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My Message

by Paul Kotheimer

/
1.
On my first Christmas, three astronauts witnessed a pale blue gibbous Earthrise above the moon's dark side, and I was told that they recited Matthew's Nativity on all four channels of television and nobody thought about the war that night, not even Nixon, except the boys and girls in the jungle beneath the whirring of the helicopters.
2.
My Message 04:02
I carved my message into a bar of Ivory Soap and tossed it in the ocean. In retrospect this was prob’bly not the best idea, ‘cause now I could use a bath and there’s not a bar of soap around. I mixed my message into an eggplant tart and put it in the oven. What happened next was about what you’d expect: ‘cause when it was done, it smelled so delicious that we ate it all and never gave a second thought to anything that might be hidden inside. So I hired a pilot to write my message in the sky. Her cursive was impeccable but her altitude was way too high; so, by the time it drifted into view, my message was competing with a rainbow. --I mean, who wants to be competing with a rainbow? I carved my message into a bar of Ivory Soap and tossed it in the ocean. On second thought, this was probably the best idea of them all-- ‘cause think about the volume of the ocean, and think of my message floating there with all the jellyfish and orcas and rubber ducks and running shoes that fall off of container ships, and think about the dolphins translating my message into Dolphinese-- into Dolphinese-- into Dolphinese.
3.
Number Nine 03:02
When I drive a railroad spike, I swing a nine-pound hammer. When I fill up a coal car, it's number nine coal. When I get a pretty new pair of shoes for my darling Clementine, There'll be a great big number "9" on the bottom of the sole. Number nine, number nine, can't you see that numeral shine from the hills of Caroline whenever our two dear hearts entwine? Number nine, number nine, all down the Chatanooga Line-- Mister Switchman, hitch my old caboose to engine number nine. Now, I rode a runaway railroad train doing ninety-nine miles an hour. Took me down to the Everglades, where the gators were nine feet long, so I ran all night and all day 'til I was nine miles from Nashville. When I get up on the Opry stage, there'll be nine verses to my song. Number nine, number nine, when you get so low you feel like dyin', Its love flows just like wine, or a kudzu vine on a Georgia pine. Number nine, number nine--It will reflect the Light Divine! Operator, won't you please connect me to station number nine. Now, when we were young, our Pa would whoop us nine ways from Sunday. Now I got a wife and nine small children in my family. And when my payday come, I'm-a go and get me nine shots of whiskey. Next thing I know, I'm serving ninety days for vagrancy. Number nine, number nine, like a demijohn of 90 proof moonshine, it sends shivers on down your spine and leaves you jarred, like a pickle in brine. Number nine, number nine, all 'cross the Mason-Dixon line, Mister Switchman hitch my old caboose with some nine gauge wire so it won't break loose to Engine Number Nine. 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9.
4.
Stephen Wade 04:10
Well, it looks like a record, but it's got no groove You turn the crank-handle and the motor makes it move and then the little needle carves out the sound and a little bit of acetate'll come snaking down. Oh, Stephen Wade.  Good Stephen Wade knows every Folkways record ever made, and every banjo picker that ever played is known and familiar to Steven Wade. Now Stephen Wade tells of Fiddler Bill. His great grandchildren remember him still, for Copland's "Hoe-Down" got its famous start from Bill's "Retreat of Bon-y-parte." And Bozie Sturdivant, says Stephen Wade, was a gospel singer who was never afraid. Now Bozie's headstone won't never be found, 'cause ain't no grave could hold his body down. There's The March of Coal Creek and the old Frog Song, and Vera Hall singing "Another Man Done Gone" There's the Nashville Washboard Band and John Work the Third and even old Tom Ashley, who sang "The Coo-Coo Bird" So, in the next life, old Stephen Wade might put an old record cutting lathe out in the shade, and then the Angel Band will gather all 'round, and cut a few sides right there in the Heavenly Glade. Looks like a record, but it's got no groove You turn the crank-handle and the motor makes it move and then the little needle carves out the sound and a little bit of acetate'll come snaking down.
5.
“Where's the party at?” The party's right here right now. “Where's my money at?” “My money's all spent. I ain't got a cent. I'll be lucky if I make my rent, yo.” “Where da ladies at?” “Ya got no money, ya get no honey. Ya look alright, butcha smell kinda funny, bro. (Nyah nyah...)” “Dipsy diddley dong!” “Bop-shoo-wop, bop-shoo-wow! The party’s right here right now.” Break it down people: “P - A - R - T - Y.” Where's the party at? (“Ding dong. Excuse me. Is this where the party's at?”-- “Upstairs and to the left, sugar, that's where the party's at.”) The party's right here right now. (“BARTENDER!”) Where's the party at? The party's right here right now. The party's right here right now. “Say what?” The party's right here right now.
6.
I wish that I could torch all this regret just like the interior of that blue Corvette-- Oh man, I never should have flicked that cigarette, but what is burned is burnt. You can't unsmoke it. & You may wish that no one was to blame and you will never need to walk that walk of shame, but all the innocence that you would like to claim is bullshit, girl. It's broke because you broke it, but just add a little Liquid Pain Procrastination. One sip'll get you started. Two shots'll set you right. A little liquid pain procrastination: Why not put off 'til tomorrow what you don't wanna feel tonight? A little Liquid Pain Procrastination. A little Liquid Pain Procrastination. You put the "hot" in Real Hot Mess. You were careful not to spill it on your dress, and you sure ain't no damsel in distress, but how the hell did you wake up with That in your bed? & What will you do with this remorse except to shrug and say it's about par for the course? It ain't a mystery why it ended in divorce, but it's unclear how that tattoo got on your forehead. It must have been Liquid Pain Procrastination. One sip'll get you started. Two shots'll set you right. A little liquid pain procrastination: Why not put off 'til tomorrow what you don't want to feel tonight? A little Liquid Pain Procrastination. A little Liquid Pain Procrastination. --Top shelf or tap or well, it's on my breath, and you can smell it. Damn, they oughtta bottle this stuff and sell it! Liquid Pain Procrastination. Liquid Pain Procrastination.
7.
A New Hat 02:23
Pardon me, miss. Why all the fuss? Did you happen to leave your old hat on the bus? I could buy you a new one, one that's twice the size. Oh, I know how it can go. You can form attachments to un beau chapeau, 'specially when twenty bucks has been stashed inside. And if you only say you love me, I would buy you a diamond ring. I don't care how much it costs. You see, I've got a friend who deals in that sort of thing. Or, if you'd prefer a floor-length fur, I know this very rich guy whose wife just died. Won't you love me? I think you're about her size. Well, stick with me, and by this time tomorrow, you will wear the finest things that money can borrow. Take on a debt for years if I can be yours. You'll have champagne for breakfast every day of your life. Hit a different restaurant every night, if it is provided that we could sit near the doors. Now you probably surmise by this old hat of mine, I can't afford no diamond ring. But there is one thing that I have discovered: In this world, don't leave your head uncovered. To be exact, what I'm getting at, is that I've still got a twenty tucked under my hat, and I could buy you a new one that would be just the thing. You may never ever see that diamond ring (or take it on home) but you'd be amazed at the changes a new hat can bring!
8.
The night shift manager, that dick-weed. --We almost got into a fight. He said that we should keep the whole thing to ourselves, and we said, "No way, Trevor. Man, it just ain't right." No one knows for sure when it was left here. It might have just been a mistake. I personally came this close to ripping it in half because, I mean, how could it not have been a fake? But then I stopped. It had that money paper feel. I said, "Hey, wait! You guys, this Benjamin is REAL." That's right. It was a hundred dollar bill in the tip-jar. It was a hundred dol-lar bill in the tip-jar! One co-worker jumped clear across the counter. The others scoffed in disbelief. But when it sank in that we had this hundred dollar tip, we huddled round and started to debrief: Like: “Maybe Ms. Half-Caf Cappuccino-- You know, the lady with the coat and all those rings.” “--Or could be that law school guy who’s always giving you the eye And lecturing us on the finer things.” "Or, how 'bout Mister Double-Shot with Eyebrows?" "That guy? No. I bet it was that couple that wears white." "Aw yeah. That's who it was, I bet." "Wait. What? Ya think?" "--Well, don't forget: that couple hasn't been in here all night." --And so we speculated all shift long without a clue as to who was right and who was wrong about who left us that hundred dollar bill in the tip jar. There was a hundred dollar bill in the tip jar. As you might guess, my story has an ending. You might imagine it does not end well. You might think that this sudden pulse of vast and untold riches Sends all of us poor baristas straight to hell. Well, the truth is that our C-note landed safely in our all-staff gratuity account, And every one of us who works at the Fifth Street Espresso Hut got an even cut, a fair and square amount. Let's see: A hundred bucks. Divide by 33. That's 3 dollars and 3 point 03 cents for me and each one of my colleagues from that hundred dollar bill in the tip jar! There really was a hundred dollar bill in the tip jar. And that's the story of the hundred dollar bill in the tip jar.
9.
The empty chair from the living room is on the curbside now with a sign in magic marker saying, "FREE." And later on that same yard-sale, it's the empty chair that isn't there. It's the curbside that's empty now. Look and see. Soon enough we will get used to the living room without the empty chair there. That is why I have been painting. Look! It's the empty chair. Yeah, the one that used to be there. It's on the ceiling now.
10.
Baudelaire opened up a hamburger stand in San Fransisco, but he put flowers between the buns. People would come in and say, "Give me a hamburger with plenty of onions on it." Baudelaire would give them a flowerburger instead and the people would say, "What kind of a hamburger stand is this?"
11.
Rock and roll is for dinosaurs My old man's in a rock 'n' roll band. They've had their big world tour all planned since Moses crossed the Burnin' sand and led his people out of Egypt Land. Rock and roll is for dinosaurs And my old man says his band rocks 'cause the divorcees come OUT in flocks in their mom jeans, tie-dyed tops, and crocs-- The block parties take up three whole blocks! Rock and roll is for dinosaurs & when the kids say "Hey there, Pops, howdja get that sound, man? I been searching. Looking all around!" He says "Come on, kid, what are you? Some noob? Ain'tcha never heard of this? It's called a vacuum tube!" Rock and roll is for dinosaurs But Jurassic parties tend to get complex: Mastadon comes on to someone's ex and then there's weird messy mammal-reptile sex: Bangin' gong'til dawn with some old T-Rex-- and then the pterodactyls represent the fossils' fossil fuels have all been spent you barely know where your whole dang species went and the block party didn't even raise the rent Rock and roll is for dinosaurs Someday you'll be a hundred and ten and living up on Mars with your Robot Elvis and some Cadillac cars where the dirt's so red and the air's so cold.-- Old man, I hope I die before you get that old. Rock and roll is for dinosaurs
12.
I'm an Illinois gardener--This I know. I'll tell you all the things my yard can grow: I got hackberry trees and pokeberry fruit. Honeysuckle bushes and burdock root. I'm an Illinois gardener--This I know. I'll tell you all the things my yard can grow: I got dame's rocket and Queen Anne's lace and trees of heaven all over the place. I'm an Illinois gardener--This I know. I'll tell you all the things my yard can grow: I got dandelions out in the sun. Out in back, my Virgin-i-a cr-eepers run. I'm an Illinois gardener--This I know. I'll tell you all the things my yard can grow: I got goldenrods and thistles all in my face. Well, I'd put in some tomatoes, but I'm all out of space.
13.
The night shift manager, that dick-weed. --We almost got into a fight. He said that we should keep the whole thing to ourselves, and we said, "No way, Trevor. Man, it just ain't right." No one knows for sure when it was left here. It might have just been a mistake. I personally came this close to ripping it in half because, I mean, how could it not have been a fake? But then I stopped. It had that money paper feel. I said, "Hey, wait! You guys, this Benjamin is REAL." That's right. It was a hundred dollar bill in the tip-jar. It was a hundred dol-lar bill in the tip-jar! One co-worker jumped clear across the counter. The others scoffed in disbelief. But when it sank in that we had this hundred dollar tip, we huddled round and started to debrief: Like: “Maybe Ms. Half-Caf Cappuccino-- You know, the lady with the coat and all those rings.” “--Or could be that law school guy who’s always giving you the eye And lecturing us on the finer things.” "Or, how 'bout Mister Double-Shot with Eyebrows?" "That guy? No. I bet it was that couple that wears white." "Aw yeah. That's who it was, I bet." "Wait. What? Ya think?" "--Well, don't forget: that couple hasn't been in here all night." --And so we speculated all shift long without a clue as to who was right and who was wrong about who left us that hundred dollar bill in the tip jar. There was a hundred dollar bill in the tip jar. As you might guess, my story has an ending. You might imagine it does not end well. You might think that this sudden pulse of vast and untold riches Sends all of us poor baristas straight to hell. Well, the truth is that our C-note landed safely in our all-staff gratuity account, And every one of us who works at the Fifth Street Espresso Hut got an even cut, a fair and square amount. Let's see: A hundred bucks. Divide by 33. That's 3 dollars and 3 point 03 cents for me and each one of my colleagues from that hundred dollar bill in the tip jar! There really was a hundred dollar bill in the tip jar. And that's the story of the hundred dollar bill in the tip jar.

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released September 1, 2014

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Paul Kotheimer Urbana, Illinois

For well over 30 years now, Paul Kotheimer has been writing songs. And then recording them. And then putting them together into albums.
At first, way way back in the actual 1980s, he used a cassette player and a microphone from Radio Shack. Now he's the proprietor of Pillow Monster Home Studio, complete with lots of musical instruments and recording gear and one actual pillow monster. YAY MUSIC!
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