THE INFORMATION #1016
OCTOBER 26, 2018
Copyright 2018 FRANCIS DIMENNO
He who has a why to live can bear almost any how. –Nietzsche
WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER TWELVE: PART THIRTY-THREE: THE EASTERN GATE OF PARADISE
“Mine for me and me for mine–as you know, that has been the whole of my philosophy,” said Sam Floyd to the young Victor Justin.
But it took the Swami to clue me into a whole new way of thinking about that way of life. The mass of men are like sticks, he told me. Two are always stronger than one. And only a bundle of such sticks is unbreakable. So the superior man, the man of free will, should gather about him loyal and compliant fellers who are good at following his orders. Once he does that, there’s no telling how far he can go. But he should also beware, because the higher he climbs, the further he can spit; that’s true. But to fall from such a height is a mighty blow if he don’t got no cushion to protect him. So he should always be prepared to fall. He should always have a cushion. And he should never venture forth on the cliff face without a plan to fall. Because those who fail to plan, plan to fail.
I drew my own conclusions from both his wisdom, and my own personal experiences. First of all, a man ought never to go agin’ his gut. Secondly, city life is all very well and good, if you’re only visitin’, but not if it’s for keeps.
I don’t think that men were never meant to live in cities. Take it from an old country younker–that old city life can drive you crazier than the shithouse mouse, and in very short order. Something about not breathing fresh air and never seeing blue skies and green grass rubs against a man’s grain. Especially if he don’t have friends—preferably, bruisers and bullies, to take some of the sting out of being surrounded by thousands of people. City life is unnatural. It’s like a prison. Men don’t like to live in cages any more than animals do. That’s why so many men become inverts, and will take up with unwholesome companions and do unwholesome things. If they had a chance to go somewhere to be happy, they would probably take it, but it’s a rare man indeed who can manage to do that without substantial help. It’s always a great leap into the dark, to arrive penniless on an unknown shore.
Why do city youngsters get together into gangs and fight over their territory? Because they ain’t got nothin’ better to do. To them, see, it’s a form of play. They ain’t ever been taught any better, that’s why. Also, weak sisters like to be in a gang. That’s how they get protection. Otherwise, they’d be sitting in the parlor all the live-long day singin’ this stupid song:
I’m a little Temperance boy,
12 years old!
And I love Temperance,
Better than gold!
Every little boy like me,
The Temperance Pledge should sign,
For God loves little boys who don’t love wine!
All the goo-goos gas on and on about taking tenement slum kiddies out to the country for the summer, and exposing them to the trees and mother nature and whatnot. What they don’t realize is that by then, it’s far too late. Once they’ve grown up in the sewer, they never lose their taste for it. And once the city is in there for good and all, you can’t never take the city out of the boy. After the sun goes down, those vast empty spaces of the countryside begin to wear on his soul.
Sure, some fellers benefit by heading out west and fightin’ Injuns instead of Irishmen. But it’s a mug’s game. Twenty years in the infantry and all you got to show for it in the end are flat feet, aching joints, creaky knees, and a miserly pension—about enough to keep you in a room, some crummy grub, and a little ‘baccy, but not much more. An old pensioner pulled by sleeve and I said to myself, why, that ain’t no way to live. And that is why I never went for a soldier.
You ever notice how some old dogs are always sniffin’ sniffin’ sniffin’ around? There are some old men who are like that too. Always lookin’ after the main chance. But too many of them go about it wrong. They think they can do it all alone, by their lonesome. They follow a saphead foolosophy. You wanna know why? Most likely because, at an impressionable age, they read a load of slop written by some the slushiest men to ever come down the pike. Men who had no practical experience of the world, but who made their living just spinning out airy, fairy fabrications to appease the parents and deceive the gullible kiddies. Moral tales, so called, with titles like Luck and Pluck. Brave and Bold. Strive and Succeed. Try and Trust. Make Your Way. Do and Dare. Bound to Rise. And other such idiotic codswallop. Bound to Lose is more like it. Try and Fail. Keep Your Head Down. Get Lost. Give Up. Why Bother. Rack and Ruin. Fate is Agin’ Ye. Only nobody is writing books with those kinds of realistic titles and lessons. No—it’s always the story of the office boy who stops the runaway hoss with the merchant’s daughter astride, and he wins her hand and gets to run the factory. A pipe dream.
I pin most of the blame on that Horatio Alger. He was little more than an educated Philistine. Horatio loved young boys, said he, and was allus tryin’ to help ‘em. He always assisted the youngsters toward the openings they desired. He he! He was especially attracted to newsboys. He was always willin’ to get behind a promising young man. He liked little boys especially. Liked ‘em a bit too much, to my way of thinkin’. Did you know, that Horatio Alger was run out of town for fondlin’ small boys? He had to quit the church, and devote himself instead to churning out his dopey books. Luck and Pluck? Fuck a Duck is more like it. And, do you know something, Boy? I wouldn’t put it past him, neither. You can always tell a Harvard Man–but you can’t tell him much!
No, a little larnin’ is a dangerous thing. Like the sayin’ goes–It’s not what you know that gets you in trouble. It’s what you think you know, that just ain’t so—there’s the real problem. T’was ever thus. That’s why mother nature gave us two arms, and two legs, and only one head. We were never meant to bury our noses in myths and legends and fables overmuch. Too much book-larnin’ ruins a man’s shootin’ eye. That’s what my Pappy allus said. And my Pappy was a wise old man. Before they shot him.
No—we were given two arms to grab and take, and legs to run away if we’re ever caught. That’s not exactly what the Swami told me, but close. Anyway, that’s the conclusion I come to after being with the Carny for awhile. You can talk all day long–but, in the end, you got to do something. Anything! A man who doesn’t even bother to reach for the brass ring ain’t worth shucks. He’s only fit to sit around readin’ religious tracts, and moan about the unfairness of it all. Not me, brother. I’ll take whatever I can get and whenever I can get it. Like I said—mine for me, and me for mine. And that is all. Never mind the rest.
Do I need to say any more?
Charles Mingus and friends in concert
Live at the Philharmonic Hall, 1972
Charles Mingus and friends in concert
Live at the Philharmonic Hall, 1972
The Kennedy assassination was nearly 55 years ago. What shall we do to “celebrate”?
One commentator, Erik Barnouw, stated as fact that the Dallas schoolkiddies exclaimed “Goodie goodie!” on hearing the news. (It would have been far worse, I think, had they said “Goodie goodie gumdrops.”)
JFK was hip. He blew pot and dropped acid while in the White House. Plus, there were all those “vitamin injections.” “I don’t care if it’s horse piss,” said he. “It works.”
He was hampered in his initial negotiations with Russian Premier Khrushchev at the Vienna summit because he was crashing from speed.
You won’t find this mentioned in the standard accounts. I have it on the authority of a highly esteemed historian.
HEADLINES WE’D LIKE TO SEE
MOM PRAISES SEX AND VIOLENCE IN MEDIA
NEW GARBAGE CANS ENCOURAGE FERAL DOGS
POLICE ENCOURAGE TEEN DRINKING
ELDERLY MAN TURNS TO ATHEISM
LOCAL YOUTH LOSES AREA SPELLING BEE
POLL: VOTERS LOVE NEGATIVE CAMPAIGN ADS
APATHETIC FANS IGNORE TEAM COLORS
RESTAURANT GIVEAWAY FAILS
SURVIVORS FAIL TO MOURN ON ANNIVERSARY OF TRAGEDY
AREA MAN HARVESTS PUNY PUMPKIN
ICEBERGS NOT A THREAT TO MERCHANT MARINE
LATEST SITCOM PLOT HINGES UPON A COMICAL MISUNDERSTANDING
WUXTRY! WUXTRY! NEWSBOYS NO LONGER SELL PAPERS ON STREET SHOUTING “WUXTRY!”
HEADLINES WE’D REALLY LIKE TO SEE
MASSES LIVE IN FEAR OF VAGUELY DEFINED “ENEMIES”
MEDIA GLORIFIES DEAD-END ‘GANGSTA’ SCRIPT
GANG MEMBERS DIE DEFENDING WORTHLESS TURF
MEDICAL LOBBY IN 80-YEAR FIGHT TO HALT UNIVERSAL HEALTH CARE
SPORTS: STUPEFYING PALLIATIVE FOR BUM ECONOMY
TALK-RADIO SHOWS PREACH TO THE CONVERTED
MISFITS AND CRANKS EXCHANGE MEANINGLESS BANTER IN TAVERNS
BITTER KOOKS AND RECLUSES FIND SATISFACTION IN CURSING MINORITIES
STATE-SPONSORED VIOLENCE SEEN AS CURE-ALL BY DRUNKS AND LOUTS
SPY AND SPACE OPERAS KOWTOW TO MILITARY SOLUTIONS
ACTORS, H’WOOD PRODUCERS IN THRALL TO MILITARY-CIA
CONDENSED TV NEWS DISTORTS REALITY
PRO-GOVERNMENT PROPAGANDA PERVADES TELEVISED MEDIA
HIEROPHANTS GIVE PEOPLE ‘WHAT THEY WANT’: DOMINATION
Lingua Tertii Imperii.
THE BIZARRE HISTORY OF TEN COMMON SAYINGS
5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
A much closer scrutiny reveals other Republican Presidents lurking about.
Behind George H.W. Bush, to the left: Grant.
Behind George H.W. Bush, to the right: Chester Arthur; Rutherford B. Hayes
Behind Ford’s shoulder: Taft and McKinley.
On the right-hand side of the post: Hoover.
To the right of TR’s head: Harding and Coolidge.
15 POP CULTURE PRESIDENTS
THE ORAL PASSIONS OF WILLIAM HOWARD TAFT
6* DAILY UTILITY
HOW TO PICK UP GIRLS
ITALIAN PICK-UP LINES
TEN INSANE COMIC BOOK VILLAINS
INAPPROPRIATE COMIC BOOK CHARACTERS
EVIL CLOWN COMICS
Antisemitism is the Socialism of fools.–August Bebel
THIN BLUE LINE FLAG
It’s flaunted by the kind of guy who has a boner whenever he reads this George Orwell quote:
“Kipling… sees clearly that men can only be highly civilized while other men, inevitably less civilized, are there to guard and feed them.”
“People sleep peacefully in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf.”
But Orwell also said:
If you want a vision of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face – forever.
9* RUMOR PATROL
HOBO FLOTO VOTO
In the reign of Chicago Mayor Richard Daley, Hizzoner used a GOTV tactic charmingly called “hobo floto voto”.
“Employing bands of roving repeat-voting vagrants”
THE TYRANNY OF CLICHES
JAMES IRON HEAD BAKER
BLACK BETTY (1933)
ROCK AND ROLL HALL OF FAME NOMINEES RANKED
BEST SONGS OF ALL TIME
RADIOHEAD AND THE SPICE GIRLS ARE THE SAME BAND
11*DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
SENSIBLE DIETARY ADVICE
Organic nuts, seeds and healthy oils
High-quality organic meat and seafood
Organic Whole grains
Low-quality meat and seafood
HOMEMADE SALAD DRESSING
Home-made salad dressing is so much better than the stuff you buy in stores.
I took a large clove of garlic and two sun-dried tomatoes and pureed them in a blender with some apple cider vinegar. I added this mixture to some Italian, Sicilian, and Greek extra-virgin olive oils and added oregano, crumbled thyme, black pepper, a few drops of lemon juice, and Trader Joe’s Everyday Spice mixture. I put on top of a mixed green salad with some goat feta from Israel.
It is gastronomic bliss.
Just a minute, “Hollywood”. Don’t think you’re pulling a fast one! We’ve seen your type before, on blind dates, at Dizzy’s Lounge, with someone’s unattractive spinster cousin, making your well-timed departure from the smoky groggery seconds before she spots you and loudly hails you to come over to her table.
The guy with the Butch cut resembles a slack-jawed imbecile. Just sayin’. He looks like Forrest Gump on an ether binge.
The guy with The Crew is a mindless zombie who probably cooks and eats roadkill. From compulsion–not from necessity.He asked for a Crew cut and instead, his hair came out looking like Tin Tin’s–if Tin Tin’s hair resembled cotton candy spun from dried snot.
Flattop Boogie has tiny facial features and a suspiciously non-prognathous jaw. He is destined to become a pump-jockey in an Arizona ghost town.
Forward-Combed Boogie is an introspective sort who likes nothing better than reciting Spinoza aphorisms to his bored dates in a dreary monotone.
College Contour looks as if there is no dire crime the committing of which he is incapable. The bare spot on his face bothers me immeasurably–as though he’s already being measured as cannon fodder worthy of a metal plate which he will sport for the next 48 years.
Don’t try to hide your face, Executive Contour! We all know it was you who palmed off the wood alcohol as the genuine stuff, and blinded all those Shriners!
Flattop is a healthy animal. I despise these hearty types. With their pointy ears and their pathetic attempts to look distinguished, they are little more than monkeys at the watering hole pounding their barrel-chests in simian fury.
Professional Contour rents jukeboxes for a living, and there’s scarcely a barkeep between here and Chump Junction Missouri who hasn’t been pistol-whipped into submission by this notorious police character. The best you can say his appearance is that he resembles a failed haberdasher who likes to prance around his hotel room in mascara and panties. The telltale lipstick residue around his fixed smile is a dead giveaway.
I would like to command these nine boys as part of a platoon charged with one of the dirtiest missions of the war–to infiltrate an enemy stronghold and assassinate their general.