THE INFORMATION #1046 MAY 24, 2019

THE INFORMATION #1046  
MAY 24, 2019
Copyright 2019 FRANCIS DIMENNO
dimenno@gmail.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

“The philosopher Diogenes was eating bread and lentils for supper. He was seen by the philosopher Aristippus, who lived comfortably by flattering the king. Said Aristippus, ‘If you would learn to be subservient to the king you would not have to live on lentils.’ Said Diogenes, ‘Learn to live on lentils and you will not have to be subservient to the king”.”  

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER TWELVE: PART SIXTY-THREE: THE EASTERN GATE OF PARADISE    

“Yob,” said Count Victor Justin to Cadger Tandy, “So far I’ve been telling you a very pretty story about the man who gave me my start, Mr. Salvatore “Sam” Floyd, and where he got his “pull”–namely, from a young fella who never took no guff by the name of William Batchelder Tallent, known to his close associates as “Mawny”. 

“Now here it is, thirty years later. Do you want to know what happened to Mawny? Mawny grew up to be a holy terror in his later years. I’ll tell you more about that, only right now I’m getting a little ahead of myself. I was hoping that by telling you the instructive tale of little Mawny, and how he growed, to plant some ideas about bein’ sensible in that great big thick skull of yours. But now I think that it’s only fair to warn you that there’s trouble a-brewin between your pal, old ‘Doc’ Ketman, and another Yellof whose name I scarcely dast mention. Let’s walk down closer to the lakeshore, and get well out of hearin’ range.

“There’s only one wild man I know of who is a wilder fella than Mawny, who has actually seen the Devil’s work in action. And that man is Cokey Stolas, as I’ve told you many times before. The Gib Yellof his own self. Fear him. Oh yaas, fear him if you know what’s good for you. He ain’t got horns, ner yet a tail, yet old Mephistopheles himself could scarcely stir up more mischief and bedevilment, especially when he has a mind to. Why, ‘pandemonium’ is that man’s middle name, I tell you.

“Now, I don’t hold with spooks and spirit workings, and other such hobbledehoy–not much–nay, not much at all, except when I’m on a bender mebbe–but I tell you here and now that there’s something supernatural about the likes of Mawny and the Gib Yellof. 

‘You need have no fear of ever failing to catch sight of the Gib Yellof, Ettil Yob–likely, you’ll hear him before you see him, and smell him before you hear him. They say he measures up to be about 300 pounds, has to be weighed on a freight scale, and smells like the grease of a thousand cheap steakhouses. He is known all through Noxtown as a ‘gourmet of renown’. That’s when they call a ‘glutton’ when they want to butter him up. Oh, the G.Y. has his fat finger in every pie they is. Sometimes literally. The German Baker calls him Vielfrass. The Polack butcher calls him Mister Zarloc.  The Nigras in the Pullman Cars call him Mistuh Prince Albert De Ice Potater Man. The Jewish delicatessen owner calls him Herr Reavetan. The Dago as runs the wop joint calls him ‘Geo Tony’. The Irish barkeep, fresh off the boat, calls him Mister Muck. The cheesemonger calls him Mr. Mockin. The wop that runs the Greek diner calls him Sir Laimargos. Even the Chinese laundryman has a name for him–calls him Xìngyùn de chánzuǐ. And his English gardener refers to him as Mr. Gannet, but only to his closest associates. 

“As I told you before, his Pappy, crazy, murderous old Noah Stolas, was a prominent real estate developer who later went into politics in a big way, and the son followed in his hefty size-fifteen footsteps. Noah’s pappy ran a sawmill in Florida. He also growed cane sugar and whipped his nigras something fierce. Noah’s grand pappy ran a grist mill somewhere way off in the big stick country, and was known for cheatin’ the farmers something awful. Noah’s great grandpappy on his father’s side?  They say that over in England he was a highbinder and an unreconstructed blackguard. As an unlucky convict, he was destined to hang for black deeds, but somehow somewhere good fortune smiled, and instead he was sentenced to transportation for life. 

“On his mother’s side though, Cokey Stolas is related to the Batchelders and the Tallents. Small world, ain’t it? So him and Mawny are third cousins or something like that. 

“You ever hear of how, if some fellers had brains, they’d be half-way dangerous? Well, the Stolas clan had brains a-plenty. They never done a lick of work unless there was something in it for them, extra. They never gave away a thin dime to any pore stranger, so far as I know, unless they expected to get it back twenty-fold later on. Folks thought they was ‘respectable’ because they donated to the church, but they treated their own servants something awful. In his younger days, before he beefed up to where he couldn’t see his own pecker, old Cokey used to paw the servin’ girls around something terrible. Folks say he must of birthed about a dozen bastards. Droit de Siegnur, as they say in the old country. You see, early on, the Stolas clan learned that better than being a farmer, and staring at a mule’s ass all all day, it was far better to swindle farmers, and look into the face of a lovely lass. No, Yob, no one ever got fat trying to put one over on the Stolas bunch! 

“You know, they say that deep in the murky past, one of the Stolas bunch was said to of married an Injun Squaw, and that there might have even been a lick of the ol’ tarbrush in their racial composition. A Senegambian in the woodpile, so to speak. And that’s why Stolas will never be president. Me, personally, I think the man is too rich and powerful to even want the job. 

“After all, what IS a President these days? He’s little better’n a branch manager with a hundred million customers. He’s at the beck and call of all the Steel Barons and Cow Barons and Drug Barons and Railroad Titans and the OILY-garchy down in Texas. Why, don’t you know that nowadays they don’t even LET you be President unless, deep down, you’re exactly THEIR kind of feller?  

“Lincoln was a great man, they say. Greater than Washington. Washington was the father of our country, sure. But it it hadn’t been for Lincoln, he would of been the father of Twins, if you get my drift. But even Honest Abe earned his crust as a corporation lawyer. And it was a fluke that the big goof even got elected in the first place. And when he won his second term, I’m supposing some enterprising souls decided that he was cramping their style–cutting into their business–and so they had him removed. They very near done the very same to his successor. But they left Grant alone, as he was something of a chucklehead. No–it don’t pay to be TOO honest, if you get my drift. 

“Anyway, old Stolas is a bad ‘un…and if you see him coming, you just might want to run the other day. Don’t be rude–but don’t worry overmuch that you’re going to hurt his feelings, because I’m sure he has none. 

“In fact, sometimes I think he AIN’T entirely human. And that’s no Harvard lie.”


1* SALUTATION

MIKE OLDFIELD

INCANTATIONS

https://youtu.be/7uBRs7qBDg8

2*REFERENCE
CAPGRAS SYNDROME
“Today we think that what is false and artificial in the world around us is substantive and meaningful. It’s not that loved ones and friends are mistaken for simulations, but that simulations are mistaken for them.”  
getpocket.com/explore/item/to-understand-facebook-study-capgras-syndrome  


3*HUMOR

THE CHRISTMAS PANIC

Panic #1 was banned in Boston.In 1953.
cbldf.org/2013/12/tales-from-the-code-the-christmas-panic/  


4*NOVELTY

CRAZED ADVERTISING MIDGETS

www.lileks.com/institute/comicsins/comics/misc/6.html


ALSO SEE:
MR. COFFEE NERVES

www.lileks.com/institute/comicsins/comics/coffeenerves/14.html  

SEE ALSO:
HEY, SKINNY!
starrcards.com/from-charles-atlas-to-count-dante-evolution-of-over-the-top-comic-book-ads-for-mma-instruction/  


SEE ALSO:
THE STRANGE HISTORY OF COMIC BOOK ADVERTISEMENTS
www.syfy.com/syfywire/the-strange-history-of-comic-book-advertisements  


ALSO SEE:

CHUM FRINK

I sat alone and groused and thunk, and scratched my head and sighed and wunk, and groaned, There still are boobs, alack, who’d like the old-time gin-mill back; that den that makes a sage a loon, the vile and smelly old saloon! I’ll never miss their poison booze, whilst I the bubbling spring can use, that leaves my head at merry morn as clear as any babe new-born!–Chum Frink
www.enotes.com/topics/babbitt/text/chapter-viii#root-176  

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST

IRAN

“Boys go to Baghdad. Real men go to Tehran.”–Senior Bush Official, May 2003
lobelog.com/boys-go-to-baghdad-real-men-go-to-tehran/
www.counterpunch.org/2006/01/17/real-men-go-to-tehran/  

Oh shit.


DON’T THINK IN TERMS OF THE SCATOLOGICAL.
THINK IN TERMS OF THE ESCHATOLOGICAL.  


The military has had a hard-on against Iran since ’79. But they wouldn’t be shoveling billions down a sandhole unless they saw a bubblin’ crude at the end of the rainbow.  


THEME SONG:

https://youtu.be/iIpfWORQWhU

6* DAILY UTILITY

COUNTERPRODUCTIVE SJWS

medium.com/human-development-project/sjw-behaviors-that-hurt-social-justice-a445916583ce  


7*CARTOON

FLORIDA MAN

cheezburger.com/4043525/24-times-florida-man-inspired-insane-headlines  


8*PRESCRIPTION

BODY-SHAMING

www.rebelcircus.com/blog/worst-body-shaming-sexist-ads-recently-come/  


ALSO SEE: 

WHY THE WORLD NEEDS FEMINISM

medium.com/human-development-project/these-vintage-ads-illustrate-why-the-world-needs-feminism-b8549a3edffa   


9* RUMOR PATROL

ASTEROID BENNU

https://youtu.be/q9KoyOaXo10

10*LAGNIAPPE

STIFF LITTLE FINGERS

ROUGH TRADE

https://youtu.be/gP2g-4_feh8

ALSO SEE:
PETER TOWNSHEND
ROUGH BOYS
https://youtu.be/dkT8W6u81Ks


SEE ALSO:

THE DAMBUILDERS

SMOOTH CONTROL

https://youtu.be/PEnHf4E_OZw

11*DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
ELTON JOHN’S GOODBYE YELLOW BRICK ROAD LP IS FAR MORE TRANSGRESSIVE THAN THE VELVET UNDERGROUND EVER WERE.


First song, “Love Lies Bleeding,” is a thinly disguised story about a jilted homosexual.
“Candle in the Wind” is about a gay icon.
“Bennie and the Jets” is about a butch doyenne in fetish gear from out of a stroke rag.
“Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” slyly references Judy Garland and is about some rough trade jilted by his homosexual lover.
“This Song Has No Title” is about a naive young man who comes to the big city and learns some things.
“Grey Seal” is about some wise old American Indian or something.
The subject matter of “Jamaica Jerk Off” is self-evident even to a child.
“I’ve Seen That Movie Too” is about some kind of porn flick or something.
“Sweet Painted Lady” is no lady.
“The Ballad of Danny Bailey” is about some rough trade who gets slaughtered.
“Dirty Little Girl” is a misogynist’s catalog of woman-hatred.
“All the Girls Love Alice” is a celebration of lesbianism.
“Your Sister Can’t Twist” is, somewhat slyly, about taboo sex.
“Saturday Night’s All Right For Fighting”: More rough trade.
“Roy Rodgers” is a masturbatory fantasy about a big husky cowboy with a rod.
“Social Disease” is about an alcoholic who is also suffering from VD.
And “Harmony” is about an encounter which takes place in what is presumably a gay bar.    


12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE
APPLEBEE’S
 I think they should change the name of Applebee’s and Cracker Barrel and similar eateries to I HATE MYSELF AND I WANT TO DIE.  

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THE INFORMATION #1045 MAY 17, 2019

THE INFORMATION #1045  
MAY 17, 2019
Copyright 2019 FRANCIS DIMENNO
dimenno@gmail.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

TWENTIETH ANNIVERSARY EDITION

All through history, there have always been people who got in the way.–William Remington

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER TWELVE: PART SIXTY-TWO: THE EASTERN GATE OF PARADISE    

“I’ll tell you something else, Mawny,” said Glen Phillips to William Batchelder Tallent, “about newspapermen. First and foremost, they are some of the most spiteful prima donnas alive. Almost as bad as actors. Especially the ones who fancy themselves gay dogs. Getting the story is their primary motive. Once they do that, they care not who writes the nation’s laws. Their nauseating obsession with ‘scoops’ is surely one of the most degrading characteristics of that benighted bunch. The most eminent of that motley crew are completely without morals and blindly aggressive–a dangerous combination, wouldn’t you say? Most of them wouldn’t hesitate to run over their own grandmothers for a front page byline. And they’ll gloss over every extenuating circumstance and run only the most spectacularly condemnatory information to gain that end. They’re always in a hurry to rush SOMETHING into print. And they never check their stories. Conclusions first; confirmation later, if at all. 
“Why, when it comes to cutting corners, these reporters have the businessmen and even the politicians beat all hollow! If they want to ruin a man, they have over a dozen ways to do it. One is to assume that every public figure has one and only one distinguishing characteristic. And they’ll run that into the ground, usually by assigning the great man whom they wish to tear down some sort of belittling nickname, like ‘Curly’ for a bald man, or ‘Slim’ for a fat fellow. In their hands, every simple barroom brawl becomes a three-alarm donnybrook. The only people they ever talk to on a regular basis are others like them, so they assume that the whole world is as cynical as they are. They sneer at sentiment and despise weakness. They are Spartans, and they hate the Athenians. What they call their sense of humor often devolves into mere mockery. But they will never, ever criticize anybody who is in a position to do them some good. That is why they have no fixed political beliefs, other than a vague notion that they should be able to say whatever they please, as it says so in the first amendment. 


“Who do they attack? Why, it really all depends on whose ox is to be gored that day. The edict will come from on high: ‘Puff Cleveland. Blast Blaine.’ Or vice versa, depending on where the money is, and whether the publisher is a Democrat or a Republican. So the newspaper boys will always preach to the choir. Always. And they’ll fawn to win the favor of the sorts of caddish readers who ought to be roundly ignored, if not horsewhipped at high noon in the town square. I wish I had a quarter for every scoundrel who was praised to the skies, and a dollar for every good man who was brought down by low slanders. I would have a cool million, and in short order, too. 


“Reporters are obsessed with brutal and garish murders. As are we all. Which they well know. You ask them why don’t they report on some of the good that people manage to do in this fallen world, and, to a man, they will answer that there’s no story there. They know everything that happened today, very little about recent history, unless it suits their purpose, and nothing at all about anything that happened before they were born. They dote on the eminent and wealthy and despise the great mass of people as mere ciphers. Which, of course, is why the long practice of journalism is the worst kind of training for an aspiring Tolstoy. This is not to say that some reporters don’t manage to transcend their background. But most of them have never cultivated a long view, nor do they care to. They would rather report on a five-alarm fire than cover the hundreds of lynchings that take place down south every year, or expose the degree to which the money power rules this land. Serious discourse? They leave that for their bosses, the big-money men, to determine what is and what is not ‘serious’ and worthy of sustained attention. Small wonder that egalitarianism gets short shrift, and the law of the jungle is praised to the skies. And when it comes to choosing between writing about something that is geared to the minds of the stupes and selecting a topic which would engage the attention of thoughtful men, why, they will write the stupid story every single time. Too much cogitation, you see, might cut into their drinking time. For they are all infamous lushers. They drink to forget. They have to, in order to live with themselves. So please, Mawny, tell me that you aren’t going to set yourself up as a newspaperman. Better to be a poet, and starve to death in a garret. Or, for that matter, a piano-player in a whorehouse.


“Of course, if you do manage to set yourself up in the newspaper game, after covering the police blotter for several years, you might get to become a critic. You can know two tunes, and one of them ain’t ‘Yankee Doodle,’ and set yourself up as a music critic. Or you can see ‘Ten Nights in a Bar-Room,’ once, and write five hundred words of balderdash, and nab yourself a cushy job as a drama critic. Or, if you know how to skim through a damned thick book and get the gist of it, you can be a book-reviewer. Only don’t try to be a sportswriter unless you know all the rules of all those foolish games inside and out. The other fellows will eat you alive. They don’t much care for greenhorns forcing their way into their racket. “No newspaperman is any better than he has to be. In fact, there’s no difference between him, the crooks whose exploits he documents, or the crooked cops and informants from whom he gets the bulk of his flaming hot poop. No, if you want to go into the newspaper racket, a publisher is what you want to be. But you won’t be able to do that unless you have a boatload of money. 


“Marry rich, Mawny, marry rich–that’s the only remedy for it.”


1* SALUTATION
HOLY MODAL ROUNDERS
BAD BOY
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fmhoSUQdPiE

SKY DIVERS
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j73SEtRBL5c&feature=youtu.be&t=41   

THE IWW SONG
https://youtu.be/pbt7VKYs6Z0?t=67

2*REFERENCE
THE GROSSNESS OF MCDONALD’S
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tSrv5L07fhs  

3*HUMOR
RIGHT-WING RADIO DUCK
https://youtu.be/HfuwNU0jsk0

4*NOVELTY
ICONIC PLAYBOY COVERS
https://www.thedailybeast.com/60-years-of-playboy-the-most-iconic-playboy-covers-from-marilyn-monroe-to-kim-kardashian

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
THAT’S NOT FUNNY
documentarylovers.com/film/thats-not-funny/

6* DAILY UTILITY
 A good mechanic is worth his weight in gold.
https://dr-hermes.livejournal.com/312533.html
A dishonest mechanic (such as you will find at most dealerships) is lower than bilge scum. 
 
7*CARTOON
THE SHAME OF FAT-SHAMING
envisioningtheamericandream.com/2016/10/03/the-shame-of-fat-shaming/  

8*PRESCRIPTION
HALLUCINOGENS AND THE BRAIN
Sorry, folks. Don’t mean to be a bummer. I was a state of mass public health librarian for two years. I went to two research retreats at Salve Regina and a RADAR conference in denver. Soo…I know the type of damage that regular dosing, even microdosing, can do. Message: I care. 

What kind of damage? Short, non-technical answer: Hallucinogens tamper with your selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors.

Longer, more technical answer:

“…both serotonergic hallucinogens and NMDA antagonists disrupt information processing within corticostriato-thalamic pathways implicated in the pathogenesis of psychotic disorders.”
www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3181663/

This can lead to depression, schizophrenia, and bipolar disorders, particular in individuals with a family history of same.

However:
www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/evolutionary-psychiatry/201806/hallucinogens-and-depression

9* RUMOR PATROL
 IN OTHER NEWS: ONION HEADLINES ARE REAL
www.literallyunbelievable.org  

10*LAGNIAPPE
CUTENESS OVERLOAD
KEITH HARRIS
ORVILLE’S SONG
https://youtu.be/2c8PUVIKgI4

BARBRA STREISAND
I’M FIVE
https://youtu.be/EHHWK1_XN10

BARELY THERE
https://youtu.be/r5XIyKlLThs

11*DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
THE CURE: ROBERT SMITH SURE HAS GOTTEN FATGROSSEST HITS
I Eat At Subway Song
Meatcook
Three Imaginary Bistros
The Weedy Glutton
Gastric Passion
Jumping Someone Else’s Buffet Line
Three (Meals a Day)
Mmm
(I Eat My Dinner in) Seventeen Seconds
The Roly Poly Hour
Going-Home-to-Eat Time
The Hanging Olive Garden
One Hundred Beers
Salad Dressing Up
The Empty Stomach
In Between Dinners
If Only Tonight We Could Eat
From the Edge of the Deep Green Seafood Buffet
Club Sandwich America
Wild Food Swings
The Last Day of Dinner
The Hungry Guest
Chocolate Sometimes
 Pictures of Food 
 Killing an Arab Buffet  
 Dis Dinner Ration 
 
12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE
FUTURE MUSICAL GENRES
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_popular_music_genres  
Kryptonian Gamelan
Janky Thrash
Fat Load Speed Metal
Acid Country
Twelve-stepper Sea Shanties
Cartoon Danger Music
School of Hard Knocks Experimental Noise
Three Hot Bitches and One Fat Girl Pirate Metal
Lowly Russian Serf Music
Jeffin’ Uncle Tom Rap
Work Hard Play Hard Yacht Rock
Muppet Corpse Grinder Shoegaze
Buckin’ Bronco Ghetto House
Warm ‘n’ Fuzzy Grunge
Lesbian Fuck-Buddy Boogie Woogie
Vapecore
Doughface Swing
Psychedelic Hitler Folk
Mugwump Grindcore
Progressive Silence Denial
Blood Diamond Wonkbeat
Classical Surf
Ancient Grains Dubstep
Reactionary New Age
Outlaw Hokum
Jangle Reggae
Wall of Hate
Sissycore
Ruff Tuff Math Rock
Free Jazz Charleston
Christian Dixieland
MAGA Rock en Espanol
Novelty Drone
Juke Joint Space Music
Munchkin Rumba
Third Stream Cha Cha Cha
Big Boy Chords
Stumbo Rock
Granma’s Li’l Devil Screamo a capella
 Toughguy Bubblegum.
Death Metal Klezmer.
Gangsta Balinese
Black Metal Broadway Musical
Field Holler Electronica
Melodic No-wave.
Appalachian Folk/80’s Synth Pop
Gangsta Emo
Progressive Oi!
Expressionist Verite.
Black Nationalist Minstrelsy.
Prog-Hop
Industrial Bluegrass
Hardcore Skiffle
Gangsta Kinks
Humble Metal
Proto-Fascist Psychedelia
‘Eefin jazz
Gentle Ben Thug Rock
Thucidydes Rap
Thurston Howell III Funk Boogie
A Capella Satancore  

THE INFORMATION #1044 MAY 10, 2019

THE INFORMATION #1044 MAY 10, 2019
Copyright 2019 FRANCIS DIMENNO
dimenno@gmail.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com


Journalism largely consists in saying “Lord Jones is dead” to people who never knew Lord Jones was alive.― G.K. Chesterton  

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE

BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER TWELVE: PART SIXTY-ONE: THE EASTERN GATE OF PARADISE


“Have you ever thought, Mawny” said Glen Phillips to William Batchelder Tallent, “of going into journalism?’

“Well….”, said Bill.

“Well, don’t,” Glen Phillips snapped. “Not that I’m in the business of discouraging young Talent. Or young Tallent,” he said with a chuckle. “But don’t do it. My Pater runs a paper, you know, and he says that writing is a mug’s game. Any man with any sense would go into politics. Or business, if he has money. because, as we all know, business is the fourth branch of government. At least, here in the 19th century. Maybe things will be different in the twentieth. I’m not banking on it, though.I will admit that you do display some aptitude in that line. But, knowing you, you’ll always want to do things the hard way. Why is that? You seem pretty sensible when it comes to putting words together. Why is it that you can’t manage your life? I’ll bet you would turn out to be just the type of reporter my old man detests. The kind who shows off by using big words to describe simple things. The kind who wants the world to know how smart he is by throwing in obscure historical references that have nothing to do with the story.

“Or, even worse, you’d probably turn out to be the tough egg with the bleeding heart of gold who must–must!–report on the plight of poor. All those vagabonds who live their short and wretched lives in squalor and misery. All those unfortunate beggars who are the poor victims  of circumstance, of the inexorable law of nature, or of a crooked boss–or all three.The wretched scum of the earth who are driven by starvation and need to live in the streets, where they immediately to crime, and are eventually caught throwing bombs at the police station. Or–and this one I hate the most–the shining exemplar who studies his ABCs and works his way up from nothing by selling canned tomatoes door to door to dagoes and polacks and who eventually grows up to manage a big tomato-canning factory. Get one thing very clear: Rags to riches is a Goddamned myth, my boy, no matter what fucking Horatio Alger says. Are you aware that he was run out of Massachusetts for doing things with small boys?

“What things?”

“Terrible things.”

William Batchelder Tallent was silent. Glen Phillips resumed.

“I’m guessing that in New York, they don’t much care about that sort of reputation. Anyway, that man is a joke. He has never down put a single original thought, and, as far as I’m concerned, he couldn’t write his way out of a paper bag. And yet they worship him, the dolts! He wastes his time telling fairy tales about a nobody who becomes a big success because he stop a runaway horse from trampling the boss’s daughter. Bosso, there, is allegedly so grateful he gives the lad a job at twenty-five per and grooms him for management. The fair-haired Boy Wonder and the flaxen-haired daughter fall in love, and Poppa gives them his blessing, even though he has warned her repeatedly about screwing the Hired Hand. And they all live happily ever after. But old Horatio leaves out one thing. One thing he knows all too well. You don’t get something for nothing. Nature itself cries out against the very thought! Furthermore, it’s scientifically impossible. You can bet that the fair-haired boy will, at the very least, be asked to participate in some pretty unsavory business. Like selling shiny death candy to toddlers, or some such. You would not believe the stuff they put in gumdrops! Enough lead and arsenic to kill a healthy rat. And who do they sell it to? Innocent sprats. The smallest of the small fry. 

“In any event, plenty soon enough, reporters start to sympathize with the values of their employers, who aren’t exactly running a charity concern. Even if they’re of humble origins–and many of them all–a college degree is as rare as a three-legged hen in the reporting racket–many of them begin to take on airs, and start in to thinking that because they get to interview famous men, and eminent personalities, why, that means that they’re some punkins themselves, and clearly of a higher grade than the grubby hoi polloi who read their scandal sheets.  Before too very long, they take to wearing fancy hats, and snappy garters, and smoking fifty-cent cigars.  

“Because in this sadly fallen world we live in, the reporter does have a certain amount of power to shape our ends. He can make a man look ridiculous in the most subtle ways. By noting, for instance, that he wears too much perfume and smokes his cigars with the band still on. Clearly a parvenu, and probably a bounder as well. Or by noting that his linen isn’t particularly clean. Or, as a last resort, a conniving reporter can simply leave in all the ‘ums’ and ‘ers’ that a normal person uses whenever he’s talking naturally. This makes the subject out to be a cast-iron dolt. 

“Ho! On the other hand! He can make even the most sinister Corsair look noble just by using just a few simple tricks. Like, pointing out that even though he’s an eminent politician or captain of industry, he still likes to go to vaudeville shows to enjoy a chuckle. That, you see, is meant to indicate that he ain’t no stuffed shirt. No–he has ‘the common touch’. Or he can point out that some Judas Iscariot may have a bad reputation, but that he always carries around those newfangled dog biscuits, in case he happens to come across some slavering mutt in the middle of the street. Or, he can tell us that that some greedy Genghis Khan character likes to distribute dimes to small boys, and tousle their hair for ’em as he dispenses his largesse. Or, if all else fails, he can report that Mr. Caligula is good to his aged mother, and has bought her a nice cozy little cottage with all the major modern conveniences. . That one gets ’em every time. Sentimental hog-wash and sensational balderdash–that’s the hireling’s stock in trade! ‘Always dumb it down!’ That’s his motto! And he’ll dish it out for just as long as there’s a buyer–and–never fear–there always is.  

“Mawny, when it comes right down to it, a newspaperman is a lot like a garbageman. Only–get this–a garbageman is paid to TAKE THE TRASH AWAY.”


1* SALUTATION
ALLEN GINSBERG
BIRDBRAIN
https://youtu.be/hc4Oda0hrnY

PERE UBU

CHINESE RADIATION

https://youtu.be/1DffSs5t-eA


MADE FOR TV

SO AFRAID OF THE RUSSIANS

https://youtu.be/AVf7m_YZ2zY

2*REFERENCE
DO WE STILL NEED POETRY?

The world has never “needed” poets. But poets are, as Shelley once said, “the unacknowledged legislators of mankind.” So one should take the long view. 


Read these lines:  

I met Murder on the way–
He had a mask like Castlereagh–
Very smooth he looked, yet grim;
Seven blood-hounds followed him:
 
All were fat; and well they might
Be in admirable plight,
For one by one, and two by two,
He tossed them human hearts to chewChange the names, and it would speak to the human condition today. But the lines were written by Shelley, in 1819.

SEE:

THE MASK OF ANARCHY

http://knarf.english.upenn.edu/PShelley/anarchy.html


ALSO SEE:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Masque_of_Anarchy


3*HUMOR
MOVIE DISASTERS & BOX-OFFICE BOMBS

So much money is spent making bad art that isn’t even entertaining and that people don’t even like.
http://collider.com/galleries/box-office-bombs-famous-directors/  

4*NOVELTY
FARMERS ONLY

THE FISHING DATE

https://youtu.be/hzAwU_1JzYI

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
TRUMP VS. DAILY NEWS

interactive.nydailynews.com/2016/07/donald-trump-daily-news-front-pages/

ALSO SEE:
TRUMP VS. SPY

pando.com/2015/07/23/short-fingered-vulgarian-cometh/ 


SEE ALSO:

TRUMP INTERVIEW FROM 1989

https://youtu.be/biJhYyuc4gg 

ALSO SEE:

ROY COHN

nymag.com/intelligencer/2018/04/frank-rich-roy-cohn-the-original-donald-trump.html?fbclid=IwAR0GCu_MmQlqU00UeeXLC5whs6Awr5yC3g-1LLVesp6XPd3YKRthYqI1czg   

ALSO SEE:

THE MUELLER REPORT

www.theatlantic.com/ideas/archive/2019/04/ben-wittes-five-conclusions-mueller-report/588259/?utm_source=pocket-newtab  

6* DAILY UTILITY
HOW TO WRITE POETRY

Read poetry. Lots of poetry,

Start with Blake. Work your way up to Wordsworth and John Clare. Read some Emily Dickinson and Robert Herrick. Then try Tennyson, Thomas Hardy, Edward Arlington Robinson, Robert Burns, Robert Browning, Robert Frost, and Edgar Lee Masters.

After that, you might wish to sample Keats, Shelley, Byron, Coleridge, Yeats, Auden, and Matthew Arnold.

From there, you might want to look at the modernists: Eliot, Pound, Wallace Stevens, Hart Crane, William Carlos Williams, and Dylan Thomas.

Then, perhaps, you could backtrack, and read the works of poets such as Thomas Gray, Alexander Pope, John Skelton, Spenser, Dryden, Marvell, John Milton, Thomas Wyatt, Philip Sidney, and William Shakespeare. 

7*CARTOON
DIE VERWANDLUNG
None of the translations of Kafka’s Die Verwandlung are any more than merely satisfactory. Right down to the title. “Metamorphosis” is misleading. Verwandlung really means “transformation”. 


Which implies that the protagonist’s family, also, is transformed.

ALSO SEE:
THE GRAPHIC GREGOR SAMSA: CAN KAFKA’S CREATURE BE BROUGHT TO LIFE?
BY SAMANTHA J. SACKS
https://digitalcommons.bard.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1129&context=senproj_s2016  


SEE ALSO:

R. CRUMB ILLUSTRATES KAFKA

https://www.brainpickings.org/2015/04/01/r-crumb-kafka/ 


ALSO SEE:

CANCEL CULTURE COMES FOR COUNTERCULTURAL COMICS

https://reason.com/2019/04/29/cancel-culture-comes-for-count/ 

8*PRESCRIPTION
THERE IS NO HOPE WITH DOPE

https://youtu.be/pm4tzvtX3ow

9* RUMOR PATROL
UNFOUNDED CONSPIRACY THEORIES

Often hinge upon a mere coincidence of names.
“Kennedy’s secretary was named Lincoln!!! Lincoln’s secretary was named Kennedy!!! WOW!” (Not true, by the way.)
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lincoln%E2%80%93Kennedy_coincidences_urban_legend


ALSO SEE:
KING KILL 33: Masonic Symbolism in the Assassination of John F.Kennedy
https://www.revisionisthistory.org/kingkill33.html


10*LAGNIAPPE
TONY CONRAD & FAUST

OUTSIDE THE DREAM SYNDICATE

https://youtu.be/FGMnDcwoXns


ALSO SEE:FAUST

FREE YOURSELF

https://youtu.be/fsc-dH99oC4


FAUST

MISS FORTUNE

https://youtu.be/Epuga2JoF8A?t=1057

11*DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
OVERUSED TROPES

Check out the website tvtropes.com and you’ll find thousands of them.

One of the most irksome is explicated thus:

I’m a little surprised I haven’t been able to find this one, but I haven’t yet: an underground network of people beneath notice – service professionals, homeless, taxi drivers – who use their connections to aid the hero… or the antagonist.
https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/query.php

In folklore studies, this is known as “the magical helper”.

SEE:
Vladimir Propp:
https://prezi.com/rvcmcasuovn2/vladimir-propps-theory/


12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE
CHAIN RESTAURANTS

Why drive twenty minutes or more, wait twenty minutes or more, and pay double, plus a tip, for the dubious privilege of eating food that isn’t really very wholesome and which might not be very clean?

When, with a little forethought you can prepare a delicious and nutritious meal for your family at home in about the same amount of time?

Only fools would gobble that greasy chow and think it edible, let alone scrumptious. Eating any of that garbage food will drastically shorten your life, so why do it?  

Make all the excuses you want. But eating out at such places is the opiate of the lower middle class.

MODERN WISDOM NUMBER 250 MAY 2019

MODERN WISDOM

NUMBER 250

MAY 2019

Copyright 2019 Francis DiMenno

dimenno@gmail.com

http://www.dimenno.wordpress.com

1. NOIR MISFORTUNE COOKIES

SECOND SERIES

751. She couldn’t care any more for you than if you never existed.

752. Even your lawyer knows you are guilty of horrible crimes.

753. You were once a well-tuned crook but you have lost the beat.

754. Even your best friends now think that you’re painfully needy.

755. Police business has now become your business as well.

756. You have always been a big talker, with microscopic ambition.

757. You took the day off. Now they’ll take your skin off, slave.

758. You have 1000 great ideas but only one of them is any good.

759. Why is it so hard for you to believe they all want you dead?

760. You killed twelve. Thirteen will be your unlucky number.

761. You blew your rent money on floozies. Now you live in a dumpster.

762. Why did you have to go and piss off Joe Pesci & Danny DeVito?

763. You will be caught in the flood of days and left with nothing.

764. Stop hoping. You missed that gravy train. There won’t be another.

765. You call yourself a gourmet. Soon you will savor the taste of death.

766. It’s not worth their while to kill you. Easier to make you suffer.

767. The web of death is open. Enter, fly.

768. The Big Man has sinned. But it is you who will pay.

769. Mercy and fairness have been torn out of their rulebook. Run!

770. Remember, weakling: He who hesitates is dead.

771. You have so many skeletons no boneyard can hold them.

772. They will drown you in vinegar–and what a pickle you’ll be in!

773. You’re innocent but the Jury will decide you’re vicious. Goodbye!

774. The memory of blood is sticky. No amount of booze will wash it off.

775. You never were a good thief. You left tracks a mile wide.

776. Your list of transgressions are monotonously predictable.

777. Don’t get too big. Better a live flea than a dead dog.

778. Why go to hell, when all the devils are in you?

779. You are not even a chicken–you are a cracked egg.

780. You will die of indigestion. Too many lead pills.

781. You acted like W.C. Fields. Now you’re buried in a field.

782. Trash man, all the boys call your wife the come dumpster.

783. Death will visit you. Little Deathie will visit your baby son.

784. Good advice falls uselessly on your dead ears.

785. Even the uncivilized consider you a filthy savage beast.

786. You’re a fool because you don’t know why you are a fool.

787. Self-deprecation is the only thing that keeps you going.

788. You are so toxic even Cancer won’t come near you.

789. You’re only a penny-ante chiseler–but they will send you to The Rock.

790. You are a cat being chased by a horde of hungry rats.

791. You want riches. And the suckers in hell want ice water. Too bad.

792. Murder is serious. You thought it was a joke. The joke’s on you. 

793. If ignorance is bliss then you’re one Happy Hooligan.

794. The detective on your case never takes vacations.

795. You can leave town but you can’t get away from your foolish mistakes.

796. When money talks, you’re the one wearing earplugs.

797. For you, any change is for the better–even sweet death.

798. Your only friends are fools like you who have lost everything.

799. Form the mines to the war to the hospital to the grave–tough luck.

800. Even when you try to tell the truth they say you lie.

2. MODERN WISDOM

Why must we eat ham to celebrate the alleged resurrection of a hallucinating Jewish Rabbi?

Was Nagasaki merely some manly horseplay that went just a little too far?

Poor Nagasaki! All the radiation and none of the fame.

Poor Nagasaki! Always a bridesmaid, never a bride.

I no longer give money to the church. I can’t believe in a God who wants to be bribed all the time.

Nostalgia is more than it used to be.

Every politician invariably reaches a point where only his ideological enemies still find him worth talking about.

Coaches are priests…with whistles.

Science Fiction is kind of like baseball for people who throw like girls.

Graffiti is just philosophy with the word “fuck” thrown in.

Nobody wins the Pirhana Bowl.

Hi, I’m inviting you total strangers to like my Facebook page because I’m needy and I require continual validation, or I’ll melt.

Do you name your favorite eating utensils? Mine are called Big Sharpie, L’il Sharpie, Big Spoonie…and Eldridge Cleaver.

Why do they call it Chili? It’s actually hot.

3. THE GREAT LOST THREE STOOGES CHRISTMAS SHORT
The Three Stooges in “The Three Wise Morons”

A faded parchment scroll unfolds. On it are written the words, in a text resembling Hebrew characters.


AND IT CAME TO PASS IN THOSE DAYS THAT THREE WISE MEN CAME OUT OF THE EAST. AND THEIR NAMES WERE KING MOECHIOR OF PERSIA, PRINCE LARRYTHAR OF ARABIA, AND LORD CURLYPAR OF INDIA.

Christmas time. Unspecified location in the desert. We see Moe, Larry, and Curly, stumbling around under the unforgiving glare of the desert sun.


Curly: Hmm…don’t look now, but I think we’re about to die of thirst!
Off in the distance, they begin to hear a roaring sound.
Curly: Sounds like a bear! 
Moe: What’s a bear doing in the desert? 
Curly: Well, it’s bear-y possible! 
Moe smiles, does a double take, and then slaps Curly.
Larry: Wait! Look! [He points to a sign which reads, in Hebrew Script, “Cairo: Fifty Parasangs.”
Curly: I’ve got an uncle in Cairo.
Moe: Oh yeah?
Curly: He’s a chiropractor. Nyuk, Nyuk, Nyuk.
Moe: What else does the sign say, Porcupine?
Larry: “Giva Dam: Ten Parasangs. Jerusalem: One Parasang”.
Moe: Oh, you’re an intelligent imbecile! If you’re so smart, tell me this: How many fingers am I holding up?
Larry: Two. [Moe pokes him in the eyes.]
Larry: I can’t see! I can’t see! 
Moe: What’s the matter? 
Larry: [Smug] I’ve got my eyes closed. [Moe slaps him.]

They arrive at Bethlehem, where, at a souk, the boys are hired by a crooked contractor, a shady-looking Arab portrayed by Emil Sitka, to build a cattle barn and a manger. Various anachronistic mishaps ensue. 

Moe mistakenly drills Larry’s head with a power drill, hammers a nail into Curly’s head, and then has a board fall from the roof onto his head and sees cheeping birdies. 

Larry tosses a burning rivet and Curly catches it and eats it, thinking it’s a felafel. 

A flower pot then falls on Curly’s head. He doesn’t notice. 

Larry puts Moe’s hand between two slices of bread. Curly bites it, thinking it’s a sandwich. Moe slaps them both and says “Spread out!” Larry says, “I’m sorry, Moe, it was an accident!” Moe says, “Get outta here!” Larry says “I’ll leave when I’m ready!” Moe gives him a hard look and says, “Are ya ready?” Larry meekly replies, “Yeah, I’m ready.” 

The Stooges then try to install plumbing and, in spite of the fact they are in the middle of the desert, water flows out of everything except the faucets: Out of a camel, a candle, and even a roaring fire in the fireplace. 

The Contractor’s wife, played by Symona Boniface, wanders into the half-completed building and is hit in the face with a plate of hummus.

Much to the dismay of the boys, once the cattle manger is finished, a father, a mother, and their baby move in.

Moe: Aww, lookit the little baby. 
Curly: My, ain’t he cute! 
Moe: Boy, you can say that again! 
Curly: My, ain’t he cute! 
Moe: Shut up! (Slaps him.)  
Larry: Why, this poor thing is pining away for a girlfriend! 
Curly: Or maybe a boyfriend. 
Moe: Quiet, numbskull. [Hits Curly on the head with an standing hookah. The hookah bends in half.]
Curly: Nyuk nyuk nyuk.
Moe: [poking him in the eyes] Knock it off, chowderhead.
Curly: Hey! I ain’t dumb! That was a number 16! The script called for a number 23!
Moe: Is that so? 

Moe violently tweaks Curly’s nose. 

Curly slaps his face, and barks at Moe. 

Larry laughs. Moe slaps Larry, and Larry slaps Curly. 

Curly turns to slap somebody and sees a camel. He’s about to slap the camel when the camel spits on him. Curly spins in a circle on the sand, saying “Woob woob woob!” The camel run away, and makes a ki-yi-yi noise like a frightened dog.

Larry: Hey Moe! Why does the poor baby have to sleep outside? On Christmas Day?
Curty: Nyuk nyuk nyuk.
Moe: [Bonks Curly on the head.] What are you laughing at, muttonhead? 
Curly: Because we have to sleep outside too! It’s Christmas! There’s no room at the inn. So they threw us out. 
Moe: You’re pretty smart for an imbecile!
Curly: Hey! I resemble that remark! 
Larry: Aww, I think we should build the baby a real crib.
Moe: Oh, you do, do you, Porcupine? (Grabs Larry’s nose with a pair of pliers and twists.)
Larry:  Nyaaaaaahhhhhhh! 
Moe: You mental midget! I’ll kill you later. Personally!
Curly: Hey, Moe! Maybe they were kicked out of the inn.
Larry: Or kicked in at the out. 
Moe: Oh, a wise guy, eh? (Moe takes off his sandal and hits Larry on the head.)
Curly: Nyuk nyuk nyuk.
Moe [glaring at him]: Why I oughtta….[He holds out a fist to Curly.Curly puts on a pair of spectacles.]
Curly: You wouldn’t hit a guy with glasses?
Moe: No, I’d hit him with a two-by-four. [He hits Curly with a board from the construction site.] 
Curly: I’m a victim of coicumstance! 
Larry: Hey! Cut the clownin’
 
Moe: You see that? [He puts puts his fist out for Larry to slap it down. Moe winds it in a circle and hits him on the head.]

[In the distance a baby cries.]

Curly: Hey Moe! Hey Larry! The baby’s cryin’! Let’s go see what he looks like! 
Moe: All right. Now then, gentlemen, remember your etiquette. [He slaps both Curly and Larry.] 
Larry: What’s that for?
Curly: We didn’t do nothin’!
Moe: That’s in case you do!  

They go to door of the cattle barn. 

Virgin Mary: What’s the Password?
Moe: Open–Says me!
Virgin Mary: Close enough. You can come in, but please be quiet. The baby is sleeping!

She lets them in. All three gather round the manger at a respectful distance to look at the Christ Child. All three of them recoil in horror when his face is revealed to be the face of Shemp. He is asleep, and makes a snoring sound, followed by “heebebebebebebeee!”  

Moe, Larry and Curly [in unison]: Nyaaaaaaaah!

The three of them flee. The last thing we hear is Curly saying “Woo-woo-woo-woo!”

Fade to Black. 

The End Card, with Greek Comedy/Tragedy masks.  

Music Out: “Three Blind Mice,” which segues into “The First Noel”.

In Memory of Tim Moynihan, aka Gus Murphy.


4. THE HIDDEN HISTORY OF THE 1960s

PART ONE

 Baby Boy Maddox said to me, “There are certain things that ordinary people are better off not knowing. Having control over somebody’s name is a curse. I know it for a fact. Having access to forbidden knowledge is part of the reason why the country is in the state it’s in.”


Maddox was talking, of course, from the vantage point of January of
1986–right in the middle of the Iran/Contra affair, but several
months before the scandal became common knowledge.

“You know who was big pals with George Bush? Nixon. And do you know
the reason for Nixon’s early success? It was because Tricky Dick had
sold his soul to sinister forces. Here’s the story as I heard it. When
he was Vice President, he was standing in the White House, in the Oval
Office, with Ike. They were standing in front of Ike’s portrait. Only
the name under the painting said “Eki”. It was “Ike” spelled
backwards. Ike said to Dick Nixon, “There’s something wrong with this
painting.” Nixon said nothing. Two days later, Ike went to Denver—a
mile high city–famous locus of sinister forces. Kerouac said it—“Down
in Denver, down in Denver, all I did was die.” While he was there, the
day after that, Ike had a heart attack. Two days later, the stock
market dropped nearly ten percent. Nixon acted all sorry, but
inwardly, he was greatly pleased. He thought he was all set. But Ike
recovered. It took him a month, and a lot of White Magic from Ike’s
doctor, but he recovered. Nixon’s devil mojo wasn’t strong enough to
carry Ike to his grave. Ike got depressed, and was scared, of course,
and he avoided Nixon after that. Tried to drop him from the ticket,
only he couldn’t. Nixon’s own name backwards was Noxin, you see, so he
was mostly safe from earthly interference.”

“Nixon, you see, was all mobbed up. It’s not speculation, but historic
fact. Everybody was mobbed up in those days–Hoover, Kennedy,
Kefauver, you name it. You know how the Mob will burn a holy card when
they swear you in? If that’s not proof of demonic entanglements, I
don’t know what is. That’s why Mobsters feel a need to get inside of
show biz. A performer is like a Shaman, and a Shaman can control
demonic spirits, and the Mob wants in on that, though actually they
play both sides of the fence and they also give money to the Church.
There’s a whole invisible world out there which most people know
nothing about, and they ought to be glad of it, because secret
knowledge brings nothing but trouble to the people who meddle in the
Grammerie. Because once you are in tune with the hidden forces, then
you can see every coincidence and every random incident as woven
together as part of a great chain of being. I am right and I will be
proven right.”

“Listen: Every sign, every symbol, every name, and every place is
connected. Every action is part of a larger ritual. And every ritual
makes something happen. Do you think that Nixon was unaware of how
Kennedy was assassinated? Here was one of the smartest men in the
country, and he just happened to be in Dallas on that day. And Kennedy
was sitting in a limo that was crawling smack dab into a hostile
two-sided monolith of deadly windows and hidden hedgerows. He was a
sitting duck, just like those soldiers who invaded Normandy and found
a Nazi hiding behind every bush!”

“No surprise there. That day in Dallas was an elaborate ritual that
was planned months ahead by a group of sinister alchemists whose
greatest desire was that someday their demon-brother Nixon/Noxin would
rule the country and plunge it, and the whole world, into
unpredictable chaos, which demons love. The King is Dead–long live
the King! The demons knew that LBJ was a cracked vessel–a deeply
flawed man whose reign would lead inexorably to bringing back the
Nixon/Noxin. Kennedy should have stood in bed that day. Or ducked down
low when he got to the killing ground. Johnson sure as hell did!”

“Listen,” said Baby Boy Maddox to me. “You’re a ‘Rad’. You’re probably
well aware that there were a great many people who just didn’t like
Nixon. Mostly, these were intuitive people who just had a funny
feeling about him. The so-called ‘rational’ man could see nothing
whatsoever that was wrong with Nixon/Noxin, because that sort of
person tend to discount demonic influence. Because they don’t see it,
and they don’t understand it. The radical elements, and the
cynics–they despised him. They could see right through him. They knew
he was a paper tiger. And the Catholics–all of them–they knew he was
rotten. And the bleeding hearts. But the corrupt forces welcomed him
as one of their own. A man they could talk to, a man who they could do
business with, a man who was bound by no scruples. A real stiffo,
sure–but he was no sob sister. He didn’t ask stupid questions, and he
kept his mouth shut. The CIA–Ho! The Agency absolutely loved the guy.
He was privy to some heavy-duty secrets about the Nazis, and he never
once opened his yap. He knew all about all the funny stuff they pulled
in the Middle East and in Central America, and he didn’t give a damn.
He was all for dropping a great big bomb on Vietnam, back in the 50s.
But Ike/Eki stayed his hand, and his reward was that he nearly ended
up in a casket.”

Suddenly, Baby Boy Maddox looked very serious. “Don’t you realize that
the demonic forces–I won’t even say their names, I can’t, certain
things are not allowed–don’t you realize that they actually FORCED
Nixon on Ike? In just the same way that they FORCED Bush on Reagan?
You may call me a crazy man, but I know what I know. When you hear
people talking about a winnable nuclear war–I don’t care how nice
they are to their dogs–you are talking about somebody who has been
infected with the virus of rationalism to such an extent that they
might not even realize that they have made a bargain with Satan!
Anyway, we’re not too sure of Bush’s whereabouts on that day in
Dallas, either. And who were those three tramps? Gedney, Doyle and
Abrams? Sounds like a law firm to me! It was the lawyers who did
Kennedy in. Policemen and Lawyers. Freaks and Truck Drivers. People
who grooved on Nixon/Noxin. I will name no names, but I know what I
know. Listen–let me tell you about politicians–there’s two types.
The ones who use their power, and the ones who hoard it. Kennedy used
his. Mostly to get laid, and to piss people off. Nixon hoarded his.
And when he used it, it was always without fail to get back at his
enemies. To give them the shaft. Nixon had something of the pervert
about him. Don’t ask me how I know this, but I do. It’s hardly common
knowledge, but there are signs. Strong mother, weak father. He was a
strange bird, at the very least. A freak. And you know what happens to
freaks. They are despised. So. All the people who at jeered him all
his life, said he was weak, said he was crooked, said he wasn’t a
man’s man? When he had the power, he went after every bummer who had
ever done him dirt. These numbered in the thousands. So he was a busy
man. Busier than a cat trying to bury a fresh turd on a frozen river.
Nixon only after went after the crumbs who he thought were weaker
than him. Kennedy was reckless. He went after people he didn’t like
and he didn’t pay too much attention about whether they might not find
a way to get back at him. That was his undoing. Nixon’s too, but that
came later.”

“Would you like to hear a pretty story about a man nicknamed Oswald
the Rabbit, who most people agreed was a harmless nut, who all of a
sudden grew the world’s biggest set of balls and managed to take out
Kennedy in broad daylight with the whole world watching? Well, you
won’t hear that fairy tale from me. Kennedy was a sacrificial lamb. So
was Oswald. So was Ruby. America is a violent place. And so was the
world of the Old Testament, on which it was founded. And so was
imperial Rome, ditto. Rome was full of murderers and rapists.
Perverted overlords, irrational deities, morbid conspiracies. Blood,
shit, and death. Sound familiar? It should. But you know the old
saying–“Money does not stink.” The English were known as a nation of
shopkeepers. When America took over that role, they were ruled then as
now by King Dollar. You don’t often get to hear the gossip–what all
the other kids in the world schoolyard say about the new kid on the
Imperial block. Say he’s a greedy, arrogant bully. Always telling
other people what to do. Liable to become dangerous if he doesn’t get
his way. Looking to turn the whole world into a prison planet, and him
the Boss Con. Dig–Gunsmoke. The Rifleman. Bonanza. These were three
of the most popular shows in November 1963. Now I know my ABCs–tell
me what you think of me?

“But I’m getting sidetracked here. Anyway, why do you suppose JFK went
to Dallas in the first place? He had just fired the Mayor’s brother,
you know. No love lost there. He needed Dallas like he needed a hole
in the head, if you get my drift. So why go there? To mend fences?
That’s the official line. Or maybe, in some mysterious way, he had a
death wish? Here’s what I’m saying. Uglyhead Kennedy was not a healthy
man. He was in constant pain. They had him on all sorts of steroids
and other drugs. The Kennedys, you know, were basically a bunch of
thugs led by Old Joe the Umbrella Man, the Nazi’s Pal. They liked 
to get drunk and play stupid games, and they were very very full of themselves. And they weren’t very good at keeping big secrets bottled up. They weren’t poker players, like Nixon/Noxin. You could tell from the look on their faces when they just didn’t like you. Same thing goes for the Bush family, too.”


“Anyway, why would Kennedy go to the camp of his sworn enemies? Was it
guts? Was it hubris? Or maybe he just got to a point where he just
didn’t give a damn. He wasn’t like Nixon, who always had to have a
good reason for getting even. Kennedy would go after you simply
because he didn’t like the cut of your jib. Simply because he thought
you were a crumb, and needed to be put down. He was always looking to
take on the bully of the town. Reckless, reckless, reckless man.
Looking to buck the CIA, the military, the Oil Men. Ready to kick
Hoover and Johnson to the curb. Pissing off Nixon’s pals–Marcello,
Trafficante, Roselli — and Bay of Pigs veterans–like Bernard Barker!
Hell, it’s hard to say who DIDN’T have it in for Kennedy. And if
Johnson had bothered to clue him in at all about Dallas, Kennedy would
have known that the place was crawling with bad sorcery. The Trinity
River. Love Field. Bloody Elem Street. “If you go down to Deep Elem
put your money in your shoe?” You ever hear of that one? Elem Street
was the old ghetto district–lots of unsolved murders there, and other
sketchy doings.

“Many a sad ghost lingers there still,” said Baby Boy Maddox. “And the
ghosts aren’t talking. Even a ghost knows how to keep its mouth shut.
Pagan rituals are scary things. But…you know what they say about the
mills of the gods–they grind exceeding small. Anyway, my theory is
that Nixon pissed off some of the very same people as Kennedy–but he
knew how to keep his mouth shut–he was exiled, like Napoleon–not
literally–no need for that–just left Washington in disgrace–and he
got off lightly, at that. Demons don’t usually mess around, but, like
I said, Nixon/Noxin had a name of mystical significance, which helped
protect him. Plus he had some very heavy friends. Behind every success
is a crime. A crime that never gets found out, if you know how to keep
your mouth shut.

“And sometimes friends can make all the difference,” said Baby Boy
Maddox, looking straight at me. “As you will see when I tell you the
rest of the story that I was told.”

“Before Kennedy got his, it was a different world. A strange world
full of old people with weird stuff in their heads. Crazy notions that
wouldn’t wash no more, only they just didn’t realize it. Because they
just didn’t get it. Because they didn’t have room for it in their tiny heads.
Because they were too damn old, born in the 1800s, some of them,
before there were cars and telephones and even electricity. And their
heads were still there. They pined for that world. The steaming horse apple,
gossip-over-the-back-fence, wood-burning-stove, family-circle kind of world.
A peasant world. And the peasant world was gone. Because JFK was Las
Vegas and LSD. Mr. Space Age, Mr. Univac, Mr. Modern World. JFK was
a threat to what used to be. That’s one reason why they had to wipe him out.
One last set of monsters from the ugly past rose up and laid him low. It was
the same old story, and the same sad old song–he rambled, he rambled,
he rambled–and the butchers cut him down.”

“But once JFK was elected, there was no looking back. There was no looking
back anyway, but he was a young man, and he sped the process along,
and old people didn’t like that. To them, he was a slickster; a
slack-jawed whippersnapper, an imposter, not a real President at
all–not like Ike, who looked like somebody’s Granpaw, or even Truman,
who could pass for your cranky uncle, and certainly not like
Roosevelt, who was everybody’s favorite rich cousin–Gander Gladstone,
maybe. It was a strange old world, before Kennedy–kids would kick up
their heels but mostly they liked the same things that adults did,
even if they didn’t realize it–listened to the same radio shows, read
the same comic books, even looked at the same movies. Back then,
there wasn’t any of this catering to kids. It was an adult world. Even as late as
1959, most of ’em dressed the same as adults. Hell, look at some of
the old yearbook photos from that era–teenagers even LOOKED like adults back then. Sure, there were the Outlaw Bikers, but they were psychos, and
everybody knew it. And there were also the so-called Beatniks, but that was
mostly confined to cities and they were always a pitiful minority.
They would have been ignored altogether if TV didn’t latch onto them
the way they did.

“But when Kennedy got in, you had all them damn folk singers–Commies,
the lot of ’em. And then Kennedy got killed and then you’d see the
youth of America have themselves a collective nervous breakdown, and
they mutated into hippies. Then Nixon got in, and you had all them plastic
hippies. Drug addicts, the lot of ‘em. Sheep for the shearing. Then you had
Watergate, and Ford, and along came cynics, and small-town hippies.
Then Carter, and Disco, and coke. Now we got Reagan,
and kids don’t know WHAT to do, so they mutilate themselves.”

“It’s a bad new world out there, and it all started in to turning sour
at the end of 1963. Old people sit outside for an hour a day to catch
some sunshine but they’re scared to death of all the drug dealers, so
mostly they stay indoors. And they watch the television and everything
they see on the devil box tells ’em that the world has passed ’em by.
Young and healthy animals are all you ever see on the tube.
When you do see oldsters, it’s when they’ve fallen and they can’t
get up. Or else they’re making impossible demands for beef.”

“Listen up, Sonny Jim–it ain’t only the town miser who’s begging for
Government cheese these days. It’s the young and healthy, too–people in the
prime of their lives who ain’t got no job, and no near prospect of one
neither. The neighborhood post office? Where people used to go
to hear the latest news? Deserted, now. Plastered with wanted
posters of speed freaks, and it smells like electricity–and sour beer. The
train station–a ghost town. Rich people fly and poor people take the bus.
The general store? Replaced by a so-called convenience store
which don’t stock nothing but lottery tickets and smokes.”

“Where’s the jobs? That’s the big question. Highway construction?
There ain’t none. We’re too busy trying to bury our enemies.
Tramps? We ain’t got ’em no more. Now they’re called the homeless,
and most of them are just as crazy as shithouse rats. This wouldn’t have
happened under Kennedy. Most of ’em are the jobless and displaced.
What happened to all the good jobs that people used to have?
Milk man, egg man, delivery man, grocer? Out of fashion. Steel mill,
machine shop, factory? Gone, gone, gone. Elevator operator? You’ve
got to be kidding me. No room for slow people. It’s a brand new day.
And who works at the Big Store? Hell, the Big Store closed last year.”

“Nowadays the only place for old folks to hang out is the barber
shop. And all they know how to do there is bitch about their bursitis
and talk about how so and so had a heart attack and has lost a lot of weight
and maybe it’s The Big C. All they know how to do is complain about their
aches and pains and cry over the old world that they used to have a place
in. But it’s dead and gone, and with it, all the good times. Modern food tastes funny. And Doc says no more sugar and salt. What’s the use of even trying anymore? All them sad old duffers. It never used to be like that. Back in the olden days, the world may have been a scary place, but people knew their place and they respected white hair. Not no more. Same scary threats, but no respect. Hell, they get you coming and going, they do. Hell, they always did, but it was never that obvious before.

“And why are we in this rotten fix? It’s all because crazy Jack was a member of
the Mucker’s Club. And him and Bobby pissed off all the wrong people. Hell,
we should have elected Nixon from the outset. Why did we prolong the agony?”

I asked Baby Boy Maddox what he meant, and his reply chilled me right to the bone.

“I mean that there’s nothing as shitty as living in the reign of the Shining Knight, and thinking things might somehow get better–only to have him snatched away–
by the Dark Lords of the Realm.”

“Our so-called leaders. They don’t make things better because they don’t know how.”

“And they don’t want things to get better.”

“Because all they know how to do is squeeze.”

As he spoke to me, from the vantage point of late January of 1986, Baby Boy
Maddox also had something more to get off his chest regarding LBJ. Steam was
whistling from the radiators, which were shuddering and clanking, while giddy snow whipped with ruthless vivacity outside the rattling panes of my dirty windows. Facing the frosted street, dripping shapes formed ghastly apparitions on the window-glass, which was streaked with water and grime.

As Maddox spoke, one heresy after another unspooling from
his ruthless lips, I found myself balling my fists. My head was pounding with
the thought that what he was telling me just might be true, but I said nothing—only nervously squirmed in my wooden chair on wheels that squeaked, with my roll-top desk to my back, as Maddox sat up on the mattress, bundled up in the bedding I had provided him, and continued telling me the hidden history of the 1960s.

“So Kennedy got his. And we all know why. He had to. He didn’t understand the
program of what the Pentagon wanted. Those were desperate times, and
Jack was a rascal–he wasn’t in tune with the agenda of the shave-tails and
the spooks and the secret police. And so–in comes LBJ. A savage man
for a savage Empire.”

“And Bullshit Johnson wasn’t kidding around. He had no sense of humor.
None. He was an animal. Just like Bobby said. A real thug, a mean,
mean man, and a crook–with a big belt buckle–and balls of steel.”

“Johnson taking over from JFK? That was the new power elite, standing
in the crapper, pulling the chain, and watching all the East Coast Newport la-di-da swirling down the toilet bowl like so much shit down a sewer.
Goodbye Blue Skies—make way for the savage, All New, New
Frontier. Now with fifty per cent more hubris.”

“The Great Society? It was more like the Rape Society— Johnson was
a caveman—knuckles scraped the ground–all he knew was where all the bodies
were buried. WHO wears short shorts? WE wear short shorts!”

“What’s more important is, Lyndon also knew when and how to pay lip
service and make music to tame the savage. The savage beast at the
heart of the Empire.”

“You read enough history and you travel the country round, and sooner
or later you come to find out that there’s something about the Old America
that has never been tamed. Listen, Yob–there are desperate deeds and
awful murders, I think, deep in the heart of this land, that will never be
solved—or ever even come into the light.”

“You could like him or hate him, but you had to admit that Johnson
was a real smart peckerwood in a lot of ways–but he had no
sense of proportion. How could he? He was a tornado–a force of
nature. Ike? You can bet that Ike never slopped over. But Johnson?
HE slopped over. He was all over the place. That’s what Johnson was
all about.”

“I guess that at first all the oldsters who grooved on Ike–the sour pickle
bunch, all them Coolidge Daddies, the old gummers who hated the
young and hated people who were happy and hated
the poor and hated the rich and didn’t give a good goddamn about
anybody but themselves–the ones who hated JFK because he
wasn’t a dried up old prune-face–I’ll bet those codgers thought that,
with Johnson running the show, they were gonna have it made.”

“I’ll bet they thought they had a good old fashioned cowboy on their
hands. A known quality. A guy with common sense. The kind of
guy who knew how to butter hot toast with cold butter without
having to crack open a book to study both sides of the procedure.
The kind of guy who knew what it was like to milk a sick cow by
the light of a kerosene lantern. The kind of man who could castrate
a baby pig with a dull jackknife–or his teeth, if need be. A real
nutcutter. How little did they know!

“Sure, the squares all grooved on the thought that Bullshit Johnson
was the man from Planet Cornpone. A rootin’-tootin’ square shootin’
two-gun cowboy. Not all high-toned–like Kennedy pretended to be,
but wasn’t. The complete opposite of Jack–or so they thought.”

“In some ways they had a point. Jack was a sex addict—and a
three-way man at that—and his taste in music was slick–for 1963.
He grooved on the smoothies–Nat King Cole, Frank Sinatra,
Tony Bennett. The sharkskin set. Lyndon was a lot more like
the oldsters. Didn’t really much care for real music, or anything
that got in the way of wheeling and dealing. You just know that his
taste in music was dullsville—Duffer City–strictly from hunger. Lawrence
Welk, Mantovani, 1001 Strings. Johnson was flabby–mindless,
whiskey-and-branch-water, central air conditioning, beans and
weenies, Wonder Bread–that’s the way he swung.”

“By the way, like I said before, you can always tell what kind of a country
it is by the kind of music the people listen to. And so–who was the biggest
star of the hangdog Nixon years? Sweet Baby Whatchamacallit. Mr. Bummer.
The “Ain’t It Good to Know that You Got a Friend” guy…
a “friend” with a taste for white horse…a suicidal friend who
induces suicidal thoughts in others…A guy who moans all the time
without so much as stopping to take a breath…a real sad sack of
shit, when it comes right down to it…winter spring summer or fall, all you
gotta do is call, and this moping mook will be there–yes he
will!–telling you that people can be so cold and they’ll hurt you
yes, and desert you–and take your soul if yuh let ’em–but not Sweet
Baby Slim–he won’t take your soul–your wallet maybe, if he’s got a
strong yen for some skag–but no, ‘Them ain’t track marks, them’s
vaccinations–where’s my belt? I need my belt….’

Anyway, back to Johnson. John Q. Square figured “Hell–he ain’t
no pansy–he ain’t no different from you and me!” But
they were all of them completely mistaken. Johnson
was a freak, a wrongo. First of all, he was a stone-faced
pimp for JFK. He had his very own Bobby Baker supply Jack with
teenyboppers—and lady spies.”

“Not that Bobby Kennedy was backward about getting into the
swing of things neither. Rumor has it that RFK would tag along with
the Bureau of Narcotics on drug raids in the South Bronx, and he’d act
just like a bent cop—he’d fondle whores, steal bags of coke—nothing
was too off limits for little Bobby. He was a Wild Man. Dr. Robert and
Mr. Bob.”

“And make no mistake–Bobby knew where the bodies were buried too.
He knew that some top members of the CIA were stone cold sex freaks.
Not naming names. But RFK found out some of their deepest darkest
little secrets, and there’s no way they would have ever let him become
President on top of all that.”

“Anyway, what with the long hair and the drugs and such, no wonder Bobby gave old Lyndon the willies. Dig: LBJ’s idea of a wild drug orgy was a couple of
snorts of Cutty Sark chased by a fizzy glass of soothing Alka Seltzer.
Y’know, there was a lot of the Roman Empire in the way
the Kennedys carried on. It was a strange situation. After Jack, it’s
as though Caesar died–and left the throne to Tiberius.”

“Yeah, Bo, a strange situation all around. The TV was swimming with Black
Magic. Black Disney magic. Bad Mojo. Corrupt shamans. Cultic methods.
And the Pentagon was crawling with creepy Nazis. The FBI was in the
pocket of the Mob. The CIA was peddling drugs and hiring gangsters
to carry out their hits. And the Big Oil Men, and the Cubans too,
they were all of ’em involved in some kind of crazy religious cult.
The Abundant Life Temple. Search the Temple, the cops were
told when Tippet was shot. Then the order came down—No.
Hands off the Temple–Search the Library instead. Old Clint
Murchison was connected to all of this. They broke out the caviar,
and the champagne flowed like water in the Murchison home the
night that JFK got his. French champagne and fish eggs from Red
Russia. Haw!”

“Can I ask you where you learned about all these things?” I asked.

“Listen Yob–it’s better if you don’t. We’re entering Queasy Country.”


TO BE CONTINUED

THE INFORMATION #1043 MAY 3, 2019

THE INFORMATION #1043 MAY 3, 2019
Copyright 2019 FRANCIS DIMENNO
dimenno@gmail.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com


Men marry because they are tired, women, because they are curious: both are disappointed. ― Oscar Wilde


WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE

BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER TWELVE: PART SIXTY: THE EASTERN GATE OF PARADISE


“There is,” said William Batchelder Tallent to Glen Phillips, “a sneaking suspicion in me that I might be better off quitting school and going back to the farm. There I can raise my prizewinning horses and retire in noble obscurity. My father have me four ponies who are quite promising. I’ve named them Xanthus, Podargus, Aethon, and Lampus.  Nobody knows why I’ve given them such names, except maybe old Doctor Custus, and people think he’s half-senile.  Everyone else in town thinks I’ve grown too big for my breeches. Especially the ones who are too poor to afford a horse. They pity me…and they envy me…and they hate me. Pretty much in even measure. But how can I be other than who I am?

“Sometimes I think that there’s no future for me among the home folk. They witness events and explain them by saying it was the will of God when it’s perfectly obvious to me and anyone with half a brain that God had nothing to do with it whatsoever. 

“Everyone back home is a hunter. And hunters are the worst. Them and sailors. They are the most superstitious people I know of. Hunters, in particular. They say that if a pack of hunting dogs is chasing a rabbit and the rabbit stops to lick its paws, then the rabbit is under God’s protection and will never be caught. I think there must be a better explanation for it than that. Don’t you? But I don’t stick my oar in because–who can say? maybe they know things that I’m not privy to. I don’t believe it–but there you have it. They also say that if your little feist dog or even a good hound sees a ghost, he will get behind you and whine and scratch and paw at the ground and refuse to go on. Personally, I have a hard time believing in haints. But I never say a mumbling word. Nobody would listen anyhow. Now, hunters all have a lucky cap or a lucky pair of wool socks or a lucky rabbit’s foot or some other gew-gaw, and, if they fail to fill their bags, they will say their aim was off and blame it on the fact that they left the rabbit’s foot at home or their socks were washed or their cap was askew. But they’ll never blame it on the fact that their powder was wet and their aim ain’t what it used to be nohow and they were drunk as a lord besides. 

“All the home folk say the same thing: They all tell me that I think too much. That I think I have an answer for everything. That, to me, is nothing to be ashamed of. I’ve been taught that these are the qualities of an educated man. When I’m talking politics or business with the menfolk, they get mad at me when I ask them to define their terms and cite their sources. They seem to think that by asking for some kind of proof behind what they have to say, that somehow I am imposing on them. Y’see, they never have any proof. They all heard it from a fella who heard it from a fella. In other words, they’re full of shit. But they won’t admit it. No: They tell me that I’m a stripling, and too cocksure of myself, and that the world is going to have one long party pounding the snot-nose out of me. And maybe they’re right. But that’s the difference between me and them. I am willing to hear both sides. To weigh the evidence. And they’re just convinced that they’re righteous and that therefore they are always right and they won’t let any man say them nay. I’m not sure I can live in that sort of world. Full of blind superstition and craven cowardice in the face of nonexistence bogeys. They will fight to the last ditch to defend their honor, but they won’t walk through a graveyard at midnight. Don’t they know that the dead can’t do them any harm? And that, even if there are ghosts, they are more likely to be benign spirits who are happy to see that you are still amongst the living? 

“Sometimes I’m convinced that people see and hear things that just ain’t there because they want so badly to believe in something that their minds play little tricks on them. Me, I don’t know what to think. Sometimes I’m tempted to be like the rest of the world and stop my gob and accept the simple pleasures that I was born to. Other times, though, I think that the world must have something better in store. If I go back to the country, when will I ever get to talk with educated men? I’ll be reduced to pottering about the general store and my only intellectual stimulation will consist of playing checkers with the village idiot. Sooner or later, I’ll get myself hitched and I’ll have so many children that I’ll have to roll a pumpkin under the bed and count ’em as they crawl out. I’ll take to drink and stop doing anything at all in the way of thinking. I’ll be happy–and I’ll be miserable. To be honest.”

Glen Phillips laid aside his cigar, rose from his chair, and looked down at William Batchelder Tallent with bemused tolerance. “You want honest, Mawny? I’ve lost just what it means to be honest. But here’s what I think it means. It means that our entire lives ares ruled by logical fallacies and delusions. It means that all of us, without exception, are addicted to the lowest forms of cant. It means that none of us, with a very few remarkable exceptions, are capable of formulating an original opinion. Is that honest enough for you? You want some more ‘honesty’?

“Then let me tell you this. We are, all of us, little more than superstitious cave-dwellers stumbling about in the dark, and cursing the lamps that light our way. So don’t be ashamed of your kinfolk. City folk are just as bad. They’re just a little more refined. That is all.

“But I will also say this. It would be a shame to squander your fine mind among the cross-roads clowns off there in the back-woods. You’re quite right–if you do that, you will be miserable. I would lay even odds on it. So you should at least give the city half a try. The more you kick, the more you will suffer. This is true. But city air makes you free. And at least, when you’re on your death-bed, you’ll be able to say that you kicked against the pricks. If only for a time.”

1* SALUTATION
FUNKADELIC

HIT IT & QUIT IT

https://youtu.be/EBXU2t4hodo


2*REFERENCE
DC COMICS FATSOS

comiccoverage.typepad.com/comic_coverage/2006/11/cover_to_cover__3.html  

ALSO SEE:
SPIDER-MAN VS. THE KINGPIN
https://i.kym-cdn.com/photos/images/original/000/873/331/3ed.jpg

SEE ALSO:CHARLTON SWIPE FILE FATSO

www.misterkitty.org/extras/stupidcovers/stupidcomics131.html  


3*HUMOR
S.J. PERELMAN

GREAT COUNTRY HOTELS

*At first they were pitched in a low, rasping hum devoid of vowels, somewhat like Icelandic but more bestial. As time wore on they became interwoven with sharp cries and commands of “Glonfy!” and “Rehume!” None of the words was quite audible, and as a result I had to keep every faculty tense. For a while I courted the theory that a group of Mr. Joyce’s admirers were reading aloud from Finnegans Wake, but suddenly somebody started to break the spindles out of the back of a Windsor chair, using an old-fashioned brass spittoon.
http://www.ralphmag.org/GG/crazy-fox.html


4*NOVELTY
Stay classy, Appalachia!
“He added a smiley face, and then described his home as the ‘Fun House.’”
news.google.com/articles/CAIiEFpkmLxqBoSkTpW1QmoIZXQqFwgEKg8IACoHCAowjuuKAzCWrzwwloEY?hl=en-US&gl=US&ceid=US%3Aen  

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
THE WOW! BEAR

For many years there was a billboard on Mass. Ave between Harvard and Central Square, featuring the Wow! bear, who was advertising a cleaning firm.  https://dimenno.files.wordpress.com/2019/04/19348-mad2b0082bwally2bwood2b002.jpg

6* DAILY UTILITY
CHARTER FOR COMPASSION

https://charterforcompassion.org/  


7*CARTOON
The horrible story of Al Capp
thebaffler.com/salvos/the-brand-called-shmoo

In her autobiography, American actress Goldie Hawn stated that Capp sexually propositioned her on a casting couch and exposed himself to her when she was nineteen years old. When she refused his advances, Capp became angry and told her that she was “never gonna make anything in your life” and that she should “go and marry a Jewish dentist. You’ll never get anywhere in this business.”
alchetron.com/Al-Capp  


8*PRESCRIPTION
WHY DO YOU THINK THEY CALL IT DOPE?

https://youtu.be/E9_33Y_hlsI

9* RUMOR PATROL
BEFORE HE DIED, JOURNALIST PAUL KRASSNER REVEALED WHAT REALLY HAPPENED TO KENNEDY

The little goof Oswald was just fixin’ to put a scare into the Prexy…but the magic bullet and the three tramps and the guy on the grassy knoll and the French assassin in the sewer and the Military-Industrial Complex and Sam Giancana and Allen Dulles and Clint Murchison had other ideas.  
www.ep.tc/realist/74/  


10*LAGNIAPPE
THE GRAINS OF SAND

THAT’S WHEN HAPPINESS BEGINS

https://youtu.be/XdTTqzHQwfU

THE EYES
I’M ROWED OUT
https://youtu.be/LZ8s-Ni0cfY

THE UNCALLED FOR
DO LIKE ME
https://youtu.be/9CT8HrZciRE


11*DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA

DEPLORABLE MOMENTS IN DICK TRACY

comicsradio.blogspot.com/2014/07/knocking-out-old-lady-and-strangling-dog.html  

ALSO SEE:

https://fredarnow.files.wordpress.com/2015/03/psbrr9bnbq5aihgcky6i.jpg

*11A BOOKS READ AND REVIEWED

3-D SWEETIES. GLANDER. ****

50 POPULAR BELIEFS THAT PEOPLE THINK ARE TRUE. HARRISON. ****1/2

AMAZING SPIDER-MAN 2. FRIENDS & FOES. ***1/2

ANDY: THE LIFE & TIMES OF ANDY WARHOL. TYPEX. *****

AVENGERS 2. WORLD TOUR. AARON. ****

BATGIRL 4. STRANGE LOOP. ***1/2

THE BEAUTY QUEEN OF LEENANE. MCDONAGH. ****1/2

BERSERK. DELUXE ED. 1. MIURA. ****

BIG BRILLIANT BOOK OF BART SIMPSON. ***

THE BIG HISTORY OF CIVILIZATIONS. BENJAMIN. ****1/2

BLASTED. KANE. ***1/2

BOOK LOVE. TUNG. ***

BURNOUTS 1. ONE HIT. **1/2

CAPTAIN AMERICA 1. WINTER IN AMERICA. COATES. ****

CAPTAIN HARLOCK: SPACE PIRATE: DIMENSIONAL VOYAGE VOL. 3-7. ***1/2

CELLIES 1. FLOOD. ***1/2

THE CHANCELLOR & THE CITADEL. FRANTZ. ***

CHE: A REVOLUTIONARY LIFE. ANDERSON & HERNANDEZ. ****1/2

THE COMIC BOOK STORY OF PROFESSIONAL WRESTLING. ****

THE CRIPPLE OF INISHMANN. MCDONAGH. ****1/2

CULTURE IS OUR BUSINESS. MCLUHAN. ****

DARWIN: AN EXCEPTIONAL VOYAGE. GROLLEAU & ROYER. ****1/2

THE DE-TEXTBOOK. ***1/2

DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA.  STAVINS & WEIL. ****1/2

DRAWN TO BERLIN. FITZGERALD. ****

DRY COUNTY. TOMMASO. ***

EDGE OF SPIDER-GEDDON. **1/2

EVERYTHING IS OBVIOUS. WATTS. ****1/2

FARMHAND 1. REAP WHAT WAS SOWN. ***1/2

FTL, Y’ALL. TROTMAN & LA FRENAIS., EDS. **

THE GIVER. LOWRY & RUSSELL. ****

HASIB & THE QUEEN OF SERPENTS. DAVID B. *****

HOBO MOM. FORSMAN & DE RODRIGUES. ****

HOW GEORGE WASHINGTON FLEECED THE NATION. MASON. ***1/2

HOW TO BEHAVE BADLY IN ELIZABETHAN ENGLAND. GOODMAN. ****

HYSTERIA. JOHNSON. ****

THE LIFE OF FREDERICK DOUGLASS. WALKER. ****1/2

LITTLE MOMENTS OF LOVE. CHETWYND. **1/2

THE LONESOME WEST. MCDONAGH. *****

MANEATERS. CAIN. **1/2

MALLKO & DAD. GUSTI. ***

MARILYN’S MONSTERS. REDOLFI. ****

NEW MUTANTS. DEAD SOULS. ***

THE OGRE GODS. PETIS. HUBERT & GATIGNOL. ***1/2

ORPHANS VOL. 2. LIES. ****

OVERRATED. JUDDERY. ***

THE POISON SQUAD. BLUM. ****

THE PROBLEM OF SUSAN & OTHER STORIES. GAIMAN. ****

ROYAL CITY 3. WE ALL FLOAT ON. LEMIRE. ****

SACRED CREATURES 1: A MIXTURE OF MADNESS. ****

SECRET EMPIRE. SPENCER. ****

SHADE THE CHANGING WOMAN. ***1/2

SHAZAM! ORIGINS. JOHNS & FRANK. ***

SHE-HULK: THE COMPLETE COLLECTION. ***1/2

SHIP OF FOOLS. CARLSON. ****


SHOPPING & FUCKING. RAVENHILL. ***1/2

SIMPSONS COMICS SHOW-STOPPER. ***1/2

THE SKEPTIC’S GUIDE TO AMERICAN HISTORY. STOLER. ****

A SKULL IN CONNEMARA. MCDONAGH. *****

SPIDER-MAN SPIDER-VERSE: MILES MORALES. ***1/2 
SPIDER-MAN SPIDER-VERSE: SPIDER-GWEN. **1/2

SPIDER-MAN SPIDER-VERSE: SPIDER-MEN. ***1/2 
SUICIDE SQUAD 7: DRAIN THE SWAMP. ***1/2

SUMMIT 1. THE LONG WAY HOME. ***

TANK GIRL COLOUR CLASSICS 1. 1988-1990. ***1/2

THEM. SASSE. ***1/2

THEY ALSO RAN. STONE. ****

THOR 1. GOD OF THUNDER REBORN. AARON. ***1/2

TOP GILRS. CHURCHILL. ****

TWISTS OF FATE. ROCA. ****1/2

THE WICKED & THE DIVINE 7. MOTHERING INVENTION. ***1/2

WINGS OF FIRE: THE DRAGONET PROPHECY. SUTHERLAND. **

X-MEN: CHILDHOOD’S END: THE COMPLETE COLLECTION. ***1/2

X-MEN RELOAD VOLUME 1. THE END OF HISTORY. CLAREMONT. ***

12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURET.S. ELIOT IS A SUCKER MC

Eat your heart out, Tommy Stearns! You with that weak shit like:

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
Let a Slob-killa show you how it’s done:

We be hollow and like stuffed and shit
Head full of straw
Quick draw
Zap! I peel your cap
You dead and shit
I ain’t no fly-by I’m a drive by
You croak on my my crew we snuff you
Down on your ass in the grass
Like sassafras
And I hit the gas  

Like I said, this right here is some weak shit:

HERE I am, an old man in a dry month,
Being read to by a boy, waiting for rain.
I was neither at the hot gates
Nor fought in the warm rain
Nor knee deep in the salt marsh, heaving a cutlass,
Bitten by flies, fought.

Let me tell it the way it is:

Here I am an O.G.
Being schooled by a Shorty
Sippin on a 40
Waitin on my crab
I ain’t no wankster
I’m a gangsta
I ain’t fickle
I done my nickel
I be like Dr. Jeckyll
I’m M.C. Stabbity Stab
One jab
I’ll slice your ass, yo
I’m like Picasso
I’ll put you on a slab, yo  

How can today’s youth relate to this kind of jabber:

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo. 

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind?   Do I dare to eat a peach?


This here is “The Love Song of J-Rock”:


In the crib the bitches come and goTalking about some other dusty ho

I grow old…I grow old…I’ma smoke some of this here Acapolco Gold

Should I stare at her booty? Do I dare to cut a bitch?


THAT’S what I’m talking about!

THE INFORMATION #1042 APRIL 26, 2019

THE INFORMATION #1042 

APRIL 26, 2019
Copyright 2019 FRANCIS DIMENNO
dimenno@gmail.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

He who does not love his own language is worse than an animal and smelly fish. –Jose Rizal  


WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIREBOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER TWELVE: PART FIFTY-NINE: THE EASTERN GATE OF PARADISE


“There is,” said William Batchelder Tallent to Glen Phillips, “one quality in which the South far exceeds the north–and that is in oratory. And if you don’t want to take my word for it, just listen to this speech that my father sent me in the mail.”

CHANGE THE NAME OF ARKANSAW? HELL, NO!

Mister Speaker! Mister Speaker! Mister SPEAKER-R-R-R!! God-damn your God-damned ornery soul to hell and God-damn your ornery wife’s soul to hell, and God-damn your innocent children, too, if you got any; I will not damn their infantine souls to hell, afore they may yet grow up to be good citizens of the Republic and members of this honorable body who will have the common courtesy and manly decency to RECOGNIZE AN HONORABLE MEMBER OF THIS GOD-DAMNED HOUSE–the Honorable Cassius M. Johnson—I am referring to myself– when he is trying to call a God-damned point of order. And by the way…Good God damn you Mr. Speaker! God-damn you, and–and God-damn your eyes!

I’m out of order? NO, Sir! This HOUSE is out of order! God favors the brave, and, with the help of our Savior, who stands just over yonder, it SHALL be put right—though many may perish! For you do not know who you are dealing with! You are dealing with a Born again, Bible believing, Blood bought child of the Living God through faith in Jesus Christ and a committed follower our Lord and Savior! I am Cassius M. Johnson from Johnson County, Arkansas, and even after forty days of fasting and farting in the wilderness, I still shit bigger than your head!

Never let it be said that the Honorable Cassius M. Johnson—again, I am referring to myself—never let it be said that he is a man who refuses to act on principle, nor one who overlooks the main chance when he sees it. Now, I have heard a whole heap of showy and loudmouth talk, and an awful lot of fuss and feathers displayed here in this honorable House, which is, as any man can see, from any vantage point, chock-full of God-damneded scoundrels of all stripes, the venerable members of which are inclusive of but not limited to the following: brawling apes; odious pimple-faced simpletons who would steal the cracklin’s from their own Mammy’s fat gourd; murderous bullies, brawlers, and hooligans who carry pig-stickers as long as a highbinder’s arm; purblind eye-gougers; gaudy master-minds; bought men; kept men; sold men; young men addicted to odious vices; old men steeped in villainy. Why, I would not give a red cent for the whole damn lot of you, for you are simpering, whimpering flibbertigibbets fit only to dance a sky jig on the gallis pole!

This is indeed a House divided; divided between young and old. Your young are, to a lad, loathsome and underhanded fancy-men, who procure and peddle unchastity from teeming leprous fleshpots exclusively populated by diseased courtesans. And your old, whose fires of time-worn lust have been banked but not extinguished, are by and large mere time-servers, senescent dotards shackled in bloody chains of gold to the special interests of this land, who dast to rob the blind and the infirm, and call their infamous skulduggery by the honeyed name of “party unity”.

Of all you so-called men, none are so low and vicious as the pusillanimous pipsqueak who has dared to rise up in these hallowed halls to declare that we ought to change the name of Arkansaw. Worse, some of you grave solons are allegedly inclined to take his measure seriously! To pay heed to the preposterous puling and mewling of a putrid punk, whose freakish fabricated remains had better ought be exhibited in Barnum’s Museum in an enormous glass jar, alongside of the Cardiff Giant and the pickled mermaid!

I’m out of order? You mistake yourself, Sir! This whole world wide is out of order! And me, and God, and a bunch of the boys who are currently otherwise employed in whooping it up, are bounden to put it right—though the heavens fall!

Change the sacred name of Arkansaw? AW, HELL NO! NEVER, so long as I can still draw breath to defend her! Honored colleagues, you can reverse the course of the mighty Mississippi; you can fill the River Platte with newfangled dynamite and blow it all to hell; you can make Presque Isle into a playground populated exclusively by ruminating donkeys; you can fill the Erie Canal with whiskey and set it on fire; you can burn Atlanta to the ground and invite carpetbaggers and scalawags to toast soft, fluffy marshmallows over its smoldering ruins—but when you propose to change the Holy Name of Arkansaw—that is when I put on my fightin’ uniform! Compare the iron jaw of Andy Jackson to a rusty claw-hammer; compare the steely eyes of George Washington, grown dim in his service to our country, to a pair of rotten turnips; compare the magnificent pate of General Winfield Scott to a stinking, hollow robin’s egg; strangle Betsy Ross in her own flag; knock a sick baby off’n the pisspot; tear apart the constitution and use it for ass-wipe—but will you change the name of Arkansaw!? I say—NEVER!

Hear what I have to say! The man who would CHANGE THE NAME OF ARKANSAS is a low-down, squirming, crawly, cringing, stingy, mingy, mealy-mouthed half-brother to the slimy, sneering, scorbutic snake who first tempted our common Mother Eve! Born in a rainstorm; reared in a flood, taken in by a leper, taught the rule of three by a Gorgon, tempered by a Succubus, and married to Medusa after he jumped over the broomstick of Minerva! He eats musket-fire for breakfast, and for supper he bleeds! He got drunk, boarded Noah’s fabled Ark, threw all the animals into the briny and brought the fish on board! Look well upon this so-called Gentleman! He wasn’t born, but rather was formed of red clay mixed with the straw-filled droppings of Lucifer’s off ox! He looks at the world through eyes of mud, and sees only desolation where we, with human eyes, see a lush and verdant paradise! He is the original visionary Blind Joe Death and a certified Fool-killer, who had rather ought to turn his science upon eradicating blind chaos!  Change the name of Arkansas? The hell you say! He is the most unwholesome unmitigated traitor who would even so much as challenge that cherished name! His bloodline, say I, is so contaminated by wickedness that he must surely be a direct descendant of Judas—nay, Biblical Cain! Look well for his mark; seek ye, and mark it well, for ye shall surely find it, saith I, branded on his forehead–by the Lord God Jehovah Himself!

This man, if man he truly be, and not the boon companion to Devil Satan-n-n, has ravaged the earth for four-thousand-and-four years, seeking to commit a crime so dastardly that its infamy will ring forever down the ages in the hallowed precincts of infinity!  And he has found it! Change the name of Arkansas? Hell, no! Better you should suck the snot from Buddha’s nose until his head collapses! Better you should elect Frederick Douglass as President of the United States, with dear little Dolly Madison as his kept mistress! Better you should turn over the port of New York to Tecumseh and his band of doughty red savages! Better you should smother Lord Amherst in poxy army blankets and distribute muskets and horses to Chief Pontiac!

Change the name of Arkansas? Hell, NO! The man who would do that is a man would wipe his ass with a fidgeting bear cub, and spit in the Grizzly mama’s eye! He would pick his teeth with a thunderbolt, and spit hell-fire! He would eat shit out of a hairbrush, and proclaim the toothsome flavor most delightful through a dusty rusty tinhorn! He would play no-limit five-card stud and always draw to an inside straight! The man who would do that is the awfullest son of a hellgrammite who ever lived!

I’m out of order? You’re Goddamned right I’m out of order! The whole God-damned UNIVERSE is out of order! God will count to seven times seventy, and it will be restored—but at great cost to all those who are not true believers like myself, for there will be fields of fire and the sky will rain blood—if thou shalt dast to even THINK that ye might change the Almighty and Eternal name of ARKANSAW!

1* SALUTATION
JOHN MARTYN
WHO’S GROWN UP NOW
https://youtu.be/eeRp7URIsvk

ALSO SEE:
ROLLING HOME
https://youtu.be/jfk4M_lijA0

SING A SONG OF SUMMER
https://youtu.be/P0Z0qLaoHu0


2*REFERENCE
JESUS WAS BORN ON SEPTEMBER 11TH
www.quora.com/On-which-day-of-the-year-was-Jesus-actually-born-I-heard-it-was-not-the-present-Christmas-day?no_redirect=1  


3*HUMOR
MEN: NO SOCKS IN BED

www.gutsygeek.com/dont-get-cock-blocked-socks/  


4*NOVELTY

ITALIAN EASTER SPECIALTIES
PIZZAGAINA
https://www.allrecipes.com/recipe/231645/pizzagaina/ 
 
PIZZA DOLCE VITA
https://www.justapinch.com/recipes/dessert/pie/pizza-dolce-italian-sweet-pie.html  


5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
RACIST JOKES IN THE WHITE HOUSE

www.nytimes.com/1987/10/21/us/racist-jokes-in-white-house-reported-in-a-book.html  


6* DAILY UTILITY
27 Songs From The Beatles That Weren’t Hits, But Should Have Been
uproxx.com/music/the-beatles-overlooked-songs/  


7*CARTOON
WHAT RUINED HANNA-BARBERA?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CWgcizAgxOs  


8*PRESCRIPTION

FICTIONAL CONVENTIONS

https://books.google.com/books?dq=%22fictional+convention%22&hl=en&id=ZCHgz4345AEC&lpg=PA74&ots=li2G663j_I&pg=PA74&sa=X&sig=ACfU3U1BzCULMfIrTFPlHk_G0cvLrAISNA&source=bl&ved=2ahUKEwiI4Y-8o9fhAhUMhOAKHVGTA6MQ6AEwBHoECAYQAQ#v=onepage&q=%22fictional%20convention%22&f=false 


9* RUMOR PATROL
PETER LEVENDA

SINISTER FORCES, OCCULT HISTORY, AND THE NINE

https://youtu.be/tDn4PlUE9Fk

10*LAGNIAPPE
THE LEFT BANKESHADOWS BREAKING OVER MY HEAD

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D_yCSNj50iI
ALSO SEE:

JULES AND THE POLAR BEARS

SHADOWS BREAK

https://youtu.be/vAs0Qh-7QTM

11*DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
MARVIN GAYE

Marvin Gaye wasted an awful lot of time scheming about ways to get some loving. I prefer his more political songs:   


DINNER CITY FOODS (MAKE ME WANNA SWALLER)
You’re slight…ly batty
Because you are a…stupid fatty
Candy bars…you bought ’em
Double chins…you got ’em
Oh, make you wanna swaller
The way you hold your knife…
Oh, make you wanna swaller
The way you live your life…  


12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE

ENCOURAGING YOUNG WRITERS

What young writers usually need encouragement with is to live life and observe, and not get all their wisdom at second hand.

And to sit down and actually do the writing instead of simply talking about it.

And to hold themselves to standards of universal quality instead of taking the easy way out and segregating themselves into a category.

And to read and explore the mechanics of every style of writing, including, though not limited to, play writing, poetry, prose non-fiction, criticism, and aphorism.

And to cultivate an interest in other art forms including, but not limited to, painting, sculpture, music, and architecture.

And to realize that the writing life is a lifetime commitment: to writing as well as one can.

Attachments areaPreview YouTube video John Martyn – Who’s Grown Up Now (1967)John Martyn – Who’s Grown Up Now (1967)Preview YouTube video John Martyn- Rolling HomeJohn Martyn- Rolling HomePreview YouTube video John Martyn – Sing A Song Of Summer.wmvJohn Martyn – Sing A Song Of Summer.wmvPreview YouTube video What RUINED Hanna-Barbera?What RUINED Hanna-Barbera?Preview YouTube video Peter Levenda | Sinister Forces, Occult History, & The NinePeter Levenda | Sinister Forces, Occult History, & The NinePreview YouTube video The Left Banke – 09 – Shadows Breaking Over My HeadThe Left Banke – 09 – Shadows Breaking Over My HeadPreview YouTube video Shadows BreakShadows Break

THE INFORMATION #1041 APRIL 19, 2019

THE INFORMATION #1041 

APRIL 19, 2019
Copyright 2019 FRANCIS DIMENNO
dimenno@gmail.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

All money is a matter of belief.–Adam Smith 


WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE

BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER TWELVE: PART FIFTY-EIGHT: THE EASTERN GATE OF PARADISE

“Oh, but the Lincoln conspiracy sounds like a load of bilgewater and flapdoodle to me,” said Billy Batchelder Tallent to Glen Phillips. “People believe all sorts of things they shouldn’t,”

“You said a mouthful!” said Glen.

“Why, in my neck of the woods, the teacher-man tells the kiddies that Columbus discovered America, that the earth is not even six thousand years old, and that in heaven there’s cotton-candy and soda pop for all!  And the preacher-man, he tells the churchgoers that Charles Darwin is the fiend incarnate–a soulless monster who will be damned to hell for suggesting that God’s greatest creation, man, is little better than a shaved ape. The way that the preacher-man hectors his congregation every Sunday and tells them they’re all a bunch of no-good wretched vermin puts me in mind of an angry old hound dog whose toothless flabby mouth commences to shaking every time he howls at you for snatching up the rancid goody that he’d just dug up from out behind the shithouse. But the congregation eats up every word. They remind me of children. They like to be scolded, and to have people tell them what to think. None of that for me. No Siree. I’m the only one in my community that ain’t been saved. Saved for what? I want to know. Tell me! Saved so I can be led to the slaughter? No thanks! I plan to run through the gamut of all seven of the deadly sins in my own good time. Don’t need no preacher-man to tell me I’m a sinner. Let’s see–first off, there’s pride. The deadliest sin of ’em all. And I got me plenty of that. Yahoo! Gluttony? I have no problem with practicing that, either. Lust–well, that one I’m still working on. Wrath? I got no shortage of righteous anger. Envy and greed? I’ll commence to those two right smart. I’ve got plenty of time. Hm. I guess I’m missing one.”

“Sloth,” said Glen Phillips. “I myself am planning to corner the market on that one. I shall also have to fight you for the title on gluttony.”

“Glen, the fact is, fact is, folks from where I come from, why, they’ll believe everything they’re told. It’s almost like they want you to tell them baldfaced lies, because the truth is too much for ’em. Mother is an angel, and father is a saint? Hm? Well, if that’s so, then how did I get here? They exactly didn’t find me in the cabbage patch! 

“I’m sorry to say these things about my people, because some of them are my best friends, but most of ’em are no better’n a bunch of Rubes. They think farming is a paying proposition, and the only noble labor there is. And when they go bust, why, they just farm another man’s land, instead of cutting their losses and moving to the city to work in a factory…or a whorehouse. 

“You just can’t help them. You can’t give them free advice, because they’re too proud to accept advice, or anything that’s free, and they just won’t believe you even when you try to persuade them with facts and logic. They think that the Bible is the only book they need. They just…they just believe in so many things that just ain’t so! They think fortune-tellers are wicked, but they believe in ’em. They think the mind-reader at the carnival can actually read their minds.  They are convinced without a single doubt that the devil walks the earth, and he is a dapper gent who is bright red, has horns on his head and a big long tail, and cloven hooves, and that he also sports a little Van Dyke beard like some sort of Viennese Professor of Medicine  

“They also believe in astrology, and witch boys who pine to be human, and gypsies, or maybe it’s fairies, who want to steal your firstborn child. And snakes that bite their own tails and roll down the hill. They’re convinced that a cat is very much inclined to suck the breath out of babies, and they’re all scairt of creepy stuff that goes boo hoo in the forest during the dark of the moon. They believe that every deserted house, cottage, log cabin, lean-to, shanty, shack, and wigwam is probably chock full of haints and spooks who will hound you to death if you dast cross ’em. And they always say their prayers when they walk through an old graveyard at night, and then, when nothing happens, why, they praise the Lord for delivering them from the foul fiend!

“They’re also convinced that the Book of Revelation predicts the future, and every word in it is true. Meaning that at any time now a beast with seven heads and ten horns is going to come slouching around, and it’ll be a big ole panther with the feet of a bear and the mouth of a lion, and that when that day finally arrives, it will mean the end of the world, so sinners had better get ready to meet their maker, the Most Righteous and Angry Lord God of Sabaoth. 

“Down my way, all the folks believe in heaven, and angels, and pixies, and nixies, and demons, and the One True God. They think that if you pray to a certain saint, you’ll get your heart’s desire, and that if you meet the devil at the crossroads, he will buy your soul. They believe in their heart in dowsers, and rainmakers, and faith healers, and homeopaths, and miracle cures of all sorts. And root workers, too, though that’s mainly the colored folk. They believe in phrenologists who say you can tell if a fella is a no ‘count just by the shape of the lumps on his head. And if a dog howls whenever he sees you, why, then it’s perfectly obvious to them that you’re up to no good, because the dog always knows, y’see, though I guess if you’re carrying a biscuit around it must mean your intentions are pure because the dog won’t howl at you then, but will greet you like Argos greeted his long-lost master Odysseus.   

“Oh, and whenever you challenge them in any of their most dearly-held beliefs, they’ll hand you all sorts of guff about how too much book-learnin’ will ruin your shootin’-eye. But there’s a very simple reason for them sayin’ that–most of ’em couldn’t read a book if you paid ’em, or if their life depended on it.    

“I suppose you can see why I’ll never go back there, except maybe to visit, Down there, they know too much that just ain’t so. And they don’t cotton much to people who try to set them straight.”

“Well,” said Glen Phillips to Billy Batchelder Tallent, “you shouldn’t hold that against them. There’s plenty of people like that up North.” 

“Maybe,” said Billy. “But up north they won’t shoot you for saying that the Bible is a pretty myth.”

“Don’t be so sure about that,” said Glen. “You never know. But, anyway, why should you care what people think? It’s pretty doubtful that most of them can even think at all. Most folks the world over are–how do I say this without coming across as an arrogant snob? Oh, dash, what do I care. You’re my pal. Anyway, what I’m trying to get at here is that most people are simply not any too bright. The man of even average intelligence is a benighted dunce. And half the people in the world are even stupider than him. It’s the human condition. Go figure. And even among the so-called intelligent people–why, more often than not, they miss things that are just as plain as the nose on their face, and then they turn around and swear to the existence of things that just ain’t there. 

“Why, Mawny, when I was on the train coming up there on the day after New Year’s, I had an unlit cigar in my mouth. The Conductor said, ‘Stop that smoking!’ I said, ‘I ain’t smoking’. So he said ‘You got your cigar in your mouth.’ And I said, ‘Yeah? So what? I also got my ass in my britches–but I ain’t shittin’!’ 

“That threw him for a loop! Oh! the look on his face! Huh! He nearly threw me off the train–but even if he had…it would have been worth it!”


1* SALUTATION
THE VELVET UNDERGROUND

STEPHANIE SAYS

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=whn3K9Ll5aE   

ALSO SEE:
LOU REED & JOHN CALE
SONGS FOR DRELLAWORK

https://youtu.be/rFQNPbv_1YM
STARLIGHT

https://youtu.be/kwv3JQIdhcc
IMAGES

https://youtu.be/GphPmGOHy_Y
I BELIEVE

https://youtu.be/bKyNkjRumqY

2*REFERENCE

People use wiki often than they should, in some cases, and not often enough, in others. Wiki is easy to use for beginning to engage with a project or assignment, but worldcat is far more useful. Look up the topic there. For example, “Critical thinking.”

Results for ‘critical thinking’ [WorldCat.org]

Click on the first, most relevant link.

Critical thinking

Go to the library of congress listing (on page 4):

Item Information (Full Record)

Note that in the Library of Congress, the LC Listing for that topic is BF441 and the Dewey listing is 160.

Go to your online library catalog and do a search by LC or Dewey, and you will find all the books on that topic.

Take out a few of the books and read them. Consult the bibliography.

Pick a few books or articles from the bibliography, as available, and read those as well.

You will find all the information you need.

You don’t have to read the entire book. Use the index, if there is one, to find the portions which are relevant to your project or assignment.

Written sources are still regarded as more reliable than online sources because they have usually been edited, and a published book represents an investment on the part of the publisher, who in most cases will want to be sure that the information is timely and accurate.


3*HUMOR
POLITICALLY INCORRECT COMMERCIALS

https://youtu.be/66mQz44pPY4


4*NOVELTY
GARFIELD PHONES ON THE BEACHES OF FRANCE

www.boston.com/news/world-news/2019/03/29/garfield-phones-france

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
FAN FICTION

Fan fiction is lamprey art. It is far simpler to imaginatively reconceptualize a fabricated environment than to create one’s own story out of one’s own life experiences. In effect, Fanfiction is cheating. Detournement, on the other hand, is endlessly fascinating.

SEE:
DETOURNEMENT

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/D%C3%A9tournement

ALSO SEE:WHITE ELEPHANT ART VS. TERMITE ART

https://www.moca.org/storage/app/media/cropped-images/02_White%20Elephant%20Art%20vs.%20Termite%20Art.pdf

6* DAILY UTILITY
WHY DOES IT FEEL SO GOOD TO EMPTY YOUR BOWELS?

It seems to have to do with the vagus or pneumogastric nerve being responsible for gastrointestinal peristalsis.


Viva las vagus!


https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vagus_nerve


SEE ALSO:

https://www.outsideonline.com/1784611/why-does-it-feel-good-poop  


ALSO SEE:

HARVEY PEKAR & WILLY MURPHY

“A GOOD SHIT IS BEST”

http://www.myconfinedspace.com/2013/04/19/a-good-shit-is-best/  


7*CARTOON
AL HARTLEY

Al Hartley, illustrator of The Cross & The Switchblade, Archie’s One Way, and other literary works.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Al_Hartley

The Whore of Babylon seems nice:
https://io9.gizmodo.com/science-fiction-sunday-school-comics-from-the-1970s-wer-5937031 

Big Ethel all grown up? I’d do her.
http://www.misterkitty.org/extras/stupidcovers/stupidcomics112.html

8*PRESCRIPTION

WHO KILLED JAMES DEAN?

www.findagrave.com/memorial/10990655/donald-gene-turnupseed  


9* RUMOR PATROL
GEORGE H.W. BUSH’S NEAR-DEATH EXPERIENCE

whowhatwhy.org/2014/09/02/an-enduring-mystery-about-bush-41s-wwii-escape-from-death/  

10*LAGNIAPPE
BOOTLEG TAPES FROM MAXWELL’S 1970s-1990s

www.themckenzietapes.com/tapes  

11*DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA

HISTORY BOOKS WHICH SHOULD BE MORE WIDELY READ

The Conquest of New Spain
https://www.amazon.com/Conquest-New-Spain-Penguin-Classics/dp/0140441239/ref=pd_sim_0_1/132-0401320-5613919?_encoding=UTF8&pd_rd_i=0140441239&pd_rd_r=824b9d72-57c8-11e9-8ef0-0b4f280728eb&pd_rd_w=m7RUk&pd_rd_wg=WP7UE&pf_rd_p=90485860-83e9-4fd9-b838-b28a9b7fda30&pf_rd_r=PM24D6CKDPJW7TNWWDJJ&psc=1&refRID=PM24D6CKDPJW7TNWWDJJ  

I also like Bernard DeVoto’s books, especially The Year of Decision, 1846
https://www.amazon.com/Year-Decision-1846-voto/dp/B002CT9JEK/ref=sr_1_5?keywords=1846:+the+year+of+decision&qid=1554485595&s=books&sr=1-5  

And, even though my history thesis advisor Maury Klein din’t think much of him, I particularly admire Matthew Josephson’s books as well, especially Robber Barons, The Politicos, and The President Makers.
https://www.amazon.com/s?k=matthew+josephson&i=stripbooks&ref=nb_sb_noss_1  

12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURETHE ADVENTURES OF STUPID DAD
I guess the world is clamoring for s sitcom with that title.

Because it seems to be the selling point of nearly every sitcom made after 1963.

Except for the ones featuring Brian Keith.

How was it that nobody noticed that every time he had to interact with the moppets on Family Affair, he always looked like he was passing a kidney stone? Or that when he interacted with luscious young Cissy, he always livened up a little bit? Though an objective observer would no doubt conclude that it was Mr. French (!) whom he truly loved. 

Something which was not lost on MAD magazine. Recall the MAD parody, wherein Boffy and Jokey were revealed to be vice-addicted midgets.
https://embarrassingtreasures.files.wordpress.com/2012/09/madpage1.gif
https://embarrassingtreasures.files.wordpress.com/2012/09/madpage2.gif 
https://embarrassingtreasures.files.wordpress.com/2012/09/madpage3.gif 
https://embarrassingtreasures.files.wordpress.com/2012/09/madpage4.gif

“I mix my martinis five to one!” 

MAD leaned pretty heavily on the midget gag. That was also the big reveal of their Lassie Parody. 
http://www.lassieweb.org/lasslizz.htm  

Finally, apropos of nothing:
Your Uncle is like your Dad, only he usually has better drugs. And better jokes.