Tyler Yoder's Blog, page 25

Poetic Interlude LI

Business Hours
The world has lost her edges,
As though viewed through thick glass
 Shatters – glass dust – the merest drizzle;
The clouds of a thursday that will never know light -
Implying what may or may not be the sun,
Reflecting, Refracting
My thoughts, today.
 
Those birds are inappropriate,
And the roses will not stop their clatter.
Each part and participle
Violently object to everything.
The unceasing moo of the girl I detest
Is the only music within me today.
I stare, uncomprehending, then rise and walk away.
I am not quite alive enough to worry if she is offended.
 

This poem, and others like it, are available in Patchwork Narrative, a slim volume of poetry by Tyler J. Yoder.

Tagged: Patchwork Narrative, Poetic Interludes, Poetry, Tyler J. Yoder

Post the Thirty-Fifth: Black Krishna

I was going through some old photographs the other day, Gentle Reader – and do you know, it had completely slipped my mind that I’d been in a teenage rock band.

Sorry it’s blurry/pixely; these photos are *ancient*.

We were known as Black Krishna, because of course we were.

We had Ms. Capere on guitar and vocals; myself on saxophone and also vocals; Miss Herrera on drums, and then sometimes Mr. Trotter was there too and I’m not really sure what he did.

Black Krishna, pictured with our groupies

Ms. Capere and I alternately wrote the songs, and we’d rehearse a few times a week, all summer, at Miss Herrera’s parent’s house – that’s where the drum set lived, so that’s where we rehearsed. Frequently Miss Herrera would leave rehearsal to go argue with her parents, and Capere and I would sit in the music room, trying not to make noise and making pained, awkward faces at the shouting. Should we wait? Should we leave?

Usually we’d leave.

Meanwhile, Mr. Trotter was trying to poach Ms. Capere from Black Krishna. It turns out that, despite playing nice with us -

- he was only there to recruit Capere. Well, at least that explains why he was at band practice.

That summer, our manager – OH YES, WE HAD A MANAGER – got us a gig at the café we spent all our time at. A two-hour gig. We turned up, got set up – seriously, anyone who travels with a drum set, I feel your pain – got our complimentary coffee, and began playing our set. During our second song, our drummer dropped her sticks in the middle of the chorus, loudly shouting “FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!” to the three elderly ladies who were there to see us.

During the third song, she got up for another coffee.

Our big finish was “Somewhere Over The Rainbow”. That was also our fifth song. That’s right, Gentle Reader; our entire set had taken up nearly half an hour.

HOORAY!

That was, uh, our last gig with all of us.

Ms. Capere and I tried to keep Black Krishna going with just the two of us, for a while, hitting open-mike-nights and so on. It didn’t last very long. We also had a brief reunion, a few years later, but the days of Black Krishna were over.

Hooray!

Tagged: Black Krishna, Failed Gigs, Garage Band, Glamorous Rockstar Life, Musicians, Teenage Bands

Post the Thirty-Fourth: Midnight Margaritas

When you’ve known someone for more than twenty years, Gentle Reader, you need to make time for them in your life, even if you’re not quite as close as you were back in kindergarten. Thus it was that, despite preparing to leave the country indefinitely, I made the trek up to Seattle; thus it was the my dear Mr. Darling welcomed me into his home.

We were due to take Midnight Margaritas.

Don’t give me that look, ladies.

Naturally, I arrived before midnight, and we had an evening to fill. Darling is well-known in town, and I always feel a bit prim and modest when we’re together in Town; a wide-eyed little country mouse who goes about saying “Golly!” – that isn’t to say that I don’t usually go about saying that, but I do usually feel a bit dowdy. This time, I didn’t let it bother me – after all, I’m going to be living out of my luggage for the foreseeable, so why make a fuss?

We caught up in his apartment, blowing smoke and chitting chat. It was a Thursday, so as not to interfere with his successful dancing gigs; I left the evening’s plan up to him. After asking after our respective mothers, we freshened up for the evening, and headed to True Love Art Gallery, where they were holding a show. True Love is also a tattoo parlor, run by an ex of Darling’s – a very gracious man. The art was arranged according to the Zodiac theme that evening, and we made the loop.

Out in the night air once more, we trotted off to karaoke at the Cuff, which I know primarily as a leather bar. Evidently, it’s more subdued on weeknights or every night when you’re not playing Aunt Augusta. Whatever. We sang a few songs, and discussed more important things – life, and men, – while avoiding some more delicate subjects – like life, and men.

We stopped off for a late supper on the way home, and then again for supplies. It was about 11, and we were to arrive just in time to mix our cocktails; Darling isn’t much of a drinker, but he indulged me by indulging in one. He put on Harry Nilsson’s “Coconut” as tradition dictates; I mixed the drinks; we danced around a bit, and it was utterly utter. Precisely what I’d hoped for.

At this point, it turned out to be the birthday of his good friend A, who then came over with another friend, N, who I’d never met before – A was utterly charming as always, and N was a perfect gentleman. We played games of all sorts until nearly six, including Gloom, a particular favorite.

In short? My visit was everything I wished it to be, and Darling is an utter sweetheart as well as a thorough brick.

Tagged: Darling, Midnight Margaritas, Old Friends, Seattle, The List

Poetic Interlude L

Literature
 
O! You be Ryder – I’ll be Flyte,
I’ll gently go to your good night.
Travel through my Antique Land -
Leave your footprints on the sand.
Bowl your heart right down my street:
We’ll see if it’s been shattered.
If my heart’s left incomplete?
Well, Dorothy Parker mattered.
 
Tell me I’m not Richard Corey:
Cast me in a brand-new story.
 

This poem, and others like it, are available in Patchwork Narrative, by Tyler J. Yoder

Tagged: Literature, Poetic Interludes, Poetry, Tyler J. Yoder, Writing

Post the Thirty-Third: Photo Apology Bonus Bonanza

I feel bad about yesterday’s stark announcement in lieu of a post, Gentle Reader. I made the decision that morning, and it just seemed like the right thing to do – but I still feel bad. That’s why I’m going to let you take a special peek behind the scenes today. These are photos I keep on hand for reference, in case I need them for Important Blogging Reasons. Some of them you’ve seen, some have just been waiting in the wings, but here they are, for your enjoyment. There’s a lot of them, so keep going until the end! Cheers, Gentle Reader.

Click to view slideshow.

UPDATE: Blog Schedule

Due to rapidly approaching Life Changes, I’m afraid I have to adjust the amount I post here, Gentle Reader. We’ll keep the poetic interludes for now, but ordinary posts are being scaled back to two a week – they’ll come out on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I’m sorry if you were hoping for a real post today. Cheers, darlings.

Post the Thirty-Second: Bisexuality Explained

Are you or a loved having trouble coping with someone else’s bisexuality? Perhaps a lover, a sister, a parent? NEVER FEAR! As a cisgender, white gay man, I’m a fully licensed Certified Ambassador for the entire QUILTBAG community, as well as a member in good standing of the Federation of Anti-Heteronormative Gentlemen.

I also belong to the College Of Currently Known Homosexuals Of the USA: Northern Division (C.O.C.K.H.O.U.N.D. does a lot of charity work).

Naturally, a person with my qualifications has a duty to help straight folk understand all the facets of our rainbow, and with all the confusion people seem to have with bisexuals, I thought I’d use my expertise to clarify in this handy, definitive, guide. So, for once and for all, I give you:

There is a lot of misinformation out there – approximately 96% of the straight community believes that anyone who cheats on their partner is a bisexual. Only 95% of the gay community believes this, because they are better informed. Despite the fact that bisexuals are scientifically proven to be incapable of monogamy, they aren’t the only people who have affairs. Luckily, bisexuals can’t cross running water, so if you install a moat around your bisexual’s home, you can be certain that they’re being faithful.

It’s less commonly known that bisexuals are invisible. They walk amongst us undetected, and are only revealed in full moonlight. If you find yourself in a relationship with someone who’s bi, be sure you tie a bell around their neck so that you know when they’re in the room, as you might otherwise experience a chill, and think you’re being haunted. Bifolk have been known to take advantage of their invisibility to both commit crimes and stop them.

Bisexuality in action.

Some people think that bisexuality is a way station on the road to coming out as fully gay, which simply isn’t true. When a person contracts bisexuality – usually through a bite in the neck or shoulder – occasionally, the elders of Q.U.E.E.R. (Queen’s Union of Eerily Erotic Rangers*) will be able to fight the scourge of bisexuality. Fortunately, the serums they’ve developed transmute bisexuality to homosexuality. Therefore, it’s conceivable that a straight person who’s been bitten by a bisexual can become gay, but only after the Q.U.E.E.R. treatment.

Due to their infectious bite and their invisibility, bisexuals are essentially the QUILTBAG community’s military arm, and the F.A.G. has been using them for years to aggressively recruit people. This is the most crucial part of the Gay Agenda†.

Bisexuals In Action, Balked By The River

Working with the scientists at Q.U.E.E.R., they created a pill in the early ’90′s derived from bisexual venom that is soluble in alcohol. This neatly explains the drunk girls making out at college parties et al. that have become a staple of our culture. Sadly, the Gender and Sexuality Police have been known to issue citations for being B.U.I. (Bi Under the Influence – they’re not as good at acronyms).

There you have it, Gentle Reader – bisexuality in a nutshell. I hope we’ve all learned something today, and I hope that what we’ve learned is that bisexuals are secretly werewolves or something. Invisible venomous ninja bisexuwolves. You’re welcome.

I’m not sure if this counts, because EVERYONE wants to be with Stiles.

*********

* The Queen’s Union of Eerily Erotic Rangers was originally an English institution founded by Dr. Kinsey. Despite becoming an international cabal of highly respected queer scientists, they have made little progress in about 70 years. However, they do offer Science Ranger as a job title.

†Obviously that isn’t actually part of the gay agenda, because I would lose my license if I actually came out and told you. It’s called misdirection.

Tagged: Angry Ghosts!, Bisexual Humor, Bisexuals are Secretly Werewolves, Humor, LGBT, LGBT Humor, QUILTBAG, Rambling Nonsense, Whimsy

Post the Thirty-First: In Which Tempers Are High

Gentle Reader, are you familiar with televangelists? Are you familiar with how they harangue you for money, as that’s sort of their job? They will sit on their golden thrones if you don’t and cry, you know*.

Joke falls flat? Damn.

They’ve been known to prey on the vulnerable – which is why, as my father lay dying, Maman spoke at length with one, and purchased something called “Miracle Bread”, which didn’t save his life. It’s also why, five years after my father’s passed away they still call my mother five nights a week, with a very personal recorded preacher, with his loving message that if only she’ll send him $48, an angel will come knocking on her door.

Wait – only $48?

Well, last night, she’d had enough. That’s right, my mother stood up for herself. She’s slow to anger, but when she explodes, she doesn’t do things by halves.

Maman called the recorded preacher back, and predictably was directed to a poor call-center employee, who asked how much she’d like to donate. Maman asked to speak to the preacher, and was put in a hold-loop with the same recording she’d been hearing every day for the last few years. When she got through to another human being, it was the same employee, who asked how much she’d like to donate.

Maman, who is rather devout, told the charming story in the picture above. She was hung up on.

She called them ten more times – she asked if the people manning the phones believed what the preacher was saying; she asked if they thought an angel could be purchased for fifty bucks, she asked to be removed from the call list. Every time the conversation deviated from money, she was disconnected. That’s when she got creative.

Fake names, cell phones, blocking caller id – all within the realm of possibility. She finally got through to someone in charge, under the name “Milly Watson†” who said that he couldn’t put her through to the man in charge, because it was quite late, and he was at home in bed. She asked why it was alright for his recording to call her quite late, when she might be in bed, every night for years.

He made the mistake of saying that it was different for them to call her. Maman, naturally, lost her shit.

There was swearing – a lot. There were tears, there were Bible quotes, there were exhortations to be removed from the list – to no avail.

We’ll see if they call her back tonight.

*********

* I know that the Pope also has a golden throne, but Francis seems to want to strip the gold and jewels from certain, non-historic, churches, cathedrals, etc. and use the proceeds to feed starving children. As far as I’m concerned, that’s a pretty damned good use of a throne. Also, the Pope’s throne has been around for hundreds of years, and not just as a prop for the television.

†Milly and Watson are her cat and dog, respectively.

Tagged: Family Stories That Are Completely True, Maman, Righteous Ire, Televangelists

Poetic Interlude XLIX

A guest post, today, by my deceased father.

Spirit
 
I went to the mountains a few days ago to renew my spirit, as I did in the old days.
I wanted to sit on an ice-covered rock and listen
To the lonely quiet
Of a high up place far from the noise of people, but close to the creator of all.
I wanted to hear the call of a raven,
The nonsense of a magpie
The chatter of a squirrel.
I wanted to sit, high above the timberline,
Watch nature in its pristine beauty.
I wanted to speak to the four winds
Thank the Supreme Architect for my small place in the ever-changing scheme.
 
I sat, and listened, and watched.
I saw an eagle soaring far below
Hunting his meal from a little silver creek I couldn’t hear, could imagine
The sound of the water bubbling and gurgling, seeking its path down to the ocean,
Carrying life to billions of tiny organisms
Carried along to feed bigger creatures, then bigger, until the cycle is complete.
I heard the birds, and listened to the animals.
 
The winds spoke to me and I to them.

I didn’t stay until dark to hear the wolf or the yap of a coyote.
I didn’t need to hear the creatures say goodnight.
I stayed just long enough to get that same old feeling of being very small
Very small in the great expanse of our universe
Renew the peaceful confidence that the One Above is still with me.
 
         I left the place for others to find.
Tagged: James Yoder, Nature, Poetic Interludes, Poetry, Religion and Spirituality, Writing

Post the Thirtieth: The Children’s Illustrated Garden of Intoxicants

Gentle Reader, I’m phoning it in, today, for two reasons: I’m trying to sort some snags out with banks and airline companies, and also because I don’t think I’m actually going to follow through with this project – mostly because the person who was going to illustrate for me has a bunch of other projects that actually pay, but also because I’m not sure how I feel about releasing an alphabet book about drugs.

I have the entire alphabet done, but I’ve only done rough sketches for a few of them. Today, I would like to share them with you, Gentle Reader. If you like them, maybe I’ll keep going with this project, after all.

“A is for alcohol, which brings you elation – until it turns out to be Self-Medication.”

My favourite one was the inspiration for the whole project. The letter is O.

“O is for Opiates, all of them rotten – like heroin, morphine, and Mom’s Oxycontin.”

And, naturally, this charming little volume is meant to close with

“Z is for Zachary, once your best friend – until he O.D.’d in the alley. The End.”

Yeah. I knew there was a reason I’m killing this project.

Tagged: alcohol, Alphabet book, drugs, Early Childhood, Education, Opiates, You know - for children!