trebled his request and got it; it's an unwinnable war...he and his Boss, the Commander-in-Grief are so astonishingly out of touch with the world and The People, Yes - not to mention reality, they make my head spin...George Bush, Dick Cheney and Robert Gates et al are the biggest threat to the safety of our earth, way more than the so-called Axis of Evil, these three clueless malcontents have brought down on America The Beautiful the opprobrium of most of the world.
$190 billion dollars for a war that can't be won while I'm trying to stretch a $790 per month disability and Social Security pension to pay the bills while this Neanderthal throwback and the monkey he represents have the audacity to plumb the taxpayer for more - the United States is building an embassy in Baghdad which we will never occupy, in my opinion, never...592 million of your/our tax dollars up in smoke...
George Bush is the worst president the United States has ever had and Dick Cheney - the penultimate in dirtbags, usurped for the honor of ultimate only by his boss, is the worst Vice President; they should be impeached, tried for war crimes, drummed out of office and thrown in a dungeon.
As of 10 a.m. this morning they have been responsible for the deaths of 3,797 of our loving Brothers & Sisters, Sons & Daughters, Mothers and Fathers.

Monday, September 24, 2007

War, what is it good for? Nothin', absolutely nothing!

‘The man who in times of popular excitement boldly and unflinchingly resists hot-tempered clamor for an unnecessary war, and thus exposes himself to the opprobrious imputation of a lack of patriotism or of courage, to the end of saving his country from a great calamity, is, as to loving and faithfully serving his country, at least as good a patriot as the hero of the most daring feat of arms, and a far better one than those who, with an ostentatious pretense of superior patriotism, cry for war before it is needed, especially if then they let others do the fighting…our country right or wrong. When right, to be kept right; when wrong, to be put right…’ Carl Schurz, Union General, Civil War…


"...I forgot! Thank you again for the fabulous description of your East Clintwood out to the sweet young thing's car & getting shot down. Been there, been there, been there. Screamed in laughter & pain. Also loved your Finlandia kitchen dance." - Susan Mueller, Wilmette IL

"...I am always delighted to find a penned note tucked in the pages of NFTD. Enjoy a good read when it arrives. We must have been in NYC around the same time - Allison Steele (The Night Bird) - I was a fan. Knives in the gullet, fear in the street & silent footsteps on the fire escape of my Hell's Kitchen flat, listening for the `all-clear' whistle from the bloke on the roof are all too familiar..." - Judith Linstedt, Fitchburg MA

"Not that it is news to you, but you are one prolific would be great if you could find the time sometime to do a list of books you've read - 6,000 books is an awfully impressive reading history, and any list that includes Frederick Exley, Edith Wharton AND Seth Morgan is a list I'd like to publish!" - Mark R. Harris, Publisher, REDISCOVERIES Passaic, NJ 07055

"...again I'd really like to thank you for the kind words...the encouragement of friends is what keeps you going. I was very moved by your honesty a few issues back...if anyone has paid their dues THOU has...I'd like to think that once the Karmic debts tilt to OUR credit side, we can relax just a little. Poverty gets OLD, but seems to nurture my sense of humor..." - Judy Miller, Sparks NV

Sunday, September 23, 2007

Random "...NOTES..." From Wrinkled Scraps...


…taking this behavior from over there, that idiosyncrasy from way over yonder, pick up a character flaw here and there – there are plenty to go around, and occasionally I indulge myself in what might I look like had I had a choice in the matter other than cosmetic, like you know what I mean? A little overbite is fine, prognathous no…anyway I’m stuck with me, the confluence of personalities, personas and random luck in the gene pool. An aging me rapidly deteriorating.

…what does Multi-Infarct Dementia have to do with this (or anything)? Well, I tell you, it goes like this: Multi-infarct dementia (MID) is a common cause of memory loss in the elderly, caused by multiple strokes. Disruption of blood flow leads to damaged brain tissue. Some of these strokes may occur without noticeable clinical symptoms. Doctors refer to these as silent strokes, I call ‘em whiteouts and if they’re anything like death, it ain’t half-bad.

…anyone having a silent stroke may not even know it is happening, but over time, as more areas of the brain are damaged and more small blood vessels are blocked, the symptoms of MID begin to appear. Symptoms include confusion – bingo - or problems with short-term memory – bingo! -; wandering, or getting lost in familiar places; walking with rapid, shuffling steps; bingo, bingo, bingo…not to mention having difficulty following instructions, always been a prob; and having problems counting money and making monetary transactions. You don’t have to have MID to fuck up the books but it helps to have a fallback for when the auditor questions your ersatz math Dude, watch what you do… MID typically begins between the ages of 60 and 75 and affects more men than women…I add it to the lethal mix.


…I tell you the man had the perfect voice for radio, WCSB in Boston, which is where I met him, and the right name too - Jack Pride, strong, resolute, that stentorian voice a rich baritone with ever so slight a West Virginian’s cadenced nuance; then there was Nelson Behelfer, a force to be reckoned with also as he set his massive frame down in the studio for his tour de force, a two-hour long rock show when classic-rock was yet unborn, when it was a rock and roll session with Nelson’s engaging repartee, dazzling in its effect and none of it pandering to the public nor braying the sycophantic line of the advertisers, o no…

Nelson and Jack were great and way ahead of their time, and to me anyway illustrate how the future of FM radio is in the past, for all of today’s radio could be put out on one station, it’s all the same within its genre; that’s too all-encompassing but not too much – the college stations are still pretty good, real good in fact, but mainstream radio, NPR too, is more blather and drivel, puling bombast and posturing than, ah, well, that is, ah, more even than NFTD…the prosaic reality of being only a bit player clings to me like mist to a mountain…

Friday, September 21, 2007

What some critics are saying about...


"He's hauled 'Notes From The Dump' to the top of the literary heap..."
- Will Sonszki, PEOPLE

"Hip and obscure...hilarious and poignant at the same time..."
- Rudy Cheeks, NEW PAPER, Providence RI

"Subscribers to 'Notes' are treated to its publisher's thoughts on love, literature and his '55 Lincoln."
- Kristi Turnquist, THE SUNDAY OREGONIAN, Portland OR

"He's the Duke of The Dump and he doesn't write trash..."
- Nancy West, UNION-LEADER, Manchester NH

"...a zine time-capsule candidate if ever there was one...the salt of the earth..." - WHOLE EARTH REVIEW

"Is this a page out of Mark Twain or what?"- Sally Anderson TOWN CRIER, Bellows Falls VT

"I recently came across mention of your publication and feel it represents the sort of fresh and original thinking HARPER'S is looking to highlight."
- Laurie Ouelette, HARPER'S Research, New York

(NFTD) " too sophisticated to sound homespun...too serious to be a be a parody..." - Linda Fullerton, KEENE (NH) SENTINEL

"...maybe we could write something about you...there is something there but I can't quite put my finger on it..." - (The Late)Rip (Rip's Run)
EASYRIDERS, Bakersfield CA

"(NFTD) "...might be a subject YANKEE would write about sometime..."
- Mel Allen Sr., Editor, YANKEE Magazine, Dublin NH

Wednesday, September 19, 2007

Hard to pick up where I left off...

...because I can't remember where I was and of course I have no idea where I am; it is one of life's more perplexing dilemmas. Yes, yes, I know that physically yesterday I was home out on the porch doing the crossword puzzle in The New York Times & I know I was in East Eden in New Hampshire aboard Planet Earth nestled snugly in the Milky Way with at least 10 billion other denizens of the universe and it is therein where things get fuzzy...

Here's this little speck of endomorphic protoplasm seeking reason out of all the firmament as though only I had any relevance; vaguely I have the notion that of all I will get an answer where the rest have failed, that I alone will solve the age-old query: Why?

Such a pompous attitude in a world without any conceivable purpose. I buried myself in the puzzle to keep from thinking about being alone in space, frightening if you go there...but I really paid it no attention and my mind, whirling out of control, was spinning like a dredl trying to fathom life and its many complexities, and all for naught...

Finally I wearied of the metaphysical chase and gave it all up to drink.

Saturday, September 15, 2007

Even without me it was an odd mix...

...Rusty Schweikert, an astronaut, Bob Fuller, wagonmaster from the old tv show Wagon Train, Claude Kirk, then governor of Florida, Baron Something Von Furstenburg from Bavaria or Bohemia or Prussia or some gawdamned place with castles, and Lauritz Melchior, the operatic meistersinger from Copenhagen.

Add me to the olio and we're off at 4 ayem from the lobby of The Noble Hotel in Lander Wyoming, off to join The One-Shot Antelope Hunt - but first we had to down about nine gallons of Governor Kirk's Florida orange juice which he must have had a whole plane full of, and then we're headed down to the Red Desert (pictured above) - me & the aforementioned 'team', and I, more or less extra baggage along for the ride as editor of The Wyoming State Journal for which I am writing the story of today's hunt, the object of which was to get (as in kill) the most pronghorn antelope per team, and each member only getting one-shot, hence the name, all very macho western and I for one (since I was not in on the actual hunt) was having a grand old time riding with these celebrity folks and being sort of their "guide", and helping Gov. Kirk properly dispose of some Jack Daniel's which he'd also brought.

(Christ it ain't even daylight yet and we're sitting on the tailgate of an old grey bouncing Bronco banging over Le Desert Rouge getting red-eyed while nipping Black Jack's amber bourbon neat beneath an ink-blue sky riddled with golden stars, peepholes into eternity...)

I put "guide" in quotes because in this case it was a nebulous term at best, one dune in the desert looks like another to me and soon we were way lost...the governor ('Call me Claude son...') was magnanimous about the whole matter of being adrift in the desert and didn't seem to care much while the rest were anxiously searching the horizons more for a way out than antelope, with an occasional glare at me; these dudes had visions in their heads of being staked to a ant-covered hillside by Apaches...

My feeling, though I was somewhat to blame, was that if Rusty Schweikert could find his way back from Mars or wherever the hell he went in space, he should be able to get us back to Lander and eventually he did, but first we rode on and on until finally we came to a fence under which an antelope had tried to crawl but had become entangled in the barbed wire and without hesitation Claude Kirk got off the tailgate, went over to the fence, pulled and jerked and shoved and finally got the poor thing loose - I mean, Dude, it was TANGLED in barbed wire, and set it free, and no he didn't then shoot it from ten yards off, in fact we returned much much later in the night than any other team and we had no antelope to show for our efforts.

Why this antelope was ensnared under a barbed wire fence when he could have easily leaped across it - the fence wasn't four feet high and an antelope probably can leap ten feet in the air and fifteen feet across before he touches down again - was a mystery but I've since learned that for all its agility an antelope will NOT jump a fence. Ahhh, the things NFTD brings to your life...

O, and as for the great tenor Melchior? He sat in front humming can you believe that? I'm riding with an icon of opera, Lauritz Melchior for Cris'sakes and he's humming the overture to Il Trovatore...

Wednesday, September 12, 2007

El Chicken Coop (DAFraser painting)


(First I wrote this in English…more or less…)

...but I no longer have the horsepower to back it up. Push comes to shove, I'm sunk…so these days I tend to blow fuses and throw tantrums at home alone, with only the walls to witness the childish/churlish display of outrageously inane behavior, a case study in Type A male running amok, me the sole victim...perp & victim rolled-in-one.

Little wonder I live night Betty gave me a ride home to my little hovel and upon entering the dimly-lit-with-a-red-bulb, former chicken coop I lived in and called home, immediately I saw a painting was missing, a big one, no way I could've misplaced it, it was gone - oh, incidentally, at this point my relationship with Betty was about six beers and four hours old and I was plumb ready to get cozy with the little beauty but the minute I saw my painting was gone I flew into a rage and began screaming bloody blue murder and yelling and hollering into the late night sound-asleep neighborhood, and, not that anything else was needed, but for emphasis I began flinging pots of paint Pollocky around the walls of the chicken coop and when last I saw my main squeeze Betty, well, with a screeeech of tires, she was hightailing it up the driveway in her slant-six Dodge and even though I couldn't see her I just know she was wiping her brow with the back of her hand and going, "Wheeeew, fuckin' head case...lemme outta here..."

(…then had it translated into Spanish by

CONSEGUÍ Un FUSIBLE CORTO Y Un MAL GENIO... ... pero I tenga no más de largo los caballos de fuerza para moverlo hacia atrás para arriba. El empuje viene empujar, yo es hundido... tan actualmente yo tiende para soplar los fusibles y para lanzar las rabietas en el país solas, con solamente las paredes para atestiguar la exhibición de childish/churlish del comportamiento indignantemente necio, un estudio de caso en el tipo amok de funcionamiento del varón de A, me el perp único de la víctima... y a víctima rodar-en-uno.

Poco me pregunta vive solamente... ... uno noche Betty dio yo paseo hogar a mi pequeño hovel y sobre entrando de'vil-encender-con-uno-rojo-bulbo, anterior pollo tonel yo vivió adentro y llamó hogar, inmediatamente vi una pintura faltaba, grande, ningún could've de la manera I la colocó mal, fue ido - el oh, incidentemente, a este punto mi relación con Betty era cerca de seis cervezas y cuatro horas de viejo y yo estaba listo vertical conseguir acogedor con la poca belleza pero el minuto que vi que mi pintura era ido yo voló en una rabia y que comencé a gritar asesinato azul sangriento y a gritar y a hollering en la vecindad sonido-dormida de la última noche, y, no que cualquier cosa era necesario, pero para el énfasis comencé a arrojar los potes de pintura Pollocky alrededor de las paredes del tonel de pollo y cuando es pasado vi mi apretón principal Betty, bien, con un screeeech de neumáticos, ella hightailing lo encima de la calzada en su inclina -seis regate y aunque no podría ver ella que apenas conozco que ella limpiaba su frente con la parte posteriora de su mano y que iba, "Wheeeew, fuckin ' outta principal del lemme del caso... aquí..."

(…THEN had the Spanish translation translated BACK into English; I thought the result was pretty funny…)

I OBTAINED a SHORT FUSE and BADLY a GENIUS...... but I has more of length the horsepowers not to move it for above backwards. The push comes to push, I is sunk... so at the moment I tends to blow the fuses and to send rabietas in the country single, with only the walls to testify the exhibition of childish/churlish of the indignantemente foolish behavior, a study of case in the type amok of operation of the man of A, me perp only of the victim... and to victim roll-in-one. Little it asks to me only lives...... one Betty night gave I I walk home to my small hovel and on entering de'vil-ignite-with-one-red-bulb, previous chicken barrel I lived I enter and called home, immediately I saw a painting lacked, great, no could've of way I placed it bad, was gone - oh, incidently, to this point my relation with Betty was near six beers and four hours as an older person and I was I list vertical to obtain cosy with the little beauty but the minute that I saw that my painting was gone I flew in a rage and that I began to shout bloody blue murder and to shout and to hollering in the sound-slept vicinity of the last night, and, not that any thing was necessary, but for the emphasis I began to throw potes of Pollocky painting of the walls around del barrel of chicken and when she is happened I saw my main squeeze Betty, well, with screeeech of tires, it hightailing above of the road in his inclines - six regate and although could not see she that as soon as I know that it cleaned her front with the posteriora part of her hand and that went, "Wheeeew, fuckin ' outta de lemme del case…here…”

Monday, September 10, 2007

More NFTD Criticisms...

‘Terry Ward, 63, cuts a striking figure: He is dressed in black, his hazel eyes are intense and his grey beard flows to his ample belly. People magazine called him the "Rousseau of Refuse," and he says he likes that, though he has not read Rousseau. He took somewhat less kindly to being labeled the "Garrison Keillor of Garbage" in the same People story. If description by comparison must be undertaken, Ward's writing could be called a mixture of Jack Kerouac and Andrei Codrescu balanced by a measure of Walt Whitman. But not quite as linear…and not for the faint of heart…from Boston Globe’s award-winning story by Lois Shea

To whom it may concern: I've been reading NFTD for 15 years, every issue, every word. Terry's trip is worth following because he's decanted a fine…wine out of the essence of a chaotic world. I've drunk deep of it and would recommend you do the same. Read it and weep, or laugh, or despair or all three all at once. When you share the cup of NFTD you slosh around the astral plane a little higher, and with better background music too. Isn't that something you desperately need? Signed, Hoot, Foxboro MA

Terry, I read your NOTES FROM THE DUMP and thought it was very powerful. I also like your artwork. Thank you for contacting us and please don’t hesitate to get in touch with me if you have any questions. Jim Boughton, Executive Director, Chaffee Art Center, Rutland VT

What the critics say about "...NOTES..."

“He’s the Duke of The Dump and he doesn’t write trash…”
– Nancy West, Manchester (NH)Union-Leader

“Hip and obscure…often hilarious and poignant at the same time…”
- Rudy Cheeks, The Phoenix, Providence RI

“…NFTD is too sophisticated to sound homespun, too serious to be a parody…”
- Linda Fullerton, Keene (NH) Sentinel
“…Notes From The Dump ranges from terrible to brilliant…” – John Tuthill

“Probably unlike any other newsletter in America, NFTD is a freewheeling, six page potpourri of philosophical observations…remembrances…and classifieds on the order of: Wanted, personal worth in a purposeless universe; a marvel of creative recycling…” – Will Sonszki, PEOPLE Weekly Magazine

“…not for the faint of heart…” – Lois Shea, Boston Globe

Ah shucks Folks, it was nothing, heck anybody can do this…a modicum of talent and an eye for humor with ever so slight an ability to write and you too can get where I am…

Saturday, September 8, 2007

As a sop to diversity...

…NFTD will occasionally print in languages other than English, so in case the spawn of generations of immigrants overwhelm Whitey and his/our WASPy English mayhaps the new Land Barons will smile kindly on my attempts to be diverse and not throw me into the dungeons or depend me from the gibbet…we, NFTD & me, will begin this self-serving sycophancy right here and now!


... le nftd Imprimera de temps en temps dans les langues autres que l'anglais, ainsi au cas où le frai des générations des immigrés accableraient Whitey et les mayhaps anglais de his/our WASPy les nouveaux barons de terre sourira sur mes tentatives d'être divers et de ne pas me jeter dans les cachots ou de ne pas dépendre je du gibbet... nous, NFTD et moi, commenceront cette droite de sycophancy de art de l'auto-portrait-serving ici et maintenant !


... nftd случайн будет печатать в языках за исключением английской языка, поэтому в случае если spawn поколений иммигрантов overwhelm Whitey и mayhaps his/our WASPy английские новые barons земли усмехнется добросердечно на моих попытках быть разнообразно и не бросать я в dungeons или не зависеть я от gibbet... мы, NFTD & я, начнем это self-serving право sycophancy здесь и теперь!


... el nftd Imprimirá de vez en cuando en idiomas con excepción de inglés, así que en caso de que la freza de generaciones de inmigrantes abrume Whitey y los mayhaps ingleses de his/our WASPy los nuevos barones de la tierra sonríe amablemente en mis tentativas de ser diverso y de no lanzarme en los Dungeon o de no depender yo del gibbet... nosotros, NFTD y yo, aquí y ahora comenzaremos la esta derecha self-serving del sycophancy!

Even People Who Don’t Like To Read Like To read NFTD
Peuplez même comme qui n'aiment pas lire pour lire NFTD
Даже населите не любит прочитать как для того чтобы прочитать NFTD
Incluso pueble como quiénes no tienen gusto de leer para leer NFTD

Thursday, September 6, 2007

Very serious hangover (Circa 1993) for the books.

I can't erven focusd - or type...that's supposed to say `I can't even focus...' - well, to prove the point I guess.

Don't know how I got here or where I was. There are fourteen empty Heineken bottles and Budweiser cans strewn about plus a fifth of Canadian Mist is gone all but for one shot, which I may need real soon...and a half-full Ball belljar of cold flat beer which I guess I'll have to gag down after I gag down the shot of rye to bring me around - a true alcoholic's road to recovery - hair of the dog.
It works, yes, but only leads one deeper into the nether world of stupefied alcoholism, a world I've languished in and out of for most of my life. Truth be told I've been a drunk for more or less the last 35 years. Ain't dead by luck continues afresh with every breath I draw.

Alcoholism is the penultimate love-hate relationship, the ultimate of course being Lover/Lover relationships, but anyway booze is the most mixed of mixed blessings. Through thick and thin, good times and bad, the Demon Rum stands by you at the ready, waiting for you to drop your guard.

You say you just LOST your job and are stopping off at The Bar to have a few beers and think about it? That's one side of the lure; another side (for it is many-sided, dodecahedronal at least) - AN other side being that, `O! You just GOT a job and you're stopping off at The Bar to think about it over a few brews, maybe throw in a shot take the edge off...

Ouisquebaugh...pronounced `whiskey baa' - In Belfast and Dublin, Blarney and Cork, all across the Motherland - Ouisquebaugh, whiskey baa, Sweet Water Of Life!

I choke down the Canadian version and the flat brew and take a seat on the couch to ruminate over life as Glenn Gould plays piano and hums his way through Bach's Goldberg Variations to accompany my thoughts.

...speaking of Bach.

You know if you're going to be given the old saw of being stranded alone on an island who's music would you take, what book and so on...(Is it annoying the way NFTD segues from one subject to another, or is that part of its charm? You tell me, I don't know, but I do know that's the way I am so that's the way it is...too late to suddenly change.)

Anyway...where was I? O yes...Bach.

If you're going to be stranded on an island, if I was anyway and could have my choice for music it would be Bach. There's lots of it and it's all wonderful; yes, I'd take Bach and if there was a Plan B it would include Killer Kane in one configuration or another, he of the virtuoso harmonica and if you've ever read "...NOTES FROM THE DUMP..." you know I'm talking about James Timothy (Killer) Kane the 3rd, one of the greatest harmonica players the world has (n)ever known. Somehow from the Elfish Kane (as Mark Flanagan once so eloquently characterized him) comes a Mississippi saxophone right out of The Delta - even though he's white.

Hmmm...I suppose that could be construed as a semi-racist remark but in fact in the past most of the best blues harpists in the world of The Blues have been black, i. e. Little Walter nor James Cotton got an ounce of Whitey in 'em; on the other hand James Montgomery & that guy with Loaded Dice and Jimmy Kane are all pretty white...The Blues transcends color, class, caste and credo.

What book I would take to Elba, ere were I able, I don't know. Tough choices both of them. Music and books. As far as what other PERSON I might like to be stranded on Exile Island with I can only say that two is a crowd, however...hmmm, I'll call Allison, "My Dear want to be stranded on an island with me..." Oh. Well, maybe when you get back...

Tuesday, September 4, 2007

'Time passes slowly,' Dylan once sang...

...and at that youthful time he was right, there was plenty of time to get it all done (whatever it was...) - times passes slowly, no hurry. Now it's not so true; actually it never was true it just seemed it in the early years.

An hour may take an eternity to pass but time flies. Time flies and nothing changes yet change is all there is; a world full of paradoxes...full of paradoxes and full of shit too...I tell you I am so sick of reading myself going on and on over and over about essentially nothing, and even then - given that I speak of nothing - I fake it and try to put a little spin on it to make it seem like I know what I'm talking about; I don't. Not much anyway, hardly at all...

I don't know what I'm talking about most of the time, and I don't know anybody who does. I DO have a way with words and so am therefore able to make what I write seem plausible or possible or at least moderately entertaining, but in truth it is all just so much crap - drivel, blather, prattle and nonsense...I'm not the literary historical treasure I sometimes fantasize myself as...I'm just another dude tossing words around for what I don't know...probably so I can somehow justify not actually having what one could call a job...

Plus, you see I don't know whether times passes slowly or not; it's gone by so friggin' fast I didn't notice...what I need is to be 'precipitated into activity,' but instead what I appear to be doing, trying to do anyway, is to edit myself out of life, getting rid of any evidence there was ever a me - burn the photos, the writings, purge the addled head and finish up this life in 'motionless contemplation', neither speaking, seeing, seeking nor being seen.

Before I complete this arduous task in the course of editing myself out of life I hope to use in NFTD every word I've ever learned in a last ditch, massive concatenation of tendentious creativity...

Meanwhile, away for now with this vademecum - and I'm off for a stout and the pipe...I'll give you motionless contemplation in spades Brothers & Sisters, watch this...

Sunday, September 2, 2007

A Friend of mine helped repair the Cornish Bridge...

…a wooden covered bridge spanning the Connecticut River (the Queen of Rivers) between Windsor, Vermont and Cornish, New Hampshire, America’s longest covered bridge; it’s a two-span 460-foot long Town Lattice Truss in bridge parlance and it looks like this…see above...

…a number of times in the course of it’s lengthy history, it was built in 1866, it has come in need of repairs and in one such semi-recent restoration enter my Friend Phil the barn doctor (a covered bridge is basically just a long barn) who told me that a luthier bought up a bunch of the old spruce beams that he – Phil and his crew - had laboriously been removing and the violin maker wanted them because they had weathered and aged and oxidized to perfection for making violins…so off the violin maker went with his old beams to make new violins and Phil to replacing the massive hand-hewn timbers…
...okay, fast forward eight months, the violin maker returns violin in hand and walking the full length from New Hampshire to Vermont serenades the crew and the bridge with Bach violin suites played on a violin made from the bridge…then walks back playing the violin like it was a fiddle and makin' like a hoedown, you couldn't make it up, it was more real than any off-Broadway I ask you, was that cool or what Dude?

Have to 'maintain' today...

...maintain sobriety, propriety, piety and form...

...Big Media photog Mark Wilson coming to call to take pictures of notorious novelty item me to complement Lois Shea's upcoming Boston Sunday Globe article about "...NOTES..." I haven't seen it yet so can't comment on content but I worry each and every time I get interviewed that one of these days an interviewer is going to leave my house and say to her/himself, "Now THERE is an asshole!" And then head back to the office and write the article accordingly. So far I've been lucky, the reviews have been favorable all.

...however the most difficult thing I have to do today is try to keep this wobbly tooth - center front bottom - from falling out before the flashbulbs flash. Would that I had listened to Mom and Dad o so long ago as they nurtured me along through my youth trying to tell me that broccoli and green beans were better for me than peanut butter cups and chocolate bars, but o no you could tell me nothing then and not much nowadays but I see so so clearly they were right as I take to the mirror and watch my few remaining teeth wobble around to and fro in my mouth, buffeted by the winds of my blustery pontifications.

I can laugh about it but it really ain't funny, you see,for by nature I am gregarious and love to party and be the life thereof but what with the aging process and teeth falling out along the way, I rarely go out in public, because while in my mind the image I am putting forth is that of say someone with the wit of Robert Benchley, Dorothy Parker and Steve Allen all in one and my physical appearance as I see it in my addled head is no less than in Paul...

Alas none of the above apply. I'm actually more of a cross between Gabby Hayes and Alfred E. (What Me Worry?) Newman, with all the wit and charm of Cleopatra's asps.

However I may joke about failing businesses...'s really no joke; lots of people goin' around with no dough while the CEO is on the links headed for the 19th Green. And as for me and NFTD, well...don't look for NFTD to fail anytime soon because it's a hot property at the moment, much in demand. For which I'm grateful. I've worked (am working) hard for this and now...ooohh I tell you - I'm making my moves, pouring on the steam, full-court press and all that, planning for a future I can see clearly now way over yonder under a palm tree, huge doobie in one hand, huge pina colada in the other, gentle Carribbean sussurating breezes swinging me ever so slightly in my close, so close...

Well, I'm a good writer, borderline great ("Your writing ranges from terrible to brilliant," John has made abundantly clear...) and all this publicity surrounding me from magazines & newspapers, tv and radio, imposition though it may be on my privacy, is just what the doctor ordered to cover the costs of a West Indies soon as I get the bills paid off (groan!) after the publisher comes through with my advance or the grants are granted or the lottery hits,whichever comes first - I'm off to Negril, I don't care if it's mid-August and a 110 down there with gale force winds holding my hammock out like a wind sock...

"...NOTES..." is not only endearing but enduring and just so's you know - I'm in it until I roll snake eyes. It, NFTD, started as a lark, an exaltation of larks actually, reasons I've forgotten but now it's a part of me and so are you and we'll just keep doing this together until one of us croaks.

We're a novelty item DearReader, we're the eye of the storm, the apex of the arc, the nadir of the nether world all rolled into one neat little package. I get a kick out of the media doing a survey of itself and finding out that its readers are bored by the ho-hum boredom of the printed word, but...NFTD readers are neither bored nor boring.

We're a discerning few holding forth on anything and holding sway over nothing. The perfect symbiotic relationship.

Saturday, September 1, 2007

An Unlucky Moment is... what hit the jogger on Center Street one time, over near the library, as he was sweatingly jogging his thin ass off down the sidewalk on which I was the only other in attendance, when suddenly from alongside a blooming lilac bush leaps a cat and strikes the back of the poor guy's lower right calf a blow with its outstretched claws and flees away as the stricken runner drops to the ground with a grunt of pain, blood streaming in rivulets from knee to ankle, cat long gone and me staring wide-eyed in astonishment.

I rush to help him and he says, 'What happened, what happened...' It all was over so quickly - I mean one second and a half into this lightning scratch attack the cat was gone and the guy never even saw it. He couldn't believe it. He had two choices: to look and see what ripped his leg to shreds, or to look to the ground on which he was falling in order to break his fall. Instinctively he went for the sidewalk rushing at him and so missed the cat.

I tell you he was in a state of shock. Me too; for one thing I have five cats and have had a total of nine and I can't imagine one of them doing something like that. Course they are just microcosms of lions, more or less, and as such are predators. This housecat must have reverted momentarily to jungle manners.

The jogger showed much enthusiasm for the vernacular and finally jogged, mind you macho man that he was emulating, away and presumably healed and I went on to the library to jot this down, such as it is; in fact I think I may
have written about this before but each time I embellish it a little so as to
render it unrecognizable, recycling sort of...

Bear with me, let me explain...rewind...

I've had a lot of fun today (from NFTD Archival Shuckin' & Jivin', circa 1998)

At six o'clock yesterday morning (6/28/98) I bought three $3 instant scratch tickets and went to have a coffee with a couple friends. Sitting at the kitchen table I scratched first one, a loser, and slid it across the table to Larry, 'Nope Larry, your's is a loser.' Now Joyce's, same thing, sorry Sister you're a loser too...well, your ticket is, you're not...and then...

Then I scratched the third ticket, mine. Instructions read something like match any one of your numbers to any one of theirs and win prize indicated. One of their numbers was a 2, so was one of mine, and the prize for me matching their number was: $50,000.

I passed the ticket over to Larry.

'Does this say what I think it says?' To which he said, 'I think it does...'

Joyce? 'Absolutely, you got a 2, they got a 2, the prize is 50 grand!'

A flurry of excited activity ensued, then 'I gotta go!'

I flew back to Linda at the Jiffy Mart who only moments ago had sold them to me, her first customer of the day. I gave it to her. 'I'd like to cash this in,' I told her, knowing you can only cash up to 599 dollars without going to the Lottery Commission. She took the ticket somewhat ho-humishly and ran it through the computer which popped up with the information that the ticket was legit and $50,000 with my name on it was in a vault down in Concord!

Then things got a little animated...I can't stand still but neither can I go to Concord to claim my prize because it's Sunday and they don't open until Monday at 8 - 24 hours I am walking around with a $50,000 ticket in my pocket so of course I can't sleep nor eat and feel that somehow there's been an error and tomorrow my little balloon will burst...a restless night.

As happens, morning came and by 8 I was standing tall at the lottery office where I said to Fran, the woman at the front office, 'I'd like to cash this in...' and she looked at it, eyes agog and said, 'Yes, yes, I should think you would,' and began the process of shelling out 50Gs to me!

Here is how that goes. You don't get 50 grand. They take out Uncle Sam's right off the top so you don't forget to mention it to the IRS, and after they had done that Fran and someone else from a big suite office came out shook hands all around and presented me with a certified State of New Hampshire Lottery Commission check for (be still my heart!) 36,000 dollars, a good return on a three dollar bet.

I am directed to the Bank of New Hampshire in downtown metropolitan Concord and when I get there and present my check, once again the camaraderie and pleasantries begin, everybody in the bank is watching what's going on. The teller - her name was Leigh, told me after punching up a few keys on the word processor and consulting with a couple bigger wigs, 'We don't have enough money to cash this...'

I was thunderstruck - I've broken the bank! The esteemed Bank of New Hampshire doesn't have enough money to cash a $36,000 check!? Whatever will I do? I had to borrow 20 bucks to get here...they graciously come to terms and it goes like this: they give me $9,000 in cash and one of their checks for $27,000 which I can deposit in my bank and spend three days hence when it sweat...and then they are kind enough to count out 90 - can you believe it, 90 $100 bills, new ones, all in sequence and this done said to me, 'If you would like to count it again we have a private room for you...

I seem to have moved up a tax bracket (and a caste) in one $36,000 check - suddenly a bank which yesterday would have wanted me deloused, today fetes me as if the sudden acquisition of money was validation of one's true worth. I had to laugh. In I went...

I am absolutely astonished at my good fortune and everybody who has heard has been wonderful about it, and such comments: 'Tuffy, can I have a beer?' 'Sure you can, they're in the van; you may be rich but you still gotta go get your own...' From Frankie who I owed a lot of money for a long time as I walked into his garage, 'I heard you'd be coming to see me...' From my dear Aunt Gogi, 'Dear Terry, I want you to know I am sorry for the time you had a penny in your mouth and I made you do a somersault and swallow it. I think you were 3 years old...your loving Aunt Gogi' - or, as I walked into Town Hall to license my new-to-me 1978 Triumph Bonneville, Earl Luther followed me to the Town Clerk's office holding a chair, 'Would you like to sit down Mr. have a seat...'

How sweet is Lady Luck realized? Very. O, o, o, I tell you I am having so much fun! I am debt-free for the first time since about 1957, it is an extraordinary feeling I never thought I'd experience and I mean to be very careful about getting into that five decades long situation forward several days...

So many many times in the last, let's see how long has it been now, today is the 6th of July, I'm way late in publishing this issue but winning like this is a serious distraction, anyway I can't tell you how many times in the last few days since hitting this pot of gold I have heard people say 'It couldn't have happened to anyone more deserving' or variations of it but in MY mind it couldn't have happened to anyone LESS deserving, however...It's your basic simple twist of fate & like I said, I'm having a ball!

...and incidentally, long-time readers might recall one of my daydreams has been to have an inch-thick stack of crisp $100 dollar bills? Well, I had it, actually I had (have!) several and the thrill of riffling through it and knowing it was mine, however circuitous its route to me, put a five-inch smile on my gap-toothed puss, and - and - you are not going to read: 'Sorry, only kidding...'

...because I am not kidding. In a millisecond (however long it takes to scratch a ticket) my life went from poverty to wealth and a week later I am still dumbfounded, dazed, elated, saddened & gladdened and I expect I shall be shaking my shaggy head in bewilderment the rest of my life.

It's been/is an emotional roller coaster ride...for in truth it must be said in no way am I deserving of this largess but what is a poor boy to do? Plus, I've yet to go down on my hands and knees and thank Whomever because it seems so totally hypocritical to thank The Lord when only last night and many times in the past I have been so obtuse as to pray like this, 'Look You Big Bastard, You don't scare me at all! You want prayer, I'll give You prayer: I pray You send me some money You SOB!' and I would shout and scream and weep and rave and fulminate against The Firmament for what was essentially my own undoing, so now, now the loot is in hand, the result of gambling for which Christ threw the gamblers and the money changers from The Temple, while I?

I am reveling in my nouveau riche lifestyle, the end result of leading a life of dissolution! Go figure. It makes no sense & it ain't fair but we knew long ago that fair got nothing to do with it, luck does, in this case good luck.

Well, I've gone on long enough about it for now; you'll please understand it is difficult for me in this the first blush of my new wealth to concentrate on anything else and my writing may not be up to its usual (ahem) riveting and wondrous style.