What’s on the Radio? Little Jack Frost Get Lost, Get Lost by Bing Crosby w/Peggy Lee, 1950 (Lyrics+Link)

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Little Jack Frost Get Lost

Bing Crosby & Peggy Lee

Oh, little Jack Frost get lost, get lost
Little Jack Frost get lost.
You know you don’t do a thing but put a bite on my toes,
Freeze up the ground and take the bloom from the rose!
Oh, little Jack Frost go away, go away
And don’t you come back another day.
There’s lots of cold feet; all the lovers complain
You turned off the heat down on lover’s lane.
The bench in the park is alone in the dark!
So, little Jack Frost get lost, get lost
Little Jack Frost get lost
So, little Jack Frost get lost, get lost.

Little Jack Frost get lost, get lost.
You don’t do a thing but put the bite on my toes,
Freeze up the ground and take the bloom from the rose!
So, little Jack Frost go away, go away
And don’t you come back another day, get gone, go ‘way
There’s lots of cold feet, all the lovers complain
You turned off the heat down in lover’s lane!
The bench in the park is all alone in the dark…
So, little Jack Frost get lost, get lost
Little Jack Frost get lost
Get lost, get lost, get lost, get lost
L. J. Frost get lost
Lost.

Songwriters: Seger Ellis & Al Stillman
(Warner/Chappell Music)

 

Blue World—A Collection of Horror Stories by Robert R. McCammon (TOC + Intro + Link)

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Table of Contents

Dear Readers (introduction to the preview of Mine) • essay by Robert R. McCammon
Mine (excerpt) • short fiction by Robert R. McCammon
ix • Introduction (Blue World and Other Stories) • (1989) • essay by Robert R. McCammon
1 • Yellowjacket Summer • (1986) • short story by Robert R. McCammon
25 • Makeup • (1981) • short story by Robert R. McCammon
49 • Doom City • (1987) • short story by Robert R. McCammon
65 • Nightcrawlers • (1984) • novelette by Robert R. McCammon
101 • Yellachile’s Cage • (1987) • short story by Robert R. McCammon
121 • I Scream Man! • (1984) • short story by Robert R. McCammon
131 • He’ll Come Knocking at Your Door • (1986) • short story by Robert R. McCammon
151 • Chico • (1989) • short story by Robert R. McCammon
163 • Night Calls the Green Falcon • (1988) • novelette by Robert R. McCammon
191 • Pin • (1989) • short story by Robert R. McCammon
215 • The Red House • (1985) • novelette by Robert R. McCammon
239 • Something Passed By • (1989) • short story by Robert R. McCammon
259 • Blue World • (1989) • novella by Robert R. McCammon

Introduction

Fast Cars, the sign said.

It was in front of a used-car lot in the neighborhood where I grew up. Fast Cars. My friends and I passed it every day on our way to school. Our bikes were the fast cars of our imagination, our Mustangs and Corvettes and Thunderbirds. We longed for four wheels, but we were confined to two and on them we hurtled into the future.

I’ve built my own fast cars. They’re in this book, and they’re eager for passengers.

Continue reading

“After Apple-Picking”—A Poem by Robert Frost, 1914

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My long two-pointed ladder’s sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there’s a barrel that I didn’t fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn’t pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it’s like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.

Art by Richard Bawden (Royal Watercolor Society)

“Beauty has no obvious use…and yet…”

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‘Writing is the most solitary of arts. The very act of withdrawing from the world in order to create a counter-world that is “fictitious”—“metaphorical”—is so curious, it eludes comprehension. Why do we write? Why do we read? What can be the possible motive for metaphor? Why have some of us, writers and readers both, made of the “counter-world” a prevailing culture in which, sometimes to the exclusion of the actual world, we can live? These are questions I’ve considered for much of my life, and I’ve never arrived at any answers that seemed to me final, utterly persuasive. It must be enough to concede, with Sigmund Freud in his late, melancholy essay “Civilization and Its Discontents”, that “beauty has no obvious use; nor is there any clear cultural necessity for it. Yet civilization could not do without it.”’

Joyce Carol Oates, The Faith of a Writer

Zdzisław Beksiński

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Zdzisław Beksiński was a Polish painter, photographer and sculptor, specializing in the field of dystopian surrealism. Beksiński did his paintings and drawings in what he called either a ‘Baroque’ or a ‘Gothic’ manner. His creations were made mainly in two periods.