THE INFORMATION #1012
SEPTEMBER 28, 2018
Copyright 2018 FRANCIS DIMENNO*
Almost all people are hypnotics. The proper authority saw to it that the proper belief should be induced, and the people believed properly.
WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER TWELVE: PART TWENTY-NINE: THE EASTERN GATE OF PARADISE
I was telling you about Agustino, the Calabrian Strong Boy. As it turns out, having to lug the big stiff around turned out to be a positive asset. You see, I had gotten some tips from the Swami at the Red & Black Carnival about something known as “mystical mesmerism.” It wouldn’t work on people who were very smart, like Colonel Gentleman, or very dumb, like Miss Big Tiny Small, the fat lady. But it worked just fine on the Calabrian Strong Boy. All I had to do, it turns out, is to appeal to a higher authority. “God gives you permission to do this thing,” was usually all it took for me to make the Strong Boy go against his strongly-held scruples and do anything I suggested. “You must always obey the Master,” is what I told him. I would then act all mysterious-like and look around me, as though the Master Himself were hiding in plain sight.
And whenever the Strong Boy managed to score some minor triumph, I would follow it up with the phrase, “The thought of your heart is fulfilled, is it not?”
Another mark in my favor is that one time, when we were walking through the streets of Blowtown, we were accosted by a policeman. And small wonder. I myself was relatively inconspicuous in my Sunday best, which consisted of a derby, a light coat, a starched white shirt, neatly pressed trousers, dress shoes, spats, and a gold-headed cane. But the Strong Boy was another matter. He was dressed in his conical clown hat, a checkered jacket and checkered pants which didn’t quite match, which made it even worse–and sandals. With socks. His very presence screamed “greenhorn”. A Fly Cop tapped him with his nightstick and the Strong Boy froze. Guess he must have had a run-in with the Carabinieri back in the old country, because he was absolutely terrorized at the sight of a uniformed official. I suppose he imaged that he had to show his papers or something, and, of course, he didn’t have any. Well, now, even the dumbest rookie would have smelt the fear pouring off the Strong Boy. But me, I kept my head. Before the Fly Copper could start into questioning the big lug, I took him aside and pressed a fiver in his hand that Colonel Gentleman had given me in case of an emergency just like this one. Hust to impress the Strong Boy, I tipped the Copper the wink and said to him, “Sir, why do you harass my good friend? Don’t you know he’s under my protection? I don’t want to have to speak to the Mayor. Well–all right then. I’ll let it go this time officer–but see that it doesn’t happen again.”
In that way, I managed to make the Strong Boy nearly completely dependent on my good will for his entire sense of well-being.
After that incident, the Strong Boy gave me a look like a dog adoring his master. From that day to the next, I could pretty much get him to do anything I said. But I did not abuse this privilege. At least, not at first. I wanted to get my hooks into him a little deeper before I asked him to do something spectacular. And that’s where the swami’s tips on mystical mesmerism came in. The Strong Boy was profoundly superstitious. He saw everything around him as a possible omen, and looked to me to interpret the ways of this strange new land. And that made it easier still. Any grifter with half a brain could have jollied him along. But the Swami was a learned man, and, for a certain consideration, he taught me how to put a geas upon the Strong Boy, which would not only compel him to do my bidding, but also make him not care about the consequences of his deeds.
I started out slow. I told Agustino Baldassare Calebrese–I always called him by his full name, because the Swami said that this would give me more control over him–try it some time, and see–refer to your acquaintance by his full name and see if he doesn’t respect you more, the more you do it. I told Agustino the Calabrian Strong Boy that I would like him to take a walk around my old neighborhood with me. I carefully instructed him to hang back several yards behind me, and to appear only at my signal. I knew that there were some desperados lounging on street corners who were terrorizing shopkeepers and annoying women. The Coppers couldn’t do anything because the fix was in with the Mayor, who didn’t give a hoot in hell about anything that happened in Blowtown.
And so then I go up to the strongest of the toughs, who fancied himself quite the b’hoy–oh, he was in his full regalia that day, which consisted of a flaming bright red shirt, black pantaloons, black boots, and a black silk stovepipe hat. He had on his putty-pale Irish face a contemptuous sneer, and his muttonchops grew nearly down to the line where his chin met his ears. He was the son of the local Grocer, and thought he was some punkins. His forearms were the size of small hams, and he was noted all through Blowtown for his strength and his pugilistic ability.
Being long a stranger to those parts, I waited for him to accost me and ask me what my business was. It didn’t take long. They was always particular about strangers in Blowtown.
Says the B’hoy, “Hopen your dummy, and let’s see wot’s in it! And let’s have a look at your thimble, in the bargain.”
He was asking me to hand over my wallet and my watch. That’s the way it was in Blowtown–if you didn’t have protection, you would be robbed in broad daylight.
“I think not. I am not accustomed to pattering hash with thieves. Good day to you, Sir,” says I, and I gave the signal.
And nothing happened.
I gave the signal again.
And nothing happened.
The B’hoy looked at me and laughed.
“Looking after your pal? We coshed ‘im, we did. Now hopen your dummy! Stand and deliver, Pikey!”
With a roar, the Strong Boy shook off three stout grown men who were trying to hold him back and made for the leader of the B’hoys. The leader took one look at his crazed and red-faced expression and ran away so fast he nearly lost his hat. “I ain’t fightin’ no black,” one of tye other B’hoys said, and the three of them ran off in three different directions.
No matter. I wasn’t any too inclined to follow them. The Strong Boy was willing…but I didn’t want to tax his strength. How he managed to shake off being coshed by a lead sap is a mystery to me. But I suppose a man can accomplish a great many unusual things–when his mind is not entirely his own.
CARE OF CELL 44
THE LEFT BANKE
IN THE MORNING LIGHT
Slopping random words on a page does not make you a poet. Regardless of your “message”.
THE WORST POEMS BY SEVEN GREAT WRITERS
HOW DID WE DO?
Rule of thumb: The worse an artist is, the more he longs for you to praise him.
Fear of premature burial haunted the 19th century.
“Fear of burial alive was deeply rooted in Western culture in the nineteenth century, and Poe was taking advantage of the public’s fascination with it. Hundreds of cases were reported in which doctors mistakenly pronounced people dead. In this period, coffins occasionally were equipped with emergency devices to allow the “corpse” to call for help, should he or she turn out to be still living. It was such a strong concern, Victorians even organized a Society for the Prevention of People Being Buried Alive. Belief in the vampire, an animated corpse that remains in its grave by day and emerges to prey on the living at night, has sometimes been attributed to premature burial. Folklorist Paul Barber has argued that the incidence of burial alive has been overestimated, and that the normal effects of decomposition are mistaken for signs of life.
5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
OFFICIALLY CHANGING THE NAME OF THE WHITE HOUSE. BECAUSE RACISM.
Officially change it to what? The White House isn’t even its official name. Such ahistoricism is typical among people who make a quasi-superstitious fuss about things they don’t even really understand.
6* DAILY UTILITY
I think that with few exceptions—those people who I refer to as “spooky-smart”—there are very few real geniuses. But there are more of those people who I would say have “a genius” for some field of endeavor. What is it like to be such a person? Well, they tend to be singleminded in their focus and determination. They tend to have what I would call a drive for perfection. And, unless they are aberrant in some way, they tend to be humble about what they do, realizing that it is only a very small part of the overall picture. They also tend to be well aware (though not in all cases) that there is still a great deal that they do not know.
2018 SECRET GENIUS AWARDS
There is a rumor that a sequel to the movie Dick Tracy is forthcoming.
I missed the great era of the Dick Tracy comic strip by quite a few years. By the 70s, Gould’s strip was running on fumes. His successors have been essentially running a zombie enterprise for too many of the ensuing years. The consensus seems to be (and I concur) that Gould’s great era was from ca. 1942 to about the mid-1950s. It was an odd strip, in which the villains were the true stars, and Tracy and his growing cast of characters (Pat, and then later, Sam Catchem and Policewoman Lizz) largely served merely as their foil. Chet Gould constantly pushed the boundaries of what was acceptable in a comic strip. An early 1940s continuity evoked outrage among anti-comics crusaders for the unusually gruesome demise of Jerome Trohs at the vindictive hands of Big Mamma.
In the early 1960s, Gould became more pronounced in his overtly political proselytizing. Fly Face, a venal lawyer, provoked outrage among readers because both his mother and the toddler, “Little Doc,” was also seen as having flies hovering around their faces.
Gould has few disciples. The most notable is the Spanish cartoonist Marti, whose astonishing strip “The Cabbie” ups the ante on both the violence and depraved sex.
ARTHUR C. FIFIELD’S RESPONSE TO GERTRUDE STEIN
11 GREATEST LITERARY FEUDS
TOP TEN LITERARY FEUDS
TEN NOTORIOUS LITERARY SPATS
10 Notorious Literary Spats
SEVEN GREAT LITERARY FEUDS
9* RUMOR PATROL
WERE THE JACKSONS RAPED IN BOB HOPE SEX RING?
Bob Hope, from what I understand, was a horrible and powerful man who had MK Ultra sex slaves at the ready. He was an MI6 British agent who was a part of a psyop to abuse kids sexually and see how they turned out. Allegedly.
I believe the Jacksons were traumatized early, especially Michael and Latoya and I believe Joe abused them and also allowed others to abuse them. Similar stories have been told about Tiger Woods. When Tiger made his TV debut at three or four years old, Bob Hope was a guest on the same show and I’m sure it was no coincidence.
I just recently learned of this disturbing fact. I also learned that long noses is another term for pedophile and Hope did have a long nose.
BOB HOPE CAMEO IN EYES WIDE SHUT
Como was known as “the Singing Barber from Canonsburg Pennsylvania.” (My Uncle Joe says he knew him when.) He was phenomenally popular in the late 1950s, as these unpublished drawings intended for Trump #3 attest:
11*DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
Me and my fam high key want to turn up savage here and be woke and U R harsh AF and U turnt my game. U R so v extra. Pls be done FR.
I am showboating and you are distracting people from the greatness which is me as I showboat. Why must you always be the one who punctures my self-aggrandizing statements and banal borrowed opinions with your irreverent jollity? If only you would go away, then I can proceed to bloviate to my heart’s content without some mischievous troublemaker coming in here and upsetting the apple cart and distracting people from the greatness which is me.
12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE
According to William Manchester, President Kennedy expressed concern that Martin Luther King Jr. was being advised by Rustin.
Kennedy maintained that [Rustin] was a member of the communist party. King’s defense of Rustin was rather eloquent. “Look, Jack–just because a fella likes to smoke a log or two in a public restroom, that doesn’t make him a commie. Look at Eddie and Clyde! Are you telling me they’re commies, too? For that matter, howzabout you and that roommate of yours at Choate, Lem Billings? Don’t tell me that he wasn’t sucking your choad on those long winter nights! So leave Bayard alone! He was risking his life on Freedom Rides while you will still dinging around with Inga-Binga!”