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Pronouns: He/Him/His.
"Imagine being a heterosexual white male in Britain at this moment. How bad is that. Everything you say is racist, everything you say is homophobic. The Woke community have really f****d this country."
for all the posters wondering who wrote Does My Ring Hurt Your Finger..... on 20:31 - Sep 19 by SpruceMoose
Well, this is an unusual trip.
It is it is, but on the other hand what can i do with a complete stranger standing behind me telling me wot to do, any ideas? I know for a fact that the album track and the single track have completely different guitar breaks on them.
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for all the posters wondering who wrote Does My Ring Hurt Your Finger..... on 20:41 - Sep 19 with 3820 views
for all the posters wondering who wrote Does My Ring Hurt Your Finger..... on 20:40 - Sep 19 by ericclacton
It is it is, but on the other hand what can i do with a complete stranger standing behind me telling me wot to do, any ideas? I know for a fact that the album track and the single track have completely different guitar breaks on them.
Tricky. This might help though.
[Post edited 19 Sep 2019 20:45]
Pronouns: He/Him/His.
"Imagine being a heterosexual white male in Britain at this moment. How bad is that. Everything you say is racist, everything you say is homophobic. The Woke community have really f****d this country."
for all the posters wondering who wrote Does My Ring Hurt Your Finger..... on 20:41 - Sep 19 by SpruceMoose
Tricky. This might help though.
[Post edited 19 Sep 2019 20:45]
'Nobody knows where Slim Gaillard is' '... one night we suddenly went mad together again; we went to see Slim Gaillard in a little Frisco nightclub. Slim Gaillard is a tall, thin Negro with big sad eyes who's always saying 'Right-orooni' and 'How 'bout a little bourbon-arooni.' In Frisco great eager crowds of young semi-intellectuals sat at his feet and listened to him on the piano, guitar and bongo drums. When he gets warmed up he takes off his undershirt and really goes. He does and says anything that comes into his head. He'll sing 'Cement Mixer, Put-ti Put-ti' and suddenly slow down the beat and brood over his bongos with fingertips barely tapping the skin as everybody leans forward breathlessly to hear; you think he'll do this for a minute or so, but he goes right on, for as long as an hour, making an imperceptible little noise with the tips of his fingernails, smaller and smaller all the time till you can't hear it any more and sounds of traffic come in the open door. Then he slowly gets up and takes the mike and says, very slowly, 'Great-orooni ... fine-ovauti ... hello-orooni ... bourbon-orooni ... all-orooni ... how are the boys in the front row making out with their girls-orooni ... orooni ... vauti ... oroonirooni ..." He keeps this up for fifteen minutes, his voice getting softer and softer till you can't hear. His great sad eyes scan the audience.
Dean stands in the back, saying, 'God! Yes!' -- and clasping his hands in prayer and sweating. 'Sal, Slim knows time, he knows time.' Slim sits down at the piano and hits two notes, two C's, then two more, then one, then two, and suddenly the big burly bass-player wakes up from a reverie and realizes Slim is playing 'C-Jam Blues' and he slugs in his big forefinger on the string and the big booming beat begins and everybody starts rocking and Slim looks just as sad as ever, and they blow jazz for half an hour, and then Slim goes mad and grabs the bongos and plays tremendous rapid Cubana beats and yells crazy things in Spanish, in Arabic, in Peruvian dialect, in Egyptian, in every language he knows, and he knows innumerable languages. Finally the set is over; each set takes two hours. Slim Gaillard goes and stands against a post, looking sadly over everybody's head as people come to talk to him. A bourbon is slipped into his hand. 'Bourbon-orooni -- thank-you-ovauti ...' Nobody knows where Slim Gaillard is. Dean once had a dream that he was having a baby and his belly was all bloated up blue as he lay on the grass of a California hospital. Under a tree, with a group of colored men, sat Slim Gaillard. Dean turned despairing eyes of a mother to him. Slim said, 'There you go-orooni.' Now Dean approached him, he approached his God; he thought Slim was God; he shuffled and bowed in front of him and asked him to join us. 'Right-orooni,' says Slim; he'll join anybody but won't guarantee to be there with you in spirit. Dean got a table, bought drinks, and sat stiffly in front of Slim. Slim dreamed over his head. Every time Slim said, 'Orooni,' Dean said 'Yes!' I sat there with these two madmen. Nothing happened. To Slim Gaillard the whole world was just one big orooni.'
for all the posters wondering who wrote Does My Ring Hurt Your Finger..... on 21:58 - Sep 19 by WeWereZombies
'Nobody knows where Slim Gaillard is' '... one night we suddenly went mad together again; we went to see Slim Gaillard in a little Frisco nightclub. Slim Gaillard is a tall, thin Negro with big sad eyes who's always saying 'Right-orooni' and 'How 'bout a little bourbon-arooni.' In Frisco great eager crowds of young semi-intellectuals sat at his feet and listened to him on the piano, guitar and bongo drums. When he gets warmed up he takes off his undershirt and really goes. He does and says anything that comes into his head. He'll sing 'Cement Mixer, Put-ti Put-ti' and suddenly slow down the beat and brood over his bongos with fingertips barely tapping the skin as everybody leans forward breathlessly to hear; you think he'll do this for a minute or so, but he goes right on, for as long as an hour, making an imperceptible little noise with the tips of his fingernails, smaller and smaller all the time till you can't hear it any more and sounds of traffic come in the open door. Then he slowly gets up and takes the mike and says, very slowly, 'Great-orooni ... fine-ovauti ... hello-orooni ... bourbon-orooni ... all-orooni ... how are the boys in the front row making out with their girls-orooni ... orooni ... vauti ... oroonirooni ..." He keeps this up for fifteen minutes, his voice getting softer and softer till you can't hear. His great sad eyes scan the audience.
Dean stands in the back, saying, 'God! Yes!' -- and clasping his hands in prayer and sweating. 'Sal, Slim knows time, he knows time.' Slim sits down at the piano and hits two notes, two C's, then two more, then one, then two, and suddenly the big burly bass-player wakes up from a reverie and realizes Slim is playing 'C-Jam Blues' and he slugs in his big forefinger on the string and the big booming beat begins and everybody starts rocking and Slim looks just as sad as ever, and they blow jazz for half an hour, and then Slim goes mad and grabs the bongos and plays tremendous rapid Cubana beats and yells crazy things in Spanish, in Arabic, in Peruvian dialect, in Egyptian, in every language he knows, and he knows innumerable languages. Finally the set is over; each set takes two hours. Slim Gaillard goes and stands against a post, looking sadly over everybody's head as people come to talk to him. A bourbon is slipped into his hand. 'Bourbon-orooni -- thank-you-ovauti ...' Nobody knows where Slim Gaillard is. Dean once had a dream that he was having a baby and his belly was all bloated up blue as he lay on the grass of a California hospital. Under a tree, with a group of colored men, sat Slim Gaillard. Dean turned despairing eyes of a mother to him. Slim said, 'There you go-orooni.' Now Dean approached him, he approached his God; he thought Slim was God; he shuffled and bowed in front of him and asked him to join us. 'Right-orooni,' says Slim; he'll join anybody but won't guarantee to be there with you in spirit. Dean got a table, bought drinks, and sat stiffly in front of Slim. Slim dreamed over his head. Every time Slim said, 'Orooni,' Dean said 'Yes!' I sat there with these two madmen. Nothing happened. To Slim Gaillard the whole world was just one big orooni.'
Spectacular. Nothing like Wayne Orooni then.
1
for all the posters wondering who wrote Does My Ring Hurt Your Finger..... on 22:48 - Sep 19 with 3705 views
for all the posters wondering who wrote Does My Ring Hurt Your Finger..... on 10:01 - Sep 20 by ericclacton
That's ok great stuff thanks for turning me on to his work, i'm going to jump in feet first, it's right up my street thanks again.
If Garbo played guitar with Valentino on the drums We'd be nothing more than a bunch of Dharma bums
'I sneaked down to the east end of the yard with heavy pack slung on, and caught the Ghost as she was coming out, beyond the bull's crossing, and opened the sleeping bag and took my shoes off, put them under my wrapped-up balled-up coat and slipped in and slept beautiful joyous sleep all the way to Watsonville where I hid by the weeds till highball, got on again, and slept then all night long flying down the unbelievable coast and O Buddha thy moonlight O Christ thy starling on the sea, Surf, Tangair, Gaviota, the train going eighty miles an hour and me warm as toast in my sleeping bag flying down and going home for Christmas. In fact I only woke up at about seven o'clock in the morning when the train was slowing down into L.A. yards and the first thing I saw, as I was putting my shoes on and getting my stuff ready to jump off, was a yard worker waving at me and yelling "Welcome to L.A.!"'
That's from my forty five year or so old copy of Kerouac's 'Dharma Bums' , Panther edition page 86 bought either from either Tony or Sean in Orwell Books I expect. Used to read that up on Castle Hill in the early morning before walking down Norwich Road to work. Set me up for the day.
I just picked that passage at random, more or less where the book fell open (except that it first fell open at an ex.'s business card - she had made it to page 11, always be wary of people with business cards).
for all the posters wondering who wrote Does My Ring Hurt Your Finger..... on 23:27 - Sep 19 by ericclacton
I think, he would get up and dance around whilst drunk.
that piece you wrote was brilliant, i've read it about a dozen times.
'Let's go across the street to Grant's, our favored dining place. For 65 cents you get a huge plate of fried clams, a lot of French fried potatoes, a little portion of cole slaw, some tartar sauce, a little cup of red sauce for fish, a slice of lemon, two slices of fresh rye bread, a pat of butter, another ten cents brings a glass of rare birch beer.- What a ball it is to eat here! Migrations of Spaniards chewing on hotdogs, standing up, leaning against big pots of mustard. - Ten different counters with different specialities. - Ten-cent cheese sandwiches, two liquor bars for the Apocalypse, oh yeah and great indifferent bartenders.- And cops that stand in the back getting free meals - drunken saxophone players on the nod - lonely dignified ragpickers from Hudson Street supping soup without a word to anybody, with black fingers, woe.- Twenty thousand customers a day - fifty thousand on rainy days - one hundred thousand on snowy days.- Operation twenty-four hours a night. Privacy - supreme under a glary red light full of conversation. - Toulouse-Lautrec, with his deformity and cane, sketching in the corner. - You can stay here for five minutes and gobble up your food, or else stay there for hours having insane philosophy conversation with your buddy and wondering about the people.- "Let's have a hotdog before we go to the movie!" and so you get so high in there you never get to the movies because it's better than a show about Doris Day on a holiday in the Caribbean.'
Jack Kerouac, 'Lonesome Traveller', pages 107/8, Panther, London, 1972
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