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Summer People. Some're Not.
Qev.
Hults
Editorial {
Now & Then
We here at the Upper Left Edge have been
criticized occasionally for our disparagement of what
Prof. Lindsey calls "the slack jawed cretins" that visit
our town annually. Folks at the Chamber of
Commerce encourage us to be more forgiving, and to
remember w'hat side our bread is buttered on. Yes,
we know, it is the side that ends up face down on the
floor. Sitting at Bill's on the Memorial Day week­
end, a gentleman noticed the grimacing your beloved
editor is prone to do when alleged human beings act
foolish and rude. He smiled and made a comment
that indicated that not all of our visitors were like
those we were surrounded by. Yes, we agreed, we
have guests and we have tourists. There is a
difference. Guests bring their brains and their hearts
to this beautiful we place live in; tourists bring only
their money and their attitudes. So as the silly
season begins again, we would like to welcome our
guests to our place by the Sea, and hope that the
tourists don't get too crazy.
And now for some shameless self promotion:
Richard Cranium and the Phoreheads, as constant
readers know, is your beloved editor's new band.
The most reverend Hults has come out of semi-
retirement to join with these older men of dubious
morals but time tested talent. Kenneth Turtle' Van
De Marr is arguably one of a dozen guitar players in
Oregon who can deal with the whole spectrum of
musical styles with craftsman-like genius. Peter
'Spud' Seigel is a gifted mandolin player, and
vocalist, and performer. He can play any number of
instruments and styles. David Reisch plays bass and
sings in a wonderful understated but powerful way.
And to be truthful if not modest, the old guy on the
washboard, Billy Lloyd Hulks, is not too bad. And
these guys play such a wide range of styles, from
jazz, to country, to bluegrass, to rock & roll, and
some stuff that is hard to classify. Anyway, the
Phoreheads are the official houseband of the Upper
Left Edge. They will be playing Bill's Tavern June
2nd, which oddly enough is your beloved rev.'s
birthday. Hint: real estate is always a welcome gift;
failing that just show up and help us get Sally's book
printed. We will be joined by some special guests,
and we are determined to have much fun. If you
have some lame excuse, you can always just send
money for a copy of Sally's book, or a donation to
the Left Coast Group. And you can catch the
Phoreheads at several venues around Oregon this
month. (See the schedule on the Music Page.)
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Once upon a midnight dreary, fingers cramped and vision bleary,
System manuals piled high and wasted paper on the floor,
Longing for the warmth of bedsheets,
Still I sat there, doing spreadsheets:
Having reached the bottom line, I took a floppy from the drawer.
Typing with a steady hand, I then invoked the SAVE command
And waited for the disk to store,
Only this and nothing more.
Deep into the monitor peering, long I sat there wond'ring, fearing,
Doubting, while the disk kept churning, turning yet to chum some more.
"Save!" I said, "You cursed mother! Save my data from before!"
One thing did the phosphors answer, only this and nothing more,
Just, "Abort, Retry, Ignore?"
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
time
LO W TIDES
fit.
time
ft.
time
ft.
time
ft
5:49 6 9
Mon
Tue G 6 59 6.4
Wed
8:11 6.2
Thu
9:19 6.2
Fri
10:19 6.3
Sat
11:12 6 5
Sun
"
Mon
Tue
0 06 6 6
Wed © 0 4 0 8.7
Thu
1:15 8.7
Fri
1:53 8.7
2 34 8.6
Sat
Sun
3:19 8.4
Mon
4:10 8.0
Tue
5:11 7.4
Wed 9 6 2 5 6.9
Thu
7:46 6.6
Fri
9:05 6.6
Sat
10:15 6.7
Sun
11:19 7.0
Mon
0:17 7.2
Tue
Wed W 0:32 9.4
Thu
1:18 9.2
Fri
2:03 8.9
Sal
248 8 4
3:34 7,9
Sun
4:22 7.3
Mon
Tue
5:16 6 7
7:21
8:12
8:59
9:42
10:21
10:57
12:01
11:32
12:47
1:31
2:13
2:54
3:35
4:17
5:02
5:49
6:40
7:33
8:27
9:19
10:09
10:58
11:45
1:10
2:01
2:49
3:34
4:18
5:01
5:44
6:28
7.4
7.5
7.7
7.9
8.2
8.4
6.7
8.5
6.9
7.0
7.1
7.2
7.2
7.3
7.4
7.5
7.7
8.0
8.4
8.8
9.2
9.4
9.5
7.4
7.6
7.6
7.6
7.6
7.5
7.5
7.4
0:15
1:21
2:27
3:29
4:23
5:10
5:54
2.8
2.6
2.3
1.7
1.1
0.5
00
12:40
1:34
2:28
3:19
4:07
4:51
5:34
0.6
1.1
1.5
1.7
1.9
2.1
2.3
6 34
7:12
7:49
8:25
9:02
9:39
10:20
11 05
11:55
0:44
1:56
3.06
4:11
5:09
6:02
6:53
7:40
8:25
9:08
9:50
10 30
11:10
11:51
-0.4
-0.6
-0.8
-0.9
-0.9
-0.9
-0.7
-0.4
00
2.2
1.7
0.9
0.1
-0.7
-1.2
-1.6
-1.7
-1.6
-1.3
-0.9
-0.5
0.1
0.7
6:15
6:55
7:35
8:15
8:58
9:44
10:36
11:36
2.5
2.6
2.7
2.7
2.7
2.7
2.6
2.5
12:51
1:52
2:54
3:53
4:51
5:45
6:38
7:29
8:19
9:08
9:57
10:48
11:41
0.5
1.0
1.3
1.6
1.8
2.0
2.1
2.2
2.2
2.3
2.4
2.4
2.4
DATE
BASEBALL
Bob Dylan singing 'Take Me Out to the Ballgamc"
for Harry, some kid who can strike out his age.
everybody hits, everybody's hungry, it's June and the
Cubs are solidly in Second. How can this he? Can
this be? The year? Oh, my! Go, Cubbies!
Was this some occult illusion? Some maniacal intrusion?
These were choices undesired, ones I'd never faced before.
Carefully, I weighed the choices as the disk made monstrous noises.
The cursor flashed, insistent, waiting, baiting me to type some more.
Clearly I must press a key, choosing one and nothing more,
From "Abort, Retry, Ignore?"
With my fingers pale and trembling,
Slowly toward the keyboard bending,
Longing for a happy ending, hoping all would be restored.
Praying for some guarantee,
Timidly I pressed a key.
But on the screen there still persisted, words appearing as before.
Ghastly grim they blinked and taunted, haunted, as my patience wore,
Saying "Abort, Retry, Ignore?"
I tried to catch the chips off-guard —
I pressed again, but twice as hard.
I pleaded with the cursed machine:
I begged and cried and then I swore.
Then I tried in desperation, sev'ral random combinations,
Still there came the incantation, just as senseless as before.
Cursor blinking, mocking, winking, flashing nonsense as before.
Reading, "Abort, Retry, Ignore?"
BILL’S
Tavern & Brewhouse
188 N. HEMLOCK
CANNON BEACH, OR 97110
436-2202
Bill says, “ I f you’re in a hurry,
you don’ t belong here.”
There I sat, distraught, exhausted; by my own machine accosted.
Getting up I turned away and paced across the office floor.
And then I saw a dreadful sight: a lightning bolt cut through the night.
A gasp of horror overtook me, shook me to my very core.
The lightning zapped my previous data, lost and gone forevermore.
Not even, "Abort, Retry, Ignore?”
To this day I do not know
The place to which lost data go,
What demonic nether world is wrought where data will be stored,
Beyond the reach of mortal souls, beyond the ether, in black holes?
But sure as there's C, Pascal, Lotus, Ashton-Tate and more,
You will one day be left to wander, lost on some Plutonian shore,
Pleading, "Abort, Retry, Ignore?"
Author Unknown
UPPER. LEFT EDG.E TUNE M l
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