Home Arts News
Arts News

That Fabulous Promo From April 2010 Still Stands on Its On

E-mail Print PDF


Dim lights Embed Embed this video on your site

Last Updated on Friday, 08 February 2013 17:12

You Name It! Tiny Town's New Indentification Game

E-mail Print PDF



Welcome to You Name It! By Chad Coles

It's a new Tiny Town identification game using images and ... things.

For instance: Rick Eckstrom is the winner of today's Tiny Town Times YOU NAME IT on Facebook for correctly tagging the image at the far left. Mr. Eckstrom, an ex-pat Ithacan-American, successfully identified the school desk and discarded shoes as being located on the third floor fire escape of the Ithaca Agency Building on West State (MLK) about 114, facing East, "looking at Clinton Hall." He wins this photo, in postcard size. Please provide address if you wish to receieve the image.

Now we have two new visuals to identify. The Man in the window of the aqua blue blue domicile is familiar. Who is he and where is he to be found? Even better -- name the landlord!

Finally, there's another teen idol of yore propped upon the typewriter keys and looking a little pinched along the inseam. Who is he, where is that typewriter he's perched upon and name a book written by a man or woman with the same name as that machine – add a twist and name the machine that made a man by that name free to wander about about the world in one of the longest and most smacked-out literary life of any fiercely intelligent junkie you or I are likely to ever know ... (puff of smoke here, please)

The locations are local ... and in this tiny town, people, it awwwl about being local.

The prize? Who knows ... a picture, a marble, a pack of matches ... a personal "reading." We'll see. First, you gotta play.

By Chad Coles


Last Updated on Friday, 08 February 2013 16:30

Those Times, Then and Now ...

E-mail Print PDF


Those Times, Then and Now

Tiny Town, USA – I miss those times, then and now. Used to be, I fixed a nib to my quill, dipped it in a solution of India ink, blotted the tip so we rode fine at last and no dripping.

My script then was quite the show piece. Not as in this life, when poor Mrs. Alles in Second Grade had the bad sense to alert the class to the fact that I, Franklin Crawford, was "a complete failure at cursive script."

Oh boy, she ought not to have gone there, poor woman. How many times did I slay her? You wouldn't know of course, dear reader, because you weren't there with me and the older Brother poking me in the chest saying: "Never tell your Teachers that you hate them! Are you crazy? Never tell them that when you grow up you will arm yourself with a Mace and Star-on-a-Chain and bludgeon them to death! Franklin! This is the Real Deal here!"

Each point emphasized -- as they had to be -- with the index finger on the sternum so that my heart understood these were words to live or die by.

Ah, that, Dear Brother. Had you my temperament maybe you would have returned from Vietnam with your head on your shoulders and not gone off and gotten yourself killed. Bless him. He was, like us all, just a damn bit too good for this solid Earth.

O. Right. Arrogance, again. Is that what you call it? Take the sum and substance of a Self and forgive its lesser, craven parts, and hold up the decent bits and cherish them and stand tall and not be afraid and then learn, one is Arrogant?

How about Proud? Because I am. I am proud to be Alive. To have again each day the chance to fulfill my possibility -- the possibility of being fully human. It is something I surely forgot in the frays I got myself into, let me tell you. What a bastard I could be! So very sorry about all that rot. It happened. I am here. Sure hope it doesn't happen again.

And so what I'm standing at my toaster, broker than I've ever been in my whole Life, cutting up the ends of bread and handing out instructions to Peres as to how they might best be distributed for the birds in the morning, out on top the snow. Not at night. Not now. In the morning. He speaks that beautiful Brazilian-Portuguese, he knows animals this one. He does not think it so crazy to care for the birds when I am eating some bits of crust-less toast (because the bread molded suddenly)  with cheddar cheese, and hard-boiled eggs, and some steamed broccoli for myself. This is a good dinner. This has been a good week. I missed Christmas entirely, someone said today, as I had not yet delivered some gifts.

Whatever in the hell are they talking about? Some St. Consumerist Day? Christmas is frickin' always, chumly! Give a gift when you didn't have one to give, you've got plenty enough in this pig's stye of an overfed, under-weaned population of rotund, gelatinous, gobfeckers! Turn a homely one a favor and keep at it, you Prigs! The whole thing's going into the gutter. Wake the Eff, Up!

Osh. O. Oshbegosh. Sue me, you twits. I've had enough of this bloody ruins of the America I know and love. Stand up and be counted for, for once in your spoiled lives. And me too, and twice as much for saying so!

I am lucky to be alive here in this Tiny Town. Lucky because of this Tiny Town. If you don't feel it then you are Numb and Done-In. Get your face out of the soup, People!

Sparkle, Suckers! This is Life! This is what it is all about. Snow, snow and more snow and Bad News and then Smile ANYWAY!

If I can turn a corner on the shit that was thrown at me all my life and raise my head from the insipid self-centered ass-pie of self-deceit and say: "Yeh! I Effed Up Royally But I Am Going for it Again!" Then just about any other jackanape I've crossed paths with can at least make the effort.

Some don't need the nudge. I do. I need it bad.

– Franklin Crawford, kind of like, Ya'know?



Last Updated on Thursday, 27 December 2012 20:53

Erik Satie finds a home in Tiny Town, no longer adrift and forgotten

E-mail Print PDF


"Reading Satie: A Recital of Les Sports et Divertissements by Erik Satie (1914)"  With Spoken Word and Original Film Projections.

Alexei Aceto; piano, and Erin Hilgartner; recitations
Carriage House Loft
admission free

Tiny Town, USA – This is not a music review. Leave that to the more pedantic types. This is more of a thank you card.

Robbie Aceto and wife Rebecca have raised a fine young musician, Alexei Aceto, who is but in the Eighth Grade of his standard American education. Where he stands as a musician at this point is wondrous good. On Sunday, young Mr. Aceto brought great pleasure to the ears of an audience gathered at the Carriage House Loft on Stewart Avenue for the free event described above.

It was a fine setting for tripping sweetly through the Noosphere of a composer I think of best as a disembodied Martian who manifest here for a bit, and found the place confounding and offensive, especially after hearing so many good things about Earthlings via radio waves.

Erin Hilgartner was delightfully competent in her reading of Satie's notes. She is talented, well coached, and has a good sense of how to vocalize without giving away her age: She, too, is an 8th grader. Both she and Alexei attend Boynton Middle School.

Precocity was kept to a minimum, and if there was any air of pretension around the whole of it, it didn't ruffle my feathers. And, dinosaur that I am, I do not like nobody mussin' wif mah feath-uhs! Precocity is a plague in any Collegetown and it's nice when it is fettered by decency.

Both performers and their folks are Tiny Towners. Most members of the audience were as well, with family visiting, and it was cucumber slices for these jaundiced eyes to see so many friends and fellow musicians from the multi-layered wedding cake that is Tiny Town. And this Cake is no lie [nor is the pie]. We stood, or sat, assembled as one, and the yule tide spirit wrapped around us like an ethereal plasma soothing our collectively rubbed-raw senses. Maybe not. Words are a drug for me.

That's about all there is to say about that. Because others will have their own view of it.

Robbie Aceto's opening remarks dwelt upon Satie's estrangement from the high courts of French culture of his time [the fin de siecle of the 20th c. through WWI]. It is easy to see why Satie had little luck and even less truck with the Grand Snoots of his time, the so-called Gatekeepers of High Art. That he exchanged insults with Camille Saint-Saens, a Class-A Prig if ever there was one, and head of the French Academy of Who Gives A Damn, makes perfect sense to any iconoclast who has dealt with our contemporary Doyens of Decency. "Once Academized, ere long Fossilized," as I always say, when trading jabs with a Plaster-of-Paris high brow.

The older Aceto artfully arranged a  film montage with period imagery that cleverly sequenced through the 21 divertissements. Especially smart were the moving images of Satie's original manuscript in the master's elegant hand. The timing of film to live performance was in-tempo, and the metrics of the music marked in spanking good time given the drift of Satie's lyrical forms. The performance overall was relaxed and professional, whimsical as promised. Kudos to everyone behind the scenes.

Good stuff, all right. Alexei Aceto and Ms. Hilgartner greeted attendees as they filed out. He is a diminutive fellow, this Alexei, half-hidden by the bouquet he held, like a woodland sprite. I thanked him for evoking the spirit of Satie for all of us here in Tiny Town, because that he did.

I think Satie will enjoy it here, as he has often said to me over the years when visiting: "This place is cold, its politics are baffling, its people mostly asleep. Still it has many charming cultural quirks and is pervaded over by a spirit of gentleness and tolerance."

"Yep, that's true, Mr. Satie," I reply, clearing the saucers and glasses from our clean, well lighted, meeting place. With that the Master buttons his top coat, adjusts his pince nez, tips his bowler hat my way and steps off softly into the mist along the willows of Cayuga at Stewart, brollie in hand, and a nice glow in his belly from the absinthe we shared and a nip or two from the little crystal bottle in his waist-coat pocket. I remember the label, lilac with a gold border, and in the master's distinctive script these words: "Eau du Satie, Mars, 2100."

Franklin A. Crawford, BA Music, Ithaca College, 1985
Last Updated on Wednesday, 02 January 2013 21:52

Busted Nuts: A poem about Love and Pecans

E-mail Print PDF


busted nutsbusted nuts2


By Eric Littleshine


pecans marbled your driveway and the wind

held a smoke-tint the light was chamomile in your yard

and the afternoon stretched along with the shadow of my

car parked behind yours blocking you in

we sat and smoked in your backyard for a stretch

told stories while the kids passed back and forth

behind the sliding door we spent the rest of that day

cracking pecans on the sidewalk with the kids

made a game of who could crush more shells

under the big wheel or and the girly bike tire

and the dark crept out blent the nuts

into the concrete refusing to quit under

the nightfall we scoured the shrubs for hiding

wooden eggs to pop as the circling trikes our shrieks

and splattered shells brought out a laughing

original fun a carefree children’s Sunday afternoon

we made one of those good times that stick like oatmeal

and later give you strength for when the larder’s bare

we were kids together and your kids were us

and that is when while our lips didn't touch

you gave me my first kiss you kissed me right



Page 8 of 18

Arts & Entertainment

Opinion / Letters