THE ZOMBIE CAFE by Rob Will

In a burst of Halloween inspiration, here's a fresh poetry schmoetry



The dead feel alive here
Dancing off the dust,
Coffee and finger sandwiches,
Pie with stale crust

Oh the stories they tell,
From the days before the grave
Down at the zombie café

Reggie was a trader
Layla was his squeeze
Before the great depression
Made him take the leap

Walter stormed the beach
During the D-Day push
Now he’s eating the special
Brains with sour mush

Dug out of their graves
They have so much to say
Down at the Zombie Café

They all felt like the first time
Should have been the second time around
So they made a group decision
To claw their way out of the ground

Hanging out together
Jawing, shooting the breeze
Telling how it used to be
Back when folks still said “please”

Don’t disrespect them, now
They laid the path for you
Thank them and move on
Is exactly what you should do

For they don’t suffer fools
Or what they have to say
Down at the zombie cafe

"BRETT FAVRE VS. TED THOMPSON", or "KRAMER vs. KRAMER II", or "THE GROWNUPS ARE TALKING"

When my inner monologue is angry it speaks with the voice of Colonel Sherman Potter of "MASH" fame. When I first started to get entrenched in the Brett Favre mambajamba that has been going on for nigh on 5 years now, I heard my psyche say "What a bunch of Horsehockey!!", or "What in the H-e double hockey sticks is going on here!?".
Then when the more sedate part of my mind stepped in, it was "Calm down, son, everything is gonna be fine."

Yeah, it will, but it will sting for a long time.

In the midst of this brouhaha between former Packer QB Favre and Green Bay GM Ted Thompson, are the fans. Caught in the drift like little children of a divorce. They sometimes look up, seeing heroes that are often not really there. They place players and management from professional sports on pedestals more commonly reserved for statesmen, or even deities.

When those "parents" can't coexist peacefully anymore, the humanity oozes out like so much grue.

When Favre was traded to the Jets last season he seemed to envision himself in New York like William "Braveheart" Wallace, crying "Freedom!!!", while back in Green Bay, Ted "King Longshanks" Thompson groaned in his deathbed.

Horsehockey.

Thompson, stubborn, never addressed the situation much, and didn't handle it well. The stern patriach, hiding his emotions. Keeping to himself.

It was obvious from the beginning, neither one liked being told what to do. Favre seemed to think he was the face and voice of the Green Bay Packers. Brett didn't want the Public Services contract Green Bay offered. Thompson didn't like Favre's behavior that he displayed when he didn't like any of the moves Ted made. The Mississippi River Boat Gambler even asked to be traded when the Moss deal didn't happen, I seem to remember.

Each one trying to force the other's hand.

16 glorious years. A love affair between a community and one man, who seemed to epitomize what being a Green Bay Packer was supposed to be. It could have been one of the all time great one team legacies. Joe Montana, Dan Marino, Jim Brown. In less than 12 months, it was completely tarnished.

I heard J.A. Adande, a sports journalist I normally respect, as a panelist on ESPN's "Around the Horn" say that the Packers didn't want Favre last year. Really? I seem to remember McCarthy and Thompson, just prior to last season flying down to Mississippi in a last ditch effort to either find out his "final answer" or get him to change his mind. A vehement no was the response. The Packers customized their offense to Aaron Rodgers, and used two draft picks on Quarterbacks. Then #4 comes ambling back, "Hey guys, I changed my mind." That train left, Brett. And Adande, you're way off base.

Favre is now and has been coming off like a petulant child. When asked about his legacy, he says it's just that. HIS legacy. Has he ever mentioned Packer fans once outside of "If they're true Packer fans they'll understand....". Now he's telling us how to think. All through this, Thompson has been the quiet parent, not consoling, not making it worse. It's like a marriage where one spouse is acting like the last 20 years never happened. Now the farts on Don Beebe's helmet, the silly "Three Packerinos" video shorts with Chmura and Winters, the laughter on the sidelines, it all doesn't seem so quaint or even warm anymore. '

It's ash in the wind.



And guess what? It's the kids that end up getting hurt.

The Somers Superette

Back in the old days when we lived on 12th street in the Burg of Somers, WI, you could always run down the street.  No, not to get in trouble behind the post office, but to the store.

The Superette.   Run by Vera.  Yes. Click on that.


Laurie got her nickname there, ("Hey, some Pee Wee girl is lookin' for you!") often walking me down there my little hand in hers.  I think Brother Dan got gas for his dirt bike there, maybe smokes?  I got comics fresh off the spinner rack (including the amazing "Untold Origins of the Batman" limited series).

Linda always got the Torpedo sandwich.  Often while wearing a denim jacket with a Dr. Pepper patch stitched on the back.

We all bought Jolly Good soda and bomb pops out of the freezer that vibrated on the wooden floors, wooden floors that clunked with hollowness as you tread upon it.  If the Graboids from the movie "Tremors" were about, we'd all have been mincemeat. 

Who can forget those zany Terrara Pan candies: Boston Baked Beans, Jaw Breakers, Lemon Heads.  Back then, just ten cents at the Superette.

But what I went to the Superette for was this: It tasted delicious, because it was two of the greatest things god created.  It was 12" long, and was braided caramel and chocolate.

True bang for your buck. The marathon Bar.

SACRELIGIOUS BLASPHEMY

It was just an arbitrary visit to the Kmart today. We're waiting for a prescription to be filled and browsing through the school supplies when I saw it. A folder, binder if you will, with those annoying Jonas Brothers emblazoned on it. It's not bad enough to have to stare at their pubescent faces again, but just below their picture were these words: "Let There Be Rock."

C'mon, you certainly didn't create Rock, let alone advance the science of it, and you've pilfered not only one of the great LP titles of all time, you've sullied the image associated with it. The dank blue image of what I feel is one of the best AC/DC, if not metal, records of all time. The album that debuted the AC/DC logo, the album that introduced "Whole Lotta Rosie". The album that was AC/DC saying, "Here we are, deal with us."

And you bubble gum, dime store Monkees, and that's an insult to the Monkees, come along an borrow it?

God.

Let there be Retribution.

VINYL DESTINATION 5: Revolver

I've heard John Lennon's own voice on "Anthology" stating that the live work done by the Beatles in their Cavern Club days in Liverpool and on the nightclub circuit in Hamburg, Germany was their best work, and sadly, was never recorded. Judging from the end result of the 1966 offering, "Revolver", I am apt to say, "That must have been some good shit."


Because "Revolver" is the bomb.

"Revolver" is in essence, the epitome of the transition album. Still carrying the sweet melodies and almost naivete of their early "bubble gum" work,("Good Day Sunshine", "I want to tell you", "Got to get you into my life"), it also injects a bit of angry cynicism with "Taxman", "She Said, She Said", and "Dr. Robert". Most importantly, the drug-related psychedelia which would be their forte during the last several Beatle records makes it's rookie appearances here with "Yellow Submarine" and "Tomorrow Never Knows".

Beside the obvious variety in the stylistic nature here, because it's apparent that there is something for every Beatles fan on this platter, is the eclectic nature of the lead vocals. Strong harmonies obviously not withstanding, George Harrison does lead vocal work on my favorite Fab4 track of all, "Taxman" and "I want to Tell You", Ringo Starr on "Yellow Submarine".

"Revolver" is straight up one of the best rock records ever recorded, and is the band, at least in my opinion, at the apex of their abilities as musicians and songwriters. This is because they were right in the maelstrom of what they were capable of doing, both in their past and what would be down the road.

I hold this record near and dear, because my on-air handle in my earliest broadcasting days was "Dr. Robert". Because it has "Taxman" and "Tomorrow Never Knows". Because, even though I'm not fully sure of what "she" is talking about on "She Said, She Said", Lennon and McCartney's harmonies evoke a melancholy but not unpleasant vibe.

And "Eleanor Rigby". Damn.

"Sgt. Pepper", "Rubber Soul", "The White Album" etc. etc., great records all, but for me "Revolver" is the Beatles in their absolute prime, and at the top of their game.

THE NUCLEAR WARHEAD AND ME, Part Three

As Gorbachev took the reins in the USSR, bringing with Glasnost and the fall of the Berlin Wall, my fears began to abate. Not only did democracy start to needle it's way into the Parliament's political philosophy, but the Hammer & Sickle's strangelhold on the East began to weaken, as did the image of Russia as a shadow of looming devastation to the Americas. The Soviet Union's power over neighboring regions would begin to falter, a good sign for an adolescent fearing Mutually Assured Destruction, but bad news as those regions began to develop ideas of their own to use this madness for their personal agendas. That, however, is a story for another day.

As I aged, the nuclear ghost lessened it's rattling of chains, even though the occasional nightmare of mushroom clouds and flattened wastelands made guest appearances in my slumber. I moved on with my life, married, had a kid, but still held an interest, no so much a fear of the nuclear quandary.

I had a weird sort of philosophy brewing in my cerebrum that the more you know about something the less frightening it will become. I started by looking way back. I was entertained by finding out about the surreal atomic culture of the 1950's and 60's, wherein children were informed in the event of an atomic attack, climbing under your desk and putting your head between your knees would make you safe from an atomic blast. This was fully illustrated in the now infamous Civil Defense short, "Duck and Cover", complete with a catchy song reviewing the falsified steps to safety, and a mascot, "Bert the Turtle", adorned with a CD helmet, there to guide you through the path to annihilation avoidance. Simply preposterous and pure propaganda, the American public was lied to through and through for the purpose of calming the masses.


During that period, symbols of atomic horror were created. Countless movies were made about monsters that were spawned by radioactive exposure by the likes of schlockmeister William Castle, who made movie going that much more interesting with his gimmicks like vibrating chairs that accompanied the Vincent Price flick, "The Tingler", ghosts floating throught the theatres, and numerous other corny adornments added to the movie houses during the films theatrical runs. Giant ants, mutated spiders, and just plain indescribably laughable beasties created by atomic side effects and nuclear fallout graced the silver screen (and ran among the movie house attendees in Castle's pictures) to the joy of Saturday afternoon matinees attended by kiddies all across America. Movies also began to splash across cineplexes depicting alien invasions from all corners of the universe. It was no great secret that those alien invaders were meant to be stand-ins for the Russians as the Red Scare was fully underway.

The Russians took the lead in the space race by launching the satellite Sputnik into orbit above the Earth, leading Americans to believe the Red Menace was now watching us from space. Impending doom was indeed on the way. The Russians also conveniently began placing nuclear missiles in Fidel Castro's Cuba, well within striking distance of the southern United States. This era was well documented by the film, "Matinee", an early 90's Joe Dante masterpiece that took place in Florida during this terror-filled period. This was a time where adolescents dealt with nightmares very similar to my own, shuddering in front of the late Walter Cronkite's revelations and JFK's reassurances, yet still found time and good humor to have awkward sexual awakenings and attend the cheesy films like the ones mentioned above. John Goodman was fantastic as the Castle-esque character, pawning his cinematic wares and capitalizing on the growing paranoia.

As fun and silly as "Matinee" could be, the scene where the young teen lead wakes up one early morning, opens the front door and is greeted by a detonating atom bomb, instead of the morning milkman delivery. I exploded with goose pimples during tht scene, and still shudder slightly at it, as I've had that dream myself.

TO BE CONTINUED....

A PLEASANT STORM ON THE LAMBEAU HORIZON?

Does anyone get the sneaking suspicion that as the eyes of the NFL media and it's expansive fandom are fixated on The Minnesota Vikings and one Brett Favre, that Mike McCarthy and defensive genius Dom Capers are quietly creating a monster in Green Bay? I know it's the pre-season, and early in it, but I don't remember the last time a training camp Green Bay team looked this crisp, aggressive, and like they're having fun, since the Holmgren era. We'll see what happens, but right now, I'm feeling pretty good about things. Guardedly optimistic. But it's building.