Is today Neal Cassady's birthday? Or is it the day he died? Or neither?

"Aw, garsh, good ol' granny . . . what it amounted to I found you could throw into reverse anything under ten miles an hour . . . -- N.C.

Large Yellowstone Area Quake Goes Unreported...02/07/04
by Mitch Battros (ECTV)

Unmarried girls throw stones at scald crows to discover from which direction their husbands will come. If the bird doesn't move it is destined to become scalded and the girl with have a heat flash.

A 'large-moderate' 5.3 magnitude earthquake occurred in the Yellowstone Super-Volcano area yesterday, February 6th. It is posted on the European-Mediteranian Seismological Center (EMSC) site:>

When I posted this startling report in yesterday's article: I was soon flooded with emails telling me this earthquake has not been reported by the United States Geological Survey (USGS)
USGS site:

I always felt true rock & roll, as distinguished from rhythm & blues (not at all a clear distinction), began with Hank Ballard & the Midnighters: "Work With Me Annie", later "cleaned up" and sang by white folks (Rosemary Clooney?) as "Dance With Me Henry". Then, of course, "Annie Had a Baby" (can't work no more). We wore out 45's of those songs, dancing to them as young teenagers trying to be cool. It went white with Bill Haley & the Comets' "Shake, Rattle & Roll" and "Rock Around the Clock" ("rock" & "roll"?), while we languished in the blackboard jungle of junior high school in the Ike years, then Elvis.
-- geo

yas, hank ballard for sure and for me in Mentor Ohio it was bill haley and the comets liberating AM radio which was slushy with insipid love songs hard to escape on long nights in bed twirling the knob-- and I don't mean polishing the knob.
Cassady said, five finger delight on the flute, no, that's masturbation . .
-- Capn Skyp

Charles Seymour, a Chicago sportswriter, was the first to call a lefty a "southpaw." The reason was convoluted: to keep the afternoon sun out of the batters' eyes, baseball fields were built with home plate on the west end-- the pitcher faced west, so his left hand faced south.
-- Random Factotum


Himself (Capn Earl Gerald) and his warriors are now sleeping in a long cavern under the Rath of Mullaghmast. There is a table running along through the middle of the cave. The Capn is sitting at the head, and his troopers down along in complete armour both sides of the table, and their heads resting on it. Their horses, saddled and bridled, are standing behind their masters in their stalls at each side; and when the day comes, the miller's son that's to be born with six fingers on each hand will roll off his strumpet and blow his trumpet, and the horses will stamp and whinny, and the knights awake and mount their steeds, and go forth to battle.

-- Irish Sagas and Folk Tales



This time from some people in Dutch, er, Holland, wanting to know all about the Sixties.

How would you describe a merry prankster?
Are you a merry prankster?
If so: how did you become one?

A merry prankster is happy, alert, ready to leap into the fray, unafraid, with helping hands extended, creating laughter and confusion, authorities can't figure out what is going on. I have the dubious honor of creating the merry band of pranksters one fine night when I came ambling down the hill and Mal Function asked, "Who goeth there?" and the answer was, "Tis I, the Intrepid Traveler, come to gather my merry band of pranksters and lead them either across country or back again in search of the kool place."

I read your piece today on the website about the Dutch questioners. Peering feebly through the thick fogs of time-shrouded memory, I
recalled the "birth of the pranksters" a bit differently. While I properly credited (or blamed) you, I seem to recall it all beginning on the night of the Great Alaskan Earthquake. High on acid, we were hearing about the quake, and the destruction from not only the quake but also tsunamis, on the radio as we drove to (or from) the beach where we witnessed the said tsunami from the famous WWII tunnel. What I remember is this: your famous (?) line, "Intrepid Traveller and his Merry Band of Pranksters, dedicated to the obliteration of the entire nation". And so, I have written it thus, and, write or wrong, it shall be my version. -geo

your version is correct, too. both versions are correct. I use them both, willy nilly or scrotum scratching, as the case may be; depending on where my memory is that day. What has not been fully explained is that by obliteration I was speaking metaphorically, in a spiritual sense, a ripping apart of old tired values and hustles and materialisitic parvenus. -- Capn

Did you meet Ken Kesey and did you travel on the Kool Aid Acid bus with


What exactly is the Skypilotenclub?

I gave a talk about kesey to a high school english class and realized the bus trip is such ancient history none of them had ever heard about it. Made me think of when I was a kid and the roaring twenties were ancient history and I didn't know anything about that decade and it was closer then than the sixties are now.
Mork was the dork from ork and the expression mork the dork is still a good one.
"Your record's stuck," always gets a "huh?" from kids when you say that to them. The applicable saying is, "vinyl will never die."
The kids circling the bus on the bicycles were asking, "Are you Peacers or Geezers?"
Happy mediums are the best. they channel jokes and buffoonery and produce uncontrolled giggling which makes for some great trombone sounds
Edgar Cayce was a happy medium. Or was he a disgruntled XL?
He was a photographer which is a medium into itself.
He predicted California would fall into the ocean in the 60's. But it didn't have to happen if the people straightened out, forgot the filthy lucre and invested in love.
And it happened. Love reigned down on the people, thanks to the good vibrations of the Beach Boys and Pigpen turning on the love light.
So you can tell yer chilluns that something real good came out of the sixties. The sixties kept California from falling into the ocean.
Without a warning, she broke my heart... Surely, a few Californians must have fallen into the ocean in the '60s, if not the whole state.
There was an appropriate hole left in the state where the dearly departed fell in but the whole thing was covered up. Nixon crawled out later to re-emerge on the international scene. It has been cataloged in the library at San Clemente.
Without Nixon and his ilk, who would we have had to play off of? Think of the material the man can't buy that stuff.
In 1964 our main man was Barry Goldwater without whom we wouldn't have had the magic phrase: A Vote For Barry Is A Vote For Fun. Now that was a real prank, painting that on the side of the bus and driving backwards down the main street of Phoenix.
Now we have Arnie.
-- Capn of the Skyfalutin

ps: Never trust a . . . who said he was going to a snow job and then didn't, or how did the philosophy change him? A religious thing?
Pranksters as a religion? Some religion. A non religion pursued by non religionists, not seeking sycopants and professing no known philosophies other than, "nothing lasts," and "You're either on the bus or under the bus," and "The sixties ain't over till the fat lady gets high."
Accolytes abound and bound about in glee. Pranks are funny, don't harm anyone and don't have anyone as a goat.
I told a phone solicitation person yesterday that he had breached a secure line and according to the homeland security act I could puncture his eardrums with a blast from my trombone but he hung up before I could pucker up.



Oh say can you see, my belly growing big on me?
Not from a seed seeking to achieve birth,
Nor from swallowing a big ball of earth.
No, my tummy is full of A-1 American food.

It started last Saturday when we clebrated good
By eating at McDonald's 'cause I was that day's
Birthday dude.
And we ate and we ate till our tummies were stewed
Plum full of good food and if that weren't enough,
On Sunday we scoffed a huge dinner that was rough.

And by that I mean BAD!

Big Red was the pig that filled up Dad
With a big leg of ham that vanished to the bone
And sent Pop waddling to bed with a heartfelt moan.
"I swear I won't eat so much, no never again,"
Were the last words he said before he snapped shut
His chin.

Then rolling and farting all night in the bed,
Up on Monday morning with a grumpiness head,
To prepare his broadside for its trip to the printer,
At last he's done with his rant for this winter.

And how did we celebrate, as if you can't guess?
A business man's lunch, I'm forced to confess.
Now hunched on the toilet, I sent out a plea:
If you want to cook dinner, please don't invite me.

-- Capn Rufus



Voting time. A country polling place. Curtained alcoves. Long table to sign the registration book. People in line. Last person is aN elderly lady in an overly-flowered dress with an exaggerated bonnet on her head. She looks around suspiciously. Door opens and a man and woman enter. They too are elderly, but of a farming caste. He in coveralls and a straw hat, she in a plain simple and clean dress, her mien austere.

Overdressed woman: Well, Ella Mae, I never heard of such a thing. Voting to secede. Who'd of believed it? In America.

Ella Mae: I don't see that it's anything to get het up over. We've been voting here all our lives. You'd think, Clara Sue, you'd be used to it by now. Besides, it's not really a vote to secede.

Clara Sue: Well, I call it a bunch of tomfoolery and a waste of our taxpayer's money. They should have thrown the rascals who thought it up in jail and spared us all this trouble.

Ella Mae: I don't know. Some of their ideas make sense.

Clara Sue: Not to me they don't. And what makes a sensible woman like you swallow their pack of lies?

Ella Mae: I'm one of those taxpayers you talk about all the time, not like some people I could name who never made enough in their life to ever pay a dime of income tax.

Clara Sue (face registering surprise): Income tax? When'd you ever pay an income tax?

Ella Mae: Why, we certainly have. (turning to her husband who has been pointedly ignoring the women) When was it, Henry, we filled out those forms?

Henry: Oh, '49 or '50, some'ere's around there. Git a move on, Clara Sue, it's your turn to vote.

Clara flounces into the voting booth, swirling the curtain behind her. Ella Mae and Henry bend over the book and begin laboriously signing their names.




Mah fellow Mericans, it is with great sleepiness I address you today with the news you've been eagerly awaiting: I suffer from a sever case of dontopedology which, with apologies to the Duke of Edinburgh, simply means every time I open my mouth I put my foot in it. This is no exception. What I am trying to say is the holidays are officially over. Usually they end on Super Bowl Sunday but since this year the game dragged on into February the powers what be decided to extend the holidays one more additional everlasting endless day which meant this morning I was up at the crack of dawn, bleery eyed per usual, looking looking looking, and by gar and golly, there it was, stretching from here to Pennsylvania, my very own shadow, svelte and slim. You know what that means.

Keep your booties close to hand, split some more wood, hunker down close to your tire chains, make better friends with the dog, pile on the comforters, stock up on hot chocolate and marshmellows, wash and dry your woolies; Six More Winters Is Yet To Come. Verily.

-- Pawdaddy



This is Imblog, the festival of spring, of fecundity, milk and lambs. Women make up a bed with a sheaf of corn dressed as a woman in it and sneak out of the house in search of nipplewort. Once moved to a nearby nature preserve, the male specimen -- the largest ever recorded -- draws the attention of locals because of its large penis, measured at some five feet.

More than 100 have reportedly flocked to 'experience' the size of its penis but unknowing and uncaring, the men remain rooted, in a super stupor on this the culmination of the holidays, when the final two left standing vie on national TV for the title of greatest.

Takes a big man to endure and if you think you're too small to have an effect, then you've never been in bed with a mosquito.

As it turns out, it's too soon for the finale. There's yet another holiday to endure. Stay attuned.

-- Capn Skyp


On the planet stood Czernunnos, (caught in photo on left by Skypilot Darrin Brenner-Rolat) the lord god of the reddish beasts. I asked him what power he had over them. He clubbed a stargzarv with his club and it let out a mighty beller and all the wild warrior beasts came as numerous as the red rocks on the surface so there was not room for me and he basked his gaze upon them and bade them go graze and they bowed and did obeisance and went to eating the red rocks.


 a wee tad
went out at night
and looked in the sky
but all he saw
were stars and planets
and an occasional satellite

vee vill continue to coordinate
being mapmakers extraordinate
the dreaded forces of evil
occasionally snare us in their net
but resourcefully we disensnare
ourselves in order to be snared again

 Oregon is ready, mighty ready,
so hie yer butts west
and turn north at California.
When the moose bellers
you have crossed the border.
Blow yer horns in response.
Sing addled lyrics
and nonsensical rhymes
and you will be admitted.
Pay off the guard at the gate
in smokeable comodities.
Good luck in your rambles.


Mars is the awake planet because as you all know, according to the book of Dennis Hopper, rust never sleeps, and the surface of the red planet is covered with iron oxide. A twig of rowan will prevent witchcraft in the house, on the farm and at sea; it will keep a corpse in its coffin and the dead in the graveyard and protect the unwary against fascination by fairies. When asked if he would go to the forum today, Julius Caesar thought for a minute, then pulled a coin out of his toga, the first magic trick by an emperor, and flipped it, crying heads I win, tails you lose, thereby inventing the practice of flipping a coin as a decision-making process. Much to his demise. Over in Greece they slapped their konops which is the root word for canopy, the first canopies being mosquito netting and konops being . . . what else? Mosquitoes.

-- Capn Skynoid


Something like a stunted, blackened branch was sticking out of the ground, ending in a set of short, thickish twigs. The dogs were barking at it. It was disclosed by the slipping of the bank, undermined by the creek, which was swollen by the recent rains.

The dogs were sniffing and yelping about it.

"It's a hand!" cried Phil, with an oath: "Gotterdamnung!"

We peered at it, stooping and hesitating as skypilots do in curious wonder. We set down our pitcher of water and pelted it with stones until it was broken and then we went to the Buckhorn Tavern and filled a fresh pitcher with Weiderhosen beer and passed the rest of the day in revelery . . . as late as the year 1999 the boys of Dexter used to parade the town with pitchers, which they threw into every open doorway, shouting, "They found the hand and here's a heave."

Inside the houses the women were preparing mashed avocado in advance, pressing heavy-duty plastic wrap on top and smoothing out any air bubbles. They left the pits in the avocados cut in half because air cannot reach where the seed is, but placing a pit in a bowl of guacamole has no effect. The dips go well with the pitchers. All hands on deck.

-- tales gleaned from Hither and Yon


Obtain a wire coat hanger and lay it on the table with the hooked end away from you.
Cut a 3 foot piece of thread and tie each end at the outside ends of the straight piece of the hanger, the piece on which the pants hang.
Loop the thread over the crown of your skull so that thread runs down over each ear.
Put an index finger into each ear, pushing the string tight into the inside of the ear.
Now with the hanger hanging free in front of you, gently bang the hanger into the edge of the table.


Try this with different hangers, different threads and strings, different things on which to bang it on.

-- Skypilot #89

Capn, decided to follow Skypilot #89's project to stick thread on a wire hanger and insert thread into one's ears. Got a huge rumbly sound, no not Wavy Gravy, but yet a strange banging sound. So rather than let science rest on its laurels or its ass I decided the best venue for this type of operation was Radio Shack.

Yes, that is Wavy Gravy being arrested for
protesting lethal injection at San Quentin.

Mission is to get two small microphones that wll fit in one's ear, assorted patch cables, ahem, and to plug the whole hanger thing into my ears and my PA system and broadcast the huge rumbly sound into the woods and across the mountain here and see what starts rutting and how much of this I can blame on my weird neighbor. Will keep SkypCentral posted.......

Art of the Prank.....

--- Wingman Nalaflow
-- Skypilot Club #29


School never ends. You do your homework, you take a test. I worked on the driveway; I worked on the roof. Now for the test. Started raining last night, all night, all morning. The roof is passing. The driveway is struggling. Good thing there's more gravel in the pile. Who are the Celts? larger than life. Warriors. Literary heroes. Geniuses of imagination, invention. Humour is endless.

Sounds like Skypilots to me. They seldom traveled in companies. They wore long flowing hair, and coloured some parts of the body. They carried long walking sticks, flasks, leathern wallets. They used waxed writing tablets. It is also stated they they were expert in catching fish. Nothing about driveways or roofs.

In winter take the whole sorrel plant and boil it up to make a red dye. Set with a little alum. So fond were the ancient skypilots of colour that they dyed horses and pet animals to suit their taste. White horse with red ears. Dogs with long tails dyed purple.


Info gleaned from "A Celtic Book of Days."

-- Capn Skyp