We Is Back In Town

Yes, he is back in town and quite a dazzling affair it was. Our Moz played his first concert on this tour at The Majestic Ventura Theater in Ventura, California. He is a California Son you know. I have been extremely saddened by the shootings this past Saturday at the Tree of Life Synagogue in Pittsburgh. Watching some of the video clips from the concert last night has lifted my spirits. Moz sounds fantastic. Some things get better with age, his voice is aging like a fine wine. I am so overwhelmed by the new setlist. There are some shimmering gems here I absolutely adore. "Hairdresser On Fire", "Break Up The Family", "Dial a Cliché were played. I am shocked and pleased all at the same time.  I love these three songs so much. Being strange, I thoroughly enjoyed "Is It Really So Strange?".

It was also wonderful to hear "William" and "Something Is Squeezing". Some soothing light, in what has been a very dark time. Our Moz will be in Los Angeles tonight with Joan Jett at The Microsoft Theater. The fans there are in for a very delectable treat. 

What a fabulous setlist

Ventura Highway

In the sunshine

Is Harrison really so strange?

This is my autograph

Here in the songs that I sing
Here in My cry and my laugh
Here in the love that I bring
To be always with you
And you always with me

On the bus, to the plane

To the UFO and to outer space, baby

It was a very nice touch for Our Moz to have Rose Mallinger's name added to the marquis at The Ventura to honor her as one of the victims of the horrible massacre in Pittsburgh. Thank you again for remembering her.

Scarlet Rose

Rose Mallinger

At 97, Rose Mallinger walked everywhere in the Squirrel Hill neighborhood she called home.

She was sharp, witty and the “sweetest woman I ever knew,” according to David Muskal, 63, who grew up with Mallinger’s three children and remains in close contact with the family and his old neighborhood of Squirrel Hill despite living in Charlotte, N.C.

Muskal said he was heartbroken to hear that Mallinger was among the 11 people killed Saturday in the Tree of Life synagogue. Mallinger’s daughter was wounded in the attack and remains hospitalized, he said.

“Words can’t express what a good woman this was,” Muskal said in a phone interview from his home. “She was like a second mom. My heart is crushed.”

Muskal and another close friend – Guy Costa, Pittsburgh’s chief operations officer – said they’ve known the Mallingers for 50 years. They attended Alderdice High School with Mallinger’s three children and were very close with her son, Alan, who is known to friends as “Mal.”

Muskal said spoke with Alan Mallinger by phone after the shooting.

“It probably hasn’t set in for him,” Muskal said. “Mal’s a strong character.”

He and Costa said Rose Mallinger watched over the neighborhood from the porch of her home on Ferree Street. She walked everywhere. She made the best Jello in the world and would skip rope on her porch for exercise well into her 60’s, according to Muskal.

“She loved to walk,” Costa said. “I think that’s what kept her so spry. You never think that something like this could happen in your back yard, and this is our back yard. ”

Cost, 62, lives in Squirrel Hill and his mother lives around the corner from Tree of Life, he said.

Muskal said he is heading to Pittsburgh Wednesday to help comfort the Mallingers.

“My heart pours out to Mal and his family,” he said. “The bottom line is a vibrant person lost her life. It’s sickening.”

Chuck Diamond, a former rabbi at Tree of Life, said the first person he worried about was Rose Mallinger when he heard that a gunman had opened fire inside the synagogue.

“She was a synagogue-goer, and not everybody is. She’s gone to the synagogue for a lifetime, no matter how many people are there,” Diamond said.

Diamond, 63, has known Mallinger for years.

“I feel a part of me died in that building,” he said.

When Diamond was rabbi, he had a nickname for Mallinger and another congregant whose name also starts with an “R.”

“I used to call Ray and Rose my RR,” he said. “I think of them, and a smile comes to my face.”

Lynette Lederman, a former president of Tree of Life, said Mallinger’s daughter has been taking her to the synagogue every week. The daughter was shot in the arm, Lederman and Diamond said.

Years ago, Mallinger used to come to the synagogue with her sister, Sylvia, who later died. The sisters were usually the ones preparing breakfast for the congregants, Lederman said. 

Just a small tribute to the lovely Rose Mallinger, may she rest in peace.

                                                                      Scarlet Rose

Thank you Moz

                                                    

Dark Days

I awoke this past Saturday around noon. Stumbled to the living room and flicked on the TV. I saw images of many police and police cars and thought it was another mass shooting somewhere. They have become so commonplace in this country one becomes blasé to their existence. This wasn't just another mass shooting, this happened in my city, Pittsburgh. The Tree of Life Synagogue was invaded by a Neo-Nazi terrorist who murdered 11 innocent people at their Saturday morning service simply because they were Jewish. There were 6 people wounded, including 4 police officers.

I live about 15 miles from the city limits. I have been by the Tree of Life Synagogue hundreds of times. It is in a beautiful part of the city called Squirrel Hill.  The neighborhood is culturally diverse. It houses an extremely vital Jewish population. The houses and streets are lovely. The stores and small businesses are all local and it's the shining gem of the city.

I sat at the TV numbly watching the coverage, absolutely floored as to what was happening.  People were slaughtered in their sacred place of worship simply because of their religion. This happened several years ago in Charleston South Carolina at a black Baptist church because the worshippers were black. The hatred in the USA is toxic. I can't understand what makes a man hate another man.
I don't want to understand.

The murderer at The Tree of Life used an AR-15 assault military type rifle to butcher his defenseless victims. Why do people need these? They are nothing but killing machines. Almost every mass murder in the US in the last several years has 2 common denominators, the AR-15 and angry white males. This killer hated Jews. He was screaming he had to kill all the Jews because they were killing his people.  What the hell was talking about? He had been radicalized by ultra right wing websites that the Jews were the cause of all the problems in this country and were financing immigrants to come here and destroy white people.

The hatred and anger are at an all time high here and there is one answer why. The bastard that occupies the White House. He lies about everything. In this lie, he claimed George Soros and Jewish financiers were behind an immigrant caravan headed to the USA from Honduras and Guatemala. These people are fleeing horrible violence in these countries for a better life. They are poor and have nothing. They are no threat to our way of life. The lies about this Caravan by Trump set off the murderer and now 11 wonderful folks are dead.

Somebody has to speak out, where are the leaders people can trust? We need a Bobby Kennedy, a Martin Luther King, an Abraham Lincoln. There has to be someone out there that can lead and turn this around. If not, there will continue to be more Tree of Life's and it will be worse. Hate begets hate.

This is a list of the dead from the tragedy. Eleven lovely people erased from this planet because of pure hate. I don't know any of these folks. I have read and watched tributes to all of them. They all were special, enchanting people who had many loved ones and made their place here one of caring and love. We as a society will never be the same, the world will be a lesser place without them.

How many more have to die?

                                      I can't understand what makes a man hate another man.

Orange

Our Moz will be appearing on the James Corden Show on November 7 to sing his latest single release "Back On The Chain Gang". Who could ever forget him juggling 2 oranges in his dressing room on August 18, 2015, in his last appearance on Corden's show.

                                                   I'm a soldier of Orange I know

                                                                 Kiss Me A Lot

                                                               That ring is huge!

                                                           He said return the ring
                                                He knows so much about these things.

What will Our Moz do this time in his dressing room introduction? It should be fascinating.

In The Future

When All's Well

Armed with wealth and good health.

The future is ended by a long sleep.

Ode To Sadness

Sadness, scarab
with seven crippled feet,
spiderweb egg,
scramble-brained rat,
bitch's skeleton:
No entry here.
Don't come in.
Go away.
Go back
south with your umbrella,
go back
north with your serpent's teeth.
A poet lives here.
No sadness may
cross this threshold.
Through these windows
comes the breath of the world,
fresh red roses,
flags embroidered with
the victories of the people.
No.
No entry.
Flap
your bat's wings,
I will trample the feathers
that fall from your mantle,
I will sweep the bits and pieces
of your carcass to
the four corners of the wind,
I will wring your neck,
I will stitch your eyelids shut,
I will sew your shroud,
sadness, and bury your rodent bones
beneath the springtime of an apple tree.

Pablo Neruda

I've Been Dreaming Of A Time

Everyone seems to be jumping on a runaway train of hate against Morrissey. The English press, musicians, politicians and fans who are now former fans. They are claiming Mozza is now some kind of right wing racist. The fashionable thing to do now a days is to denounce Moz. The clamor is growing and now his tour has been cancelled and these folks are celebrating.

I don't know Morrissey personally but I have followed him for years and love his music both solo and with The Smiths. I can't see in his heart and mind but in my mind there is no way this man is a racist. The term gets tossed regularly at people by those who disagree without much thought. It's a barb that is easily thrown by those who don't want to intellectually discuss things. Morrissey loves James Baldwin and Dick Gregory, I don't think many racists would be interested in the works of those two. Morrissey has made many statements against hatred of others based on race or creed. Trust me, if I thought Our Moz to be racist I would abandon ship forthwith. Of course Mozza is not racist, those who make that claim are intellectually dishonest or just trying to get some notoriety by putting him down.

The other claim is somehow Morrissey has transformed into some kind of right wing Nazi. He announced his support of the British political party For Britain. I am an American. I do not claim to know much about British politics. I personally kind of like Jeremy Corbyn as being similar to Bernie Sanders in the USA. I don't know anything about For Britain. From what I understand they are pro-animal rights. They are probably the only party in the UK with an animal rights platform. Morrissey's passion is animal rights. It makes sense he would support the only party that is advocating for
animal welfare. Morrissey supported Bernie Sanders in the 2016 U.S. Presidential election cycle. Bernie is probably the most liberal major political figure in the USA. Would a right wing Nazi support Bernie Sanders?  Hell No. Our resident fascist is our current President, Donald Trump, who Our Moz despises. In my humble opinion, Morrissey is neither right or left. He appraises each situation and decides for himself what his feelings are. The song Irish Blood, English Heart tells the tale on his thoughts on British politics.
"I've been dreaming of a time when
The English are sick to death of Labor and Tories
And spit upon the name Oliver Cromwell
And denounce this royal line
That still salute him and will salute him forever"

I may not agree with everything Morrissey says. Wouldn't this world be a boring place if we all agreed with everyone on everything. I love that Morrissey is not afraid to speak his mind. Not many people do that anymore. I will always defend Our Moz's right to free speech. This disgusting witch hunt against him is not right. The tour is cancelled and both Moz and the fans are the victims. It seems to me the English press for whatever reason despises him. This gets the ball rolling and now it's trendy to hate Mozza. I will always be in Morrissey's corner. He is a once in a lifetime poet, singer and artist.  We are going to miss him when he's gone.

                                                        Irish Blood, English Heart

                                                           All You Need Is Me

The Cry Of The Children

Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers,

      Ere the sorrow comes with years ?

They are leaning their young heads against their mothers, —

      And that cannot stop their tears.

The young lambs are bleating in the meadows ;

   The young birds are chirping in the nest ;

The young fawns are playing with the shadows ;

   The young flowers are blowing toward the west—

But the young, young children, O my brothers,

      They are weeping bitterly !

They are weeping in the playtime of the others,

      In the country of the free.

Do you question the young children in the sorrow,

      Why their tears are falling so ?

The old man may weep for his to-morrow

      Which is lost in Long Ago —

The old tree is leafless in the forest —

   The old year is ending in the frost —

The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest —

   The old hope is hardest to be lost :

But the young, young children, O my brothers,

      Do you ask them why they stand

Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers,

      In our happy Fatherland ?

They look up with their pale and sunken faces,

      And their looks are sad to see,

For the man's grief abhorrent, draws and presses

      Down the cheeks of infancy —

"Your old earth," they say, "is very dreary;"

   "Our young feet," they say, "are very weak !"

Few paces have we taken, yet are weary—

   Our grave-rest is very far to seek !

Ask the old why they weep, and not the children,

      For the outside earth is cold —

And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering,

      And the graves are for the old !"

"True," say the children, "it may happen

      That we die before our time !

Little Alice died last year her grave is shapen

      Like a snowball, in the rime.

We looked into the pit prepared to take her —

   Was no room for any work in the close clay :

From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her,

   Crying, 'Get up, little Alice ! it is day.'

If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower,

   With your ear down, little Alice never cries ;

Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her,

   For the smile has time for growing in her eyes ,—

And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in

      The shroud, by the kirk-chime !

It is good when it happens," say the children,

      "That we die before our time !"

Alas, the wretched children ! they are seeking

      Death in life, as best to have !

They are binding up their hearts away from breaking,

      With a cerement from the grave.

Go out, children, from the mine and from the city —

   Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do —

Pluck you handfuls of the meadow-cowslips pretty

   Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through !

But they answer, " Are your cowslips of the meadows

      Like our weeds anear the mine ?

Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal-shadows,

      From your pleasures fair and fine!

"For oh," say the children, "we are weary,

      And we cannot run or leap —

If we cared for any meadows, it were merely

      To drop down in them and sleep.

Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping —

   We fall upon our faces, trying to go ;

And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping,

   The reddest flower would look as pale as snow.

For, all day, we drag our burden tiring,

      Through the coal-dark, underground —

Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron

      In the factories, round and round.

"For all day, the wheels are droning, turning, —

      Their wind comes in our faces, —

Till our hearts turn, — our heads, with pulses burning,

      And the walls turn in their places

Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling —

   Turns the long light that droppeth down the wall, —

Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling —

   All are turning, all the day, and we with all ! —

And all day, the iron wheels are droning ;

      And sometimes we could pray,

'O ye wheels,' (breaking out in a mad moaning)

      'Stop ! be silent for to-day ! ' "

Ay ! be silent ! Let them hear each other breathing

      For a moment, mouth to mouth —

Let them touch each other's hands, in a fresh wreathing

      Of their tender human youth !

Let them feel that this cold metallic motion

   Is not all the life God fashions or reveals —

Let them prove their inward souls against the notion

   That they live in you, or under you, O wheels ! —

Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward,

      As if Fate in each were stark ;

And the children's souls, which God is calling sunward,

      Spin on blindly in the dark.

Now tell the poor young children, O my brothers,

      To look up to Him and pray —

So the blessed One, who blesseth all the others,

      Will bless them another day.

They answer, " Who is God that He should hear us,

   While the rushing of the iron wheels is stirred ?

When we sob aloud, the human creatures near us

   Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a word !

And we hear not (for the wheels in their resounding)

      Strangers speaking at the door :

Is it likely God, with angels singing round Him,

      Hears our weeping any more ?

" Two words, indeed, of praying we remember ;

      And at midnight's hour of harm, —

'Our Father,' looking upward in the chamber,

      We say softly for a charm.

We know no other words, except 'Our Father,'

   And we think that, in some pause of angels' song,

God may pluck them with the silence sweet to gather,

   And hold both within His right hand which is strong.

'Our Father !' If He heard us, He would surely

      (For they call Him good and mild)

Answer, smiling down the steep world very purely,

      'Come and rest with me, my child.'

"But, no !" say the children, weeping faster,

      " He is speechless as a stone ;

And they tell us, of His image is the master

      Who commands us to work on.

Go to ! " say the children,—"up in Heaven,

   Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all we find !

Do not mock us ; grief has made us unbelieving —

   We look up for God, but tears have made us blind."

Do ye hear the children weeping and disproving,

      O my brothers, what ye preach ?

For God's possible is taught by His world's loving —

      And the children doubt of each.

And well may the children weep before you ;

      They are weary ere they run ;

They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory

      Which is brighter than the sun :

They know the grief of man, without its wisdom ;

   They sink in the despair, without its calm —

Are slaves, without the liberty in Christdom, —

   Are martyrs, by the pang without the palm, —

Are worn, as if with age, yet unretrievingly

      No dear remembrance keep,—

Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly :

      Let them weep ! let them weep !

They look up, with their pale and sunken faces,

      And their look is dread to see,

For they think you see their angels in their places,

      With eyes meant for Deity ;—

"How long," they say, "how long, O cruel nation,

   Will you stand, to move the world, on a child's heart, —

Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation,

   And tread onward to your throne amid the mart ?

Our blood splashes upward, O our tyrants,

      And your purple shews your path ;

But the child's sob curseth deeper in the silence

      Than the strong man in his wrath !"

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

                                                           The Cry Of The Children

Sunday Morning

Down the road someone is practising scales,
The notes like little fishes vanish with a wink of tails,
Man's heart expands to tinker with his car
For this is Sunday morning, Fate's great bazaar;
Regard these means as ends, concentrate on this Now,

And you may grow to music or drive beyond Hindhead anyhow,
Take corners on two wheels until you go so fast
That you can clutch a fringe or two of the windy past,
That you can abstract this day and make it to the week of time
A small eternity, a sonnet self-contained in rhyme.

But listen, up the road, something gulps, the church spire
Open its eight bells out, skulls' mouths which will not tire
To tell how there is no music or movement which secures
Escape from the weekday time. Which deadens and endures. 

Louis MacNeice

One Week