MODERN WISDOM NUMBER 175 MAY 2013

MODERN WISDOM: AMERICA’S ONLY HUMOR MAGAZINE
NUMBER 175
MAY 2013
Copyright 2013 Francis DiMenno
http://dimenno.gather.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com/
dimenno@gmail.com

AND NOW…MODERN WISDOM PRESENTS:
1. SUPERHERO FORTUNE COOKIES
2. THE MOST TEMPTING POWER IS FORBIDDEN
3. JESUS HATES HEY ZEUS
4. JIMMY CHIMERA
5. THIS COMIC TYPE TELLS A JOKE…
6. HEY, WHAT ABOUT THAT “IRONY”?
7. MAGENTO
8. CAPTAIN POSSIBLE
9. CHAOTIC CHAOS
10. THE CARNIVAL SOCIETY
11. CAPTAIN RISIBLE
12. MR. WRETCHED
13. UNCLE SON
14. THE TECHNOWORM
15. THE SLOB
16. THE GREEN KNIGHT
17. STUPID WARS
18. THE LUCY HYENA SHOW
19. STRONG HEROIN
20. ALMOST SUPERMAN

21. THE WISDOM OF THE WRONG HERO
During the bulk of my comedy career, such as it was, particularly from 1990 to 1998, I performed using an entire persona which might have been characterized as “Gutteral Croak by Menacing Alien.” I would appear masked and costumed on stage–mostly at music venues–as the outer space standup comedian known as The Wrong Hero. This month’s sampler:

My Father is a meat and potatoes man.

Literally.

What is this nightmare world you brought me into, Mother?

22. ON WRITING
Don’t write: Console yourself with soothing guff,
As if the lies you’ve lived by weren’t enough.
Misfortunes come from too much reading
When you’ve got no fortune and you’ve got no breeding.
The word is too much with us, soon and late
We come to be the person people love to hate.
This sad truth is confess’d and it isn’t funny;
Not even fools take up the pen expecting money.
Anyone can publish; this is what it breeds;
A world where everybody writes and no one reads.
With faint praise critics come to your defense;
His writing’s like an angel’s but he has no sense.
But fail to please the public with insipid yarns
And your work will be remaindered to be sold in barns.
The greatest insight that I’ve ever had
Is this: That writing makes you truly mad.
Atlas holding up the world is quite absurd;
It’s difficult enough to hold up the word.
I hate to sound a cynic or resort to labels:
Uncertain the career misspent in crafting fables.

23. NOIR MISFORTUNE COOKIES
FIFTH SERIES
401. Satan has rejected your clumsy animal sacrifices.
402. An alert Copper will spot your homemade dye job.
403. Sacrificial Goat is now your Full-time Profession.
404. Your bogus resume has gone straight into the circular file.
405. Not even a shyster lawyer is anxious to defend you.
406. The neighbors report that you are neglecting your dog.
407. Twenty years of wake-and-bake have left you drooling.
408. Your obsession with Ninjas will get you killed.
409. What’s eating at your mind? Everyone knows it’s Murder.
410. Only Mother cares, but watch out for her.
411. God’s Rule: The Innocent Must Suffer.
412. Critics deplore your recent work as “Tasteless”.
413. Your house is constructed on a foundation of sand.
414. Your excuses reek of premeditation.
415. Everything is gone but your painful regrets.
416. It’s the Human Condition–but you are barely even Human.
417. Black Muslims don’t take kindly to mouthy Skinheads.
418. The Motorcycle Gang knows you are wearing a wire.
419. Dogs bark and shy away at your evil face.
420. Hidden microphones record your jailhouse boasts.
421. You lurk to overhear their slanders, but you never do.
422. Your ancestors are all notorious axe murderers.
423. You can’t even pretend you didn’t mastermind that job.
424. The Law’s Conclusion: Three Generation of Imbeciles Are Enough.
425. Forget It: They are tired of your idiotic lies.
426. Desperation has saturated your ill-fitting clothes.
427. You Poor Fool–of course you can be hypnotized.
428. The FBI resents your gossip about the Director.
429. Cruel men await the chance to do you harm.
430. Paranoia is not your hobby, but a Way of Life.
431. They’ll murder you solely for your share of the loot.
432. Mister, Beware–He has walked 500 miles to kill you.
433. Mama never loved you and she never will…now.
434. That sophisticated prostitute will horn in on your racket.
435. The “diet pills” have turned your brains to oatmeal.
436. Ether-soaked rags will be found in your trunk.
437. The darkness you fear most is in your soul.
438. Sins of omission will prove your downfall.
439. She will sweep you from her life like a broken toy.
440. They will list your Cause of Death as “Arrogant Stupidity”.
441. Racists hate you, and you’re not even Black.
442. Stop your foolish boasting or they’ll slap you down.
443. You will grub through restaurant discards like a starving dog.
444. Your bourgeois classmates complacently condemn you.
445. Your criminal companions taught you–but not well enough.
446. Cops claim that cheap slum you peddle is hot merchandise.
447. You will be nearly pecked to death by angry swans.
448. “If Only” just won’t cut it, you whining Punk.
449. You will finally step up, only to get beaten down.
450. Self appointed “Reformers” are targeting your enterprises.
451. The Sheriff knows you’re only masquerading as a Preacher.
452. Nitro is nothing to monkey around with, Gimpy.
453. “World’s Most Famous Carnival Geek”–nobody envies You!
454. They do not get “The New Yorker” in prison.
455. You play like a bookworm and read like an athlete.
456. You will sell your medals for a slug of rotgut.
457. You have just enough time to write your Will.
458. You will finally learn to read and write…in Prison.
459. No Bandleader wants or needs a junkie Percussionist.
460. You will squander your lump sum pay-out in Vegas.
461. The Big Man has no patience for Stupes like you.
462. You swore you’d never go back. You’ll break that vow.
463. She is nowhere near as sweet as Tupelo Honey.
464. Jimmy Crack Corn–the Mob DOES care.
465. You will become familiar with the smell of hot lead.
466. The truth will certainly never set YOU free.
467. They’ll get you in the end–literally.
468. They know it was a frame-up, but they just don’t care.
469. Your friendly pusher has tripled the price of your fix.
470. Poor Fool: One question has been answered; dozens yet remain.
471. From Day One your lousy attitude has held you back.
472. Nothing can make it right, though money will be accepted.
473. The marriage wasn’t legal–you inherit nothing.
474. Pimp? Sucker, you’re not even a pimple on a pimp’s ass.
475. Maybe another beating will penetrate your thick skull.
476. Never let ’em see you sweat–too late for you, Fatty.
477. New obstacles await, each more deadly than the last.
478. You will sabotage society, one day at a time.
479. You will fry, but for the murder you DIDN’T commit.
480. You loved her. Didn’t you? Loved her…to death.
481. The Big Man’s cold dead eyes promise dire consequences.
482. Remember: It’s Lonely at the Top. And Deadly.
483. The Consigliore strongly recommends your early death.
484. Listen, Jailbird–You’ve got nothing coming to you.
485. Dreams die hard. You will die even harder.
486. Once your father dies, nobody will defend you.
487. You’ll remain a stranger in this world…and the next.
488. You will live–and die–by betting on the Ponies.
489. A hard-luck two-timing Dame will suck you in.
490. They will find you cutting out paper dolls in Stir.
491. They will break every one of your itchy trigger fingers.
492. She hated her Slob Husband; she’ll learn to hate You.
493. Every one of your hunches will be spectacularly wrong.
494. If you gotta tell ’em who you are, then you ain’t.
495. Your “Doctor” thinks the world is 6,000 years old.
496. Black Despair is not through with you just yet.
497. You should have changed all your passwords–too late now.
498. Nonexistent sirens will haunt your sleepless nights.
499. First you’ll see Red and then you’ll see Black–Forever.
500. It’s always Darkness, standing before the Don.

24. HAPPYLAND: DEMON ALCOHOL
For fifteen years, from the ages of 22 to the age of 37, I lived right
over a fine fast-food Establishment in the Central Square neighborhood
of Cambridge, Massachusetts called Hi-Fi Pizza, and I can assure you
that long before the famed nightclub venue known as The Middle East Café
even existed, the corner of Brookline Street and Massachusetts Avenue
was a veritable weirdo magnet for every lowlife within a eight mile
radius.

And the apartment was an uninhabitable hellhole.

It smelled like cat piss.

And I didn’t even own a cat.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Anyway, let’s look on the bright side. Or, at least, let us
temporarily peer through the clotted mists of memory to find the humor
in our situation. Out of college, in debt, with no marketable skills
other than a knowledge of the difference between metonymy and
synecdoche (long since forgotten), in August of 1979 I had no real
choice other than to either relocate to Providence Rhode Island or
live in a room which rented for the grand total of fifty-six dollars
and twenty-five cents a month (about $168.75 in 2013 dollars), and,
which, with the demise of rent control some fifteen years later,
eventually rented for the princely sum of $300 (about 900 dollars today).

When I first moved in, my roommates were old high school and college
chums, and we had a merry old time of it for a few years, at least
until they all grew up and got real jobs instead of sitting around in
their shorts and undershirts drinking Ballantine Ale from 40 ounce
bottles, listening to obnoxiously eccentric music and  playing
backgammon until the hours wee.

By November of 1994, I was the last man standing.
And I had to be the responsible one. Because one of
my roommates was a crackhead who invited his pals up to the apartment
at all hours and who, strange to say, had the peculiar habit of
spending the rent money on crack. Another roommate was a deadbeat who,
admittedly, had an excruciatingly menial dead-end job at a mental
hospital. The third roommate was a solvent but obsessive-compulsive
schizophrenic (and I mean that in the nicest possible way), whose job
it was—I kid you not—to haul radioactive cat fetuses to containment
sites hard by the Harvard Medical School.

It was a wearisome burden indeed to shake down that jolly crew for the
coin of the realm, and just before my 38th birthday I relocated to
Providence, where I have lived ever since. (I can’t resist mentioning
that after I left, the place was used as a squatter’s pad and was
occupied by an underemployed street magician and an otherwise
unemployed street puppeteer. The pal who hauled the cat fetuses had
moved out, but had neglected to uninstall the telephone and was
eventually socked with a three thousand dollar phone bill by some
ingenious soul who contrived a way to call porn sites—but that’s
another story….)

Three of the funniest things I witnessed back when I lived there:

1) A black guy in a loud argument with one of the cooks at Hi-Fi Pizza:
Black guy: “FUCK YOU! Cadillac is the best card MADE! It’s the best car MADE!”
Cook: “You’re talkin’ stupid nonsense! You’re talkin’ stupid nonsense!”
Black guy: “Yo, Pizza man! Yo pizza is like yo FACE!”

2) Two guys about to gang up on a cabdriver. The old guy, probably a
war vet, gets out of the driver’s side, takes off his belt and wraps it
around his knuckles and the two thugs back rapidly away.

3) Then there was the time my old pal George almost got caught throwing
firecrackers off the roof onto Brookline Street one fourth of July
evening….

I also neglected to mention that in the early 1980s there was a dance
establishment directly across the street known as The Rise Club which
diligently, at 4AM every Sunday morning, let out a stream of
intoxicated and belligerent ghetto youth who spilled out into the
street and frequently fought pitched battles for which I, of course,
being young and myself awake at that ungodly hour, had a ringside
seat.

Do I miss living there? No. Even if you could get to sleep amid all
the traffic noise from 5 AM to 2AM, the Burger King next door wafted
poisonous smoke into our kitchen window which permeated the apartment
from 6AM to 1AM.

Do I ever eat at Hi-Fi Pizza? God no. I neglected to mention that the whole
building was riddled with rats and roaches. I can’t imagine they have
been systematically eradicated in the 18 years since I lived
there; it would probably take 18 centuries.

It was a good place to live.

If you were a depressed alcoholic.

People who don’t want you to know they’re lushes are legion.

Power drunks leave the case of empties right outside their door as if to say “Folks like me just don’t give a shit!”

Maybe those of you who live or have once lived in the Central Square neighborhood of Cambridge Massachusetts are familiar with the liquor store across the street from the Purity Supreme.

Back in the early 80s, whenever I’d bring in empties and claim a refund based on the number of bottles I was bringing in, the guy who ran the place invariably bellowed, “Tell da troof!”

Later on, for a while there, you had to bring your empties at the loading dock office back of the place.

In the mid-to-late 80s, the bearded guy who collected and paid you for them used to ignore me, while reading a paperback of Dostoyevsky. We chatted about Raskolnikov, and afterwards he still ignored me, but not as much.

Back then, the place had a quart of Bud for 95 cents (19 empties), and Ballantine Ale for 80 cents (16 empties). Ballantine tasted like pepper and gunpowder with a whiff of vinegar puke, but it gave you more bang for the buck.

I have always thought of Ballantine Ale as the bum’s choice because back in ’87 me and the late Mark Bigoness were walking around in Manhattan with an open quart bottle of the stuff and a homeless guy lurking in a doorway looked at us with Stinko approval and said, in a happy, growly voice, “Hey! That’s my brand!”

When that place across from the Purity was closed, I’d go up to Main Street to a place we called PROJECT LIQUOR, because it was right next to the projects. They were open right up to 10:59:59, and maybe sometimes even a few seconds later.

Of course, if we were laying in a big supply, our choice would be the good ole Liquor Warehouse up by Lechmere.

I remember on one thirsty occasion getting on a rickety bicycle in the teeth of a raging blizzard  pedelling all the way to Lechmere, then back to Central Square, with a whole case of Bargain Basement bellywash precariously balanced on the front handlebars.

Good times.

But them days are gone forever.

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THE INFORMATION #730 MAY 3, 2013

THE INFORMATION
#730 MAY 3, 2013
Copyright 2013 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com

FOURTEENTH ANNIVERSARY ISSUE

CONSISTENCY
A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines.–Ralph Waldo Emerson

Consistency, madam, is the first of Christian duties.–Charlotte Bronte

Consistency is the last refuge of the unimaginative.–Oscar Wilde

Consistency is found in that work whose whole and detail are suitable to the occasion. It arises from circumstance, custom, and nature.–Marcus V. Pollio

The lawyer’s truth is not Truth, but consistency or a consistent expediency.–Henry David Thoreau

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER SEVEN: PART ONE: THE PLAN

It was late April of 1986, and colder and wetter than usual for that month.  Shrubs and trees were budding still, but crocuses were wilting and buttercups had briefly flowered then withered.  Baby Boy Maddox sat up on my dusty brown futon. His head was shaven—he was on one of his Spartan kicks—and he was feasting on some three-day old hamburger I had put under the broiler for him. It was about 9pm and although I had to go to work early the next morning, I contrived to stay awake long enough for him to resume his tale of the run-in between Cadger Tandy, his hobo mentor, and Cokey Stolas, the Big Man. Every so often the rumble of big trucks would interrupt the steady roar of traffic proceeding down the main street which ran directly below my second-floor slum apartment.

“Listen Yob,” said Maddox, “Like I said before, the world mought be round, but it’s hung at crazy angles, and is crooked all the way around. Now, Cadger Tandy may have been a bum, but he was no dog meat tramp. He was MY Bum.  And so I paid close attention to the story he told me about the mad crew that ran Noxtown.

“Tandy said that even as a lad he was bound to get his revenge on some truly bad guys for what they done to the Prosty, Red Mary. He was taking on a wrong crew. Jim Whitey, the loony killer Joey.  A murder man with smiling eyes.  Mad Tom Stocking, the fast-talking morphodite and thespian. Some said he gave the best head in the show business.  Jerry the Rigger, carny lush, a cracked actor who looked like an evil Uncle Sam. And worst of all that crew–Uglyface Smash Conklin, drunken bully and washed-up pug, who hated Red Mary like the pox and hated me even worse, like the black bottle poison.

“And running the whole show you had some other fellers too, like Judge Rance Sniffle the bent vice lord, and Cokey Stolas, The King of the Rackets.  The only two Yellofs I had on my side were Dr. Peter Ketman the medicine show man, and Tipsy Smith the barkeep, who feared and hated Smash Conklin. Tipsy, I knew,  was how I was going to get back at Uglyface. And how I was going to do it was to use him to put Smash in Dutch–with the Big Man. Only I never could dope out just how.

“I already done told you about Cokey Stolas. Some say he sold his soul to the devil. And those were his friends. His enemies swore he was the devil his own self. He was like Judge Rance Sniffle multiplied by ten—a big-bearded, square-rigged fancy-pants oaf with a big head and a bloated body like a South Seas whale—and he never went anywhere without his mahogany walking-stick. The handle was the head of a skull with rubies in the eye sockets.  They say he used it once to beat a poor drover half to death as was whipping his horse—not because he felt sorry for the poor dumb brute but just out of sheer cussedness. That was his sense of humor, you see—you beat the horse, so I’ll beat up on you.

“But he DID like horses. ‘Horses understand me,’ said he, ‘Because they know I am their friend.’ Stolas, y’see, was a well-known horse-player, and a high-up member of the Fancy. He liked to wager big on races and was always to be seen at the track and a lot of the time he won, too—I don’t know much about gravity or other scientifical stuff, but it seemed like all kinds of good fortune just kinder naturally flowed in the Big Man’s general direction and it was bad cess to you if you got in the way of him or his luck. THAT was the kind of backing Smash Conklin had;  THAT’s what made him so proud to strut his stuff like the ruff-tuff creampuff he actually was. I suppose one reason the Big Man took a shine to him was because in the not so distant past he had won many a sou from wagerin’ on Smash Conklin in the prize ring.

“Not that Cokey Stolas was exactly what you’d call grateful to any man. I don’t believe that devil ever had such a human feeling in him. You could rescue his brat from the kiddie-snatchers one day, and yet, if you dast to cross him, why, the very day they’d find your headless body on the slag heaps. And, like as not, your hands would be chopped off and hung on a rope around your neck. On any pretext at all—look out for a screamer—Cokey Stolas would have it hot and short with you and, right after you backed away, he’d make an arrangement and his boys would do ‘the big job’ and Mr. Deathy would end your gripe and you’d be a-goin’ to the Lordy. Nobody ever said The Big Man was a softy. He was King of Noxtown. Wise Gees called him the Bee Eye Gee, as if to even say his name out loud was likely to get you into Dutch.

“Some of them Wise Gees didn’t even go that far—when talkin’ of ‘im, they would hold the flat of their palms over their heads, and didn’t say another word, as if to signify ‘The Big Man’.  Say what you will about him, but he did his business with a big spoon.  They called him Cokey, I heerd, because he had the ass-mer and so he was always snuffing from the white remedy he kept in a little bottle. In his later years, he wasn’t a drinking man much, except for gallons of lager taken with large meals—he was a great stodger, him–a greedy grizzle-guts and trencherman of the size and shape of Mr. Diamond Jim.  He never kept company for long with squirts and dandies; he had great pull; only other big men could keep up with him; and even THEY were afraid that at any time he might call them out. He never stood long for driveling fools and idiots, or old bricks and pantaloons. He lorded it over with a kind of contemptitude on men who weren’t up to his mark. You never knew when the Bear might stand up on his hinder legs, but, whenever he did, it was Katy Bar the Door.

“And this was the man—and there was me, a lowly runt—errand boy for a Prosty–and this was the man I was going to somehow use to get back at Smash Conklin. I surely had my work cut out for me.
 
“Like an ant–trying to steal a whole loaf of bread–fresh bread–‘midst a driving rainstorm.”

1*SALUTATION
LOVE
THE DAILY PLANET
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qo4P-_MIE8M&feature=player_embedded
 
2*REFERENCE
GUESS YOUR AGE GAME
It said I was 31. Haw!
http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/2013/04/23/harvard-guess-your-age-game_n_3137091.html?utm_hp_ref=fb&src=sp&comm_ref=false

3*HUMOR
Chubby Parker & His Old Time Banjo
King Kong Kitchie Kitchie Ki-Me-O
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m7NBD40v5sE

4*NOVELTY
PROF OR HOBO?
http://individual.utoronto.ca/somody/quiz.html

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
SHADOW OVER BOSTON
http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/culture/2013/04/cover-story-boston-marathon-bombing.html

6* DAILY UTILITY
ARE THE BANKS ALREADY ORCHESTRARING ANOTHER MELTDOWN?
http://www.alternet.org/economy/are-banks-already-orchestrating-another-meltdown

7*CARTOON
HISTORY OF DONALD DUCK
http://www.salimbeti.com/paperinik/en/paperino.htm

8*PRESCRIPTION
THROWING MUSES
LIVE ON NOISE FROM NEVILLE 1985
http://freemusicarchive.org/curator/AS220/blog/Throwing_Muses_-_Live_on_Noise_from_Neville_-_1-26-1985

9*RUMOR PATROL
JFK & IKE: CUBAN MISSILE CRISIS
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8hfq6NbdGZ8

IKE ON JFK ASSASSINATION
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KyGzVQGgdqw&feature=player_embedded

10* LAGNIAPPE
WRECKLESS ERIC
WALKING ON THE SURFACE OF THE MOON
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fUszNYtJaNQ

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

Sentimentality is the emotional promiscuity of those who have no sentiment.-Norman Mailer

Mailer wasn’t always right, but on this issue, at least, he was spot on. Sentimentalism is all-pervasive and is used as a tool to bludgeon people into a type of stupefied conditioned response. But do not mistake being sentimental with having genuine human feelings. That wasn’t his point. There is a distinction between mawkish sentimentality and sympathetic sentiment which often eludes the non-specialist unversed in the ways of literary matters.

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE. 684.
AMAZON REVIEW: INVISIBLE MAN BY RALPH ELLISON
I thought that the book “Invisible Man” set a very bad example for youngsters. I do not know why it was allowed to be published. The Negro who is the narrator has no invisibility powers whatsoever and he was also very insolent in a manner that a person of my generation and upbringing finds extremely offensive and also it sets a dangerous example for the better class of Negro. I read the first twenty pages and then I put it aside. I think that instead, most people would far rather see a heartwarming movie such as “Driving Miss Daisy.” One star.

THE INFORMATION # 729 APRIL 26, 2013

Aside

THE INFORMATION

#729 APRIL 26, 2013

Copyright 2013 FRANCIS DIMENNO

http://dimenno.gather.com

francisdimenno@yahoo.com

 

HAPPY

I, not events, have the power to make me happy or unhappy today. I can choose which it shall be. Yesterday is dead, tomorrow hasn’t arrived yet. I have just one day, today, and I’m going to be happy in it.–Groucho Marx 

 

You don’t develop courage by being happy in your relationships every day. You develop it by surviving difficult times and challenging adversity.—Epicurus

We are not the same persons this year as last; nor are those we love. It is a happy chance if we, changing, continue to love a changed person.–W. Somerset Maugham

 

Very little is needed to make a happy life; it is all within yourself, in your way of thinking.–Marcus Aurelius

 

If you want a happy ending, that depends, of course, on where you stop your story.–Orson Welles

 

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE

BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN

CHAPTER SIX: PART EIGHT: BIG TROUBLE

Footnote:

I had thought, back in 1986, that Maddox’s stories about the long reach and corrupt influence of the Stolas clan were the wildly imaginative delusions of a deranged hobo. But some 20 years later, in 2005, I read the following dossier—about the grandson of this notorious clan—an account which sent a chill through my bones.

STOLAS, RICHARD

The 60ish Richard Stolas has been, for the past 30-odd years, the head of the Citywide Improvement Association. In his expensive suit, custom-tailed shirt, and conservatively-cut all-silk foulard he is by all appearances a respectable citizen of substance and means. Nobody looking at Stolas dozing by the fire in his usual comfortable chair in the wood-paneled Cherry Room at the Soho Club in Old Town would suspect that this jolly 300-pound personage with the receding hairline and brown beard flecked with white is a man whose name is spoken of in whispers and used to scare small children. A sort of sinister anti-Santa, those who have crossed his path have received for their temerity not presents, but a world of pain, for Stolas, formerly a higher-up in a secretive government agency, is said to have dabbled in virtually every form of mind-control, from those involving hypnotism, sensory deprivation, drugs, and medical procedures to others, nameless and perhaps unnamable or at least better left unmentioned. This enigmatic bachelor, a serial monogamist whose partners have all either died prematurely or gone insane, has been known to make grown men quake with just a cross look. It is said that a political endorsement by Stolas is a Faustian bargain at best; although his candidates always win their contested races, they are almost invariably forced to resign their positions in disgrace before the end of their terms. Nowadays, savvy pols tend to steer clear of “The Man”, albeit in a diplomatic way which they fondly hope will not give him undue offence. For his part, Stolas wields his enormous power in city politics with quiet firmness. Those charities he deems superfluous soon relocate; those fundraising organizations which fail to meet with his approval soon disband. Nevertheless, he himself refuses to serve on any boards, but prefers to make his preferences known through more clandestine means. Those who have the poor judgment to defy him have a tendency to suffer episodes of delirium and erratic behavior which are often headlines in the next day’s local paper. It is said he can make himself invisible; can make a man bark like a dog; can predict what will happen before it occurs. This is palpable nonsense; a testimony not to his true powers but to the power of public credulity. However, he himself was once quoted as saying: “Who cares what stupid people think? I do. The beliefs of stupid people drive the world.” (The reporter who was foolhardy enough to attribute this saying to Stolas was found trudging, naked and weeping, on the Shanty Street off-ramp of Route 299 in Anytown Lower Falls. He has been committed and now permanently resides at the Arcadia Nursing Home, even though he is only 27. The paper hastily printed a retraction in the afternoon edition.) Stolas is known to enjoy horseracing and casino gambling; aside from these minor vices, he has no other known hobbies or avocations. His is, however, said to have a curious tattoo, though nobody can agree as to what it represents; some say it is a dragon, and others have variously reported it as a star of David, a crown, a crucifix, a lion, a bearded man, a sphinx, a corpse, a heart, a dagger, a globe, an all-seeing eye, a phoenix, a bell, a spider, a tiger wearing an army helmet, a bear on a unicycle, three lengths of chain, a skull in a cobra’s basket, a mermaid, a coiled rattlesnake, or a pair of circling sharks.

1*SALUTATION

HARPER’S BIZARRE

HAPPY TALK

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ttXZPVvb-9s

 

2*REFERENCE

THE JUNGLE: A HOBO ROMANCE

http://pappysgoldenage.blogspot.com/2013/04/number-1347-its-jungle-out-there.html

 

3*HUMOR

THE MAD MAD COMEDIANS

Truly awful Rankin-Bass animated special.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=sjp9em8uQlU

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0QtWZzF3o6I

 

4*NOVELTY

BIM SKALA BIM

WISE UP

http://youtu.be/ZrgKNO1RVSk

 

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST

DON RICKLES ROASTS JERRY LEWIS

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AllhU-qRRbs&feature=share

 

ALSO SEE:

JACK CARTER ROASTS JERRY LEWIS

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mISGdzpAT9A&playnext=1&list=PL49428868634B46A9

 

6* DAILY UTILITY

LEO KOTTKE

SIX AND TWELVE STRING GUITAR

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K6HgQHj-zb4

 

7*CARTOON

TEX AVERY

LITTLE ‘TINKER

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qWJUC5rYJWI

 

8*PRESCRIPTION

VIA STEVE MULCAHY

Bob Marley Rises From Grave To Free Frat Boys From Bonds Of Oppression

http://www.theonion.com/articles/bob-marley-rises-from-grave-to-free-frat-boys-from,1808/

 

9*RUMOR PATROL

ANTI- ACID HOUSE PROPAGANDA FROM BRITISH TABLOIDS

http://dangerousminds.net/comments/anti-acid_house_propaganda_from_british_tabloids_late_80s

 

10* LAGNIAPPE

FACES

STAY WITH ME

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zSQp7YOPdJ8

 

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

THE HOBO REVIVAL

Be sure and watch for forthcoming volumes in my ongoing Americana series, including:
The Hobo’s Apprentice:
The Cross-Country Hobo;
The Runaway Hobo;
The Hobo’s Legacy;
King Hobo;
The Rock Candy Mountain Hobo;
The Christmas Hobo;
Circle of Hobos;
The Hobo’s Homecoming;
The New Year’s Hobo;
The Lost Hobo;
A Hobo’s Holiday;
The IWW Hobo;
The Hobo’s Bride;
The Billionaire Hobo

And be sure not to miss the other titles in the series, including:

Hobo on the Run;
Big Top Hobo;
Hobo Detective;
Killer Hobo;
The Forgetful Hobo;
Morning Comes Softly, Hobo;
Hobo By Starlight;
Undercover Hobo:
Song of the Hobo;
Hobo in the Rain;
Yesterday’s Hobo;
The Laughing Hobo;
Am Hobo, Will Travel;
The Hobo and the Widow;
The Way to a Hobo’s Heart
Here Comes Hobo Junior;
The Super Cigars of the Magic Hobo, and Other Stories.

And don’t miss related titles, such as:

Friday the Hobo Slept Late
Saturday the Hobo Went Hungry
Sunday, the Hobo Stayed Home
Monday The Hobo Left Town
Tuesday the Hobo Saw Red
Wednesday the Hobo Got Wet
Thursday the Hobo Walked Out

The Story of “H”: The Sensuous Hobo.

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE. 683.

AMAZON REVIEW: MAN AND SUPERMAN

I must admit I was very disappointed with “Man and Superman”. I thought it was going to be another corking adventure yarn featuring the Man of Steel but instead of having Clark Kent and Jimmy Olsen and Lois Lane and the rest of the Daily Planet gang it was a boring play about a bunch of stuffy and shallow jerks. One star.

THE INFORMATION #728 APRIL 19, 2013

THE INFORMATION
#728 APRIL 19, 2013
Copyright 2013 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com

THE PAST

Fill your heart with love today,/Don’t play the game of time;/Things that happened in the past/ Only happened in your mind…—Biff Rose

Look back, and smile on perils past.–Walter Scott

It is sadder to find the past again and find it inadequate to the present than it is to have it elude you and remain forever a harmonious conception of memory.
— F. Scott Fitzgerald

When you forgive, you in no way change the past – but you sure do change the future.–Bernard Meltzer     

Here we come, we’re coming fast/All the others are in the past/Jump to your feet, let us catch your eye/We’re the Green Fuz—Randy Alvey

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER SIX: PART SEVEN: BIG TROUBLE

Baby Boy Maddox concluded his strange tale of the Stolas clan with a pointed question: How did Cadger Tandy come to know so much about Colonel Stolas?

 “Well he might! The Colonel hated hoboes and tramps with a passion. ‘If they don’t want to work,’ said he, “let ‘em go to the poor farm.” Often times, back in the early 1950s, you’d hear him holding forth at Feist’s cigar store, ranting about ‘the hobo menace,’ and ominously saying as how “in other towns which are much better organized the graveyards are full of strange deadbeats.”

 One time Tandy even managed to overhear Colonel Stolas deliver a strange rant at the Town Meeting–which he memorized as best he could—he had an ear for language—which he related to Baby Boy Maddox, practically verbatim.

 “I don’t see why we continue to support these loafers. Hoboes are a menace. They stink. Literally. They are all a pack of greasy, bean-gobbling, bacon-eating layabouts. They steal pies from windowsills, beg for old rags at back doors, and kidnap children to make them into sturdy beggars. The revenues that the railroads lose from these freeloaders would save them from their operating deficits, and many times over. I recently actually saw a hobo–who was teaching his dog to beg! IT’S A FRANCHISE!”

“Fact is, these filthy toothless beggars roam our city streets, frightening horses and old maids with their gaunt forms and croaking voices as they beg for bread money they have every intention of spending instead on bay rum and sterno. Their filthy shantytowns smell like cheap rotgut; they’re forever sniping mostly-smoked cigars from the gutter; and they dress in suits that were last in fashion back in my grandfather’s day Maybe some ‘hepcat’ characters find that sort of behavior attractive; I, for one, do not. Do you know what I say?

THE HOBO MUST GO!

Because, friends, let’s face it. What does it say about our fair community when visitors are treated to the sight of a loathsome bindle-stiff scuffling for his dinner with arthritic claws from a trash-heap teeming with vermin? Do we want to improve Noxtown? The solution is simple: NO MORE HOBOES!

And another thing–whenever you talk to one of these down-and-outers, they’re always rasping in their froggy and thousand-mile voices about the perils of ‘cinder dicks’ and ‘railroad bulls’. I say this: Maybe if you cleaned yourself up and got a job mucking sewers or whatever it is you ragamuffins do to earn your pelf, then maybe the good John Law wouldn’t feel constrained to clap the darbies on your infamous kind for breaking into boxcars and stealing potatoes or whatever it is you chaw between your rotting choppers. No, I’m afraid the era of soft-heartedness is long gone, my footloose friend. So let the word go out both far and wide: HOBO, YOU’RE NOT WELCOME HERE!

But…what is to be done? Maybe we might consider adopting the sensible remedies resorted to by the Germans and the Russians. Those boys didn’t fool around when it came to dealing with these rag-picking, flea-harboring, tubucular urban parasites. They relocated them. We should do the very same. And post-haste.  And then Noxtown would once again bloom with flowers whose perfume will for once be unsullied by the stale beer reek of these itinerant nomads.
 
My friends, let us not be deluded by the soft-hearted but mush-minded talk of the goo-goos and sky pilots who moan about Christian charity. Christ was all to the well and good, but let’s be REALISTIC. These Hobo malcontents would crush us if they could, so perhaps it would be best for all concerned were they to simply…vanish.
 
I see, stretching before me, like an illimitable horizon, a world that is all but Hobo-free.
 
Women would fearlessly ride my street-cars without the horrendous likelihood of some drunken freight-hopper stinking up the atmosphere with his creosote stench.
 
Small boys could fish and skinny-dip down by my granite quarry without encountering some ‘Weary Willie’-type character filling their heads with airy nonsense dreams of travel and adventure.
 
Merchants could proudly display their wares without some shuffling malcontent lingering in the back of the fruit-stand and free-loading rotten and bruised comestibles.
 
Restaurants could operate with every expectation that their ketchup and sugar packets would remain unmolested by freebooting bands of roving jungle buzzards.
 
Clancy, the good old cop on the beat, might be able to catch a little shut-eye instead of having to roust sleepy-eyed moochers from their offal-ridden roosts. Park benches, abandoned buildings, and highway underpasses would finally be free of the “tramp” menace.
 
No red-nosed, pink-eyed, Rum Dum malcontents would congregate in our fair parks and wooded areas, befouling the air with the rancid aromas of their “mulligan” stews.
 
In short, Noxtown would be even more of a veritable paradise–if only we could induce the hobo to clear out.
 
But what are we going to do about it?
 
WHAT?

Now, certain weak-minded sob-sisters and muddle-headed solons have argued, quite implausibly, that hoboes were victimized by the great financial downturns of decades past.
 
Now, I’m no ivory-tower economist, my head so full of soaring abstractions that I ain’t even got the sense to pound sand in a rat-hole, but here’s what I figger.
 
No less an eminento than the beloved Calvin Coolidge had something like this to say:
 
“Four-fifths of all our troubles would disappear, if we would only TRACK EVERY FILTHY HOBO TO THEIR LAIR AND DESTROY THEM ALL.”
 
I am not a partisan in this matter, but, when faced with such stunning common sense, I have no recourse but to wholeheartedly agree.
 
DESTROY ALL HOBOES. DESTROY THEM NOW.
 
NOW!
 
BEFORE IT IS TOO LATE.
 
Do not mistake my intentions.
 
I am not a heartless man.
 
There was even a time, a time in the not-too-distant past, when I might give a starving man a crust of bread before administering a well-deserved kick and sending him out into the snow.
 
But no more.
 
Truly, in the case of the hobo, IT IS CRUEL TO BE KIND.
 
CRUEL!
 
Where these men truly belong is not the poor-house, but the Penitentiary, where they can ruminate to their heart’s content over their misbegotten ways, in-between stints of basket-weaving, ditch-digging, and making little ones out of big ones.
 
Was it not the great Captain John Smith who sagely observed that “They who do not work shall not eat”?
 
How far we have strayed from the admonitory precepts of that wise old statesman!
 
And to what cost?
 
WE ARE OVERRUN WITH HOBOES!
 
OVER-RUN!
 
To maintain otherwise is socialism, plain and simple, and I say “To hell with it.”
 
(Pardon my language, but there stand I, and I can do no other.)
 
FROM NOW ON, LET THIS BE OUR TOWN MOTTO:
 
DEATH TO HOBOES!
 
All good people agree with me.
 
Even the good hoboes agree, because even they, in their sterno-and-rotgut-addled way, know that a town with no hoboes is a grand thing.
 
And so I say to you–mistake me not–if we shall deal softly with the Hobo in our midst, then verily, we shall be made a magnet for every starving vagabond within a thousand miles.
 
We shall open the toothless maws of itinerant and peripatetic madmen and nomads to speak of our city beautiful as merely a soft haven for erysipelatous scroungers, and they shall swarm our borders ’til they consume the good land we nourished with our very life’s blood.
 
In sum, I ask the town to rally ’round my standard.
 
Are you with me?
 
Or are you a filthy tramp-lover?
 
If the latter, then stay far, far away.
 
If the former, then heed my call:
 
DESTROY THE HOBO FREAKS! LEAVE NOT ONE STICK OF THEIR PATHETIC HOVELS STANDING!
 
AND WE WILL BUILD A NEW JERUSALEM!
 
AND WE WILL SEE THE VERY FACE OF GOD!!!!!”

It was with particular relish that Tandy related to Baby Boy Maddox, and Maddox was soon to repeat to me, the origin tale of the Colonel’s hatred of hoboes.

It all began, of course, with Tandy and his dealings with Cokey Stolas, a tale we shall resume.

1*SALUTATION
BIFF ROSE
FILL YOUR HEART
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l_6xIUrJa3k

ALSO SEE:
RANDY ALVEY & THE GREEN FUZ
GREEN FUZ
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aQljPbOJ7Cc

2*REFERENCE
AARP: 21 NOVELS YOU NEED TO READ
Everybody’s middlebrow favorites.
http://www.aarp.org/entertainment/books/info-03-2012/21-must-read-novels.html?cmp=BAC-OUTBRAIN-ENTERTAINMENT_6843744_21-Novels-You-Need-to-Read

3*HUMOR
HARVEY AND THEIR BIZARRE HIPPIE-ERA COMICS
COWSILLS COMICS:
http://www.misterkitty.org/extras/stupidcovers/stupidcomics347.html

More Harvey teen comics:
http://learning2share.blogspot.com/2008/01/shes-bunny-queen-of-in-crowd-late-1960s.html
http://learning2share.blogspot.com/2008/01/sooper-hippie-fruitman-and-bunnys-back.html

4*NOVELTY
HENRY DARGER
One pill makes you smaller, and one pill makes you larger,
But the ones that Mother gives you make you paint like Henry Darger…—P. Whittle
http://www.saraayers.com/darger.htm

ALSO SEE:
LOUIS WAIN
One pill makes you nutso, and one pill makes you sane,
But the ones that Mother gives you make you paint like Louis Wain…
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Louis_Wain

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
THE SLOW DEATH OF THE AMERICAN AUTHOR
http://www.nytimes.com/2013/04/08/opinion/the-slow-death-of-the-american-author.html?hp&_r=1&

6* DAILY UTILITY
Turns out I have a rather iffy track record when it comes to predicting trends. I did, however, in May of 2008, precisely nail the coming glee club craze.
SEE: http://www.gather.com/viewArticle.action?articleId=281474977352341

7*CARTOON
HARVEY COMICS AND THEIR INSANELY INEPT THRILLERS
http://www.againwiththecomics.com/search/label/Harvey%20Thrillers

8*PRESCRIPTION
CHRISTIAN PIPE SMOKER’S FORUM: “MANLY” POETRY
http://christianpipesmokers.net/modules.php?name=Forums&file=viewtopic&t=12714&start=0

9*RUMOR PATROL
BLOATED CHARITY CEO SALARIES DEBUNKED
http://www.snopes.com/politics/business/charities.asp

10* LAGNIAPPE
PHIL OCHS
FLOWER LADY
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XW5hSLCKQaw

11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
THALIA ZEDEK
Thrill Jockey Records
Via
9 tracks

Any release from Thalia Zedek is bound to be of note. Her local pedigree stretches back to the late 1970s into the mid-1980s (White Women, Dangerous Birds, Uzi). She is probably most noted for fronting Live Skull and founding the groundbreaking local act Come, with Chris Brokaw from Codeine. Since 2001 she has promoted various solo releases, of which Via, though in certain respects a low-key effort, is among her most notable. This latest release opens with “Walk Away,” a surprisingly sweet and heartfelt elegiac number which is reminiscent of ’70s country rock, but with a punk sensibility which more properly belongs to Patti Smith and those who followed in her (not inconsiderable) wake. In fact, the slow burn of songs like “Winning Hand” and “In This World” are reminiscent of a song like Smith’s own epic statement “Seven Ways of Going.” Zedek’s song “Get Away” seems to hearken back to the dazed, nearly hallucinogenic intensity of her work for Uzi. Most notable is the final track, “Want You to Know,” an intense number which erupts into a savage raga reminiscent of the rampaging intensity of Live Skull. All nine of these songs are significant, making this is an essential release from an artist who has always had something to say, but who, with experience, has become more self-assured and more focused in her undeniable intensity than ever before.           

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE. 682.
HIGH WATER EVERYWHERE

Apparently, about every decade or so we need a new book about the Mississippi Flood of 1927. Turns out the latest book to come out will be a heavily-hyped fictional work. So–look for a Mississippi Flood of 1927 boom.

Or maybe not.

SEE:
CHARLIE PATTON
HIGH WATER EVERYWHERE
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZfORF-K4iK4
ALSO SEE: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=4860785

THE INFORMATION #727 APRIL 12, 2013

THE INFORMATION
#727 APRIL 12, 2013
Copyright 2013 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com

THE OCCULT
When you stop chasing your dreams, your dreams start chasing you. ― Dez Del Rio

Rivers spill mysteries into the ocean, and the ocean washes the answer to the shore. ― Tanja Kobasic

Unless men work at occultism as they work for the prizes of their professions they will not achieve. ― Dion Fortune

Capital is money, capital is commodities. By virtue of it being value, it has acquired the occult ability to add value to itself. It brings forth living offspring, or, at the least, lays golden eggs.–Karl Marx
 
The image of the tormented man is taken and reproduced in the dirtiest political ways by the institutions of the church, and through this image they squeeze money and a part of the souls of the people in order to convert them to a faith that no longer is part of the ultimate form of man’s love…. –Sorin Cerin

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER SIX: PART SIX: BIG TROUBLE

Back in 1986, Baby Boy Maddox took the time, on a cold day in early Spring, to fill me in about the career of Richard Stolas. “He was the first-born son of Cokey Stolas, a man who everyone called The Colonel as a sign of respect and fear–and hatred, too–why, he always smelled like beeswax and rotten meat, it was a sweet smell and also sour and musty. If you was out and about in the cold and quiet night you’d see him paterollin’ the houses of prostitution in Joytown and all the other lowdown cribs down in The Valley of Sin–because in addition to controlling the trolley and the bank and the hospital, he also had his hand in the vice district, just like his Paw. In fact, that gang of desperadoes ran Noxtown just like a satrapy. You should of seen the crooked old rogue with his curled up mouth yellin’ at the town meetin’ about how the liberry was spendin’ too much money on fripperies like books and card catalogs and these newfangled gimcracks called fountain pens. Seems as though The Colonel had control of the Cotton Mill and didn’t like to see his men borrowin’ books and takin’ them home and readin’—where do they get the time, he grumbled, they’re supposed to be workin’ at the plant at 6am sharp and not get home until well after sundown. The libbery was begun by grant and public subscription but to build it the town fathers deeded Wildcat Swamp and filled it with worthless landfill, so that every summer the stone walls sweated water and the whole place smelled like vinegar and dust. “

“The Colonel never wanted to spend a penny on improvin’ his holdings—like the trolley line—walkin’ is a lot healthier, said he, for the men who work in my mills. Even though until about the 1950s  the town streets were paved, not with asphalt, but with Belgian stone and people was always twistin’ their ankles.”

“So the trolleys always jumped the tracks and the overhead rod was allus slippin’ the electric line. Even as late as 1930 the conductors was allus havin’ to go up on the roof of the car and change the line on the trolley, and in all kinds of weather. He would pay nary a pretty penny to replace the covered bridges and the rotten wooden railroad ties and so the trolleys was always crashin’ in the snow.”

“The Colonel was so mean that he done tore down the Roller Rink because teenagers was spendin’ too much time there for free and so he built a movie theatre just so he could charge twenty cents a head. He tried to pass a town ordinance outlawin’ The Colored Brigade Brass Band, just because he hated all kinds of music and he said that cornet players corrupted the town’s impressionable youth.”

“Y’see, by about 1913 Noxtown had split off from old Town and become a community in its own right. The town fathers, so called, including Cokey Stolas, they acted all biggity because they had their own waterfall. But when the mills closed down in the depression they didn’t act biggity no more! That’s when pimpin’ and drug runnin’ became the town’s chief means of support. Men with pushcarts was hustled for shakedown money—it was actually a vendor’s license, they called it, but that’s what it amounted to.  It was a rogue burg if ever there was one. There was illegal fireworks on the fourth of July, and who cares if some kid had his eyes put out on account of some fool swingin’ a lit cracker on the end of a string?”

“Oh—and that chopped up body of the girl as was found in river downstream from the wooden dam? They never pinned that one on Stolas, but everybody knowed he had a hand in it. He lived on God’s Little Island in a six-sided house with stone wolves guarding the iron gate, which was done up in a spider-web pattern. And that was the last place the pore girl was seen alive. Some passer-by out for a walk spotted her peerin’ out from a lunette window in the front gable at about 6am.”

“He was a dreadfully fat man when he got old–his red face all twisted up in vice and hatred. You’d spy him about town—he warn’t bashful—eatin’ creampuffs in Libby’s Bakery or taking in the sun down by the Swastika Canoe House or coolin’ off over t’ Bowen’s Ice House or holdin’ court at Jack’s Smoke Shop. You’d see him with a towel wrapped around his flab sweatin’ off a hangover at the New Hygeia Bath House and Spa. Sometimes you’d even see him lollin’ in a painted wooden chair pickin’ his teeth right outside of Kinnane’s Bait Shop—which he also owned– right across the street from the Pink Elephant Restaurant, where he liked to have his lunch. He’d always order the same thing—fried egg sandwich—and he’d never leave a tip.”
 
“Night-times, you could find him at Cappy’s Bar and Grill, or the White Horse Tavern, or in the lobby of the Dewey Hotel or every Saturday at the Hotel Belvedere down by the train station. He had him an “office” back of Champs’ Ringside Bar, right acrost from The Hotel Ferncroft=–also near the train station–where Tandy says he’d hire thugs to do his dirty work—collecting money for the volunteer fireman’s ball and doin’ various jobs of work for the Citywide Improvement Agency, which was mostly devoted to strikebreaking and pulling dirty tricks on known Wobblies and ‘troublemakers.’”

“The old rogue was by no means a pious man, but many’s the Sunday you’d see him make the rounds at one of his favored places of worship: The Park Place Congregational Church where all the well-bred people went dressed all in their finery and flummery and with limousines to pick them up in the parking lot. Or maybe you’d see him at the Church of the Good Shepherd, where all his employees at his worsted mill and his lime kiln and his shot lead factory and his stone crushing plant and his sugar refinery and his stinkin’ fish cannery and his powdered snuff mill all attended mass—if they knew what was good for them. Or he’d drop in and charm the old dowagers at The Church of Our Faith Is Our Strength, or show up and openly and ostentatiously drop a twenty dollar bill into the collection basket at The Graystone Primitive Assembly of God Church. “

“But the Colonel was not by nature a holy man, or a Godly man, and everybody knew it. He was a man who hated people with a passion.”

“And the people he hated above all others were what he was pleased to call ‘the indigent’.”

 “And this is why his story and Cadger Tandy’s story intersected–and in a most unusual way.”

Previous: http://www.thenoiseboard.com/index.php?showtopic=218311&st=25&gopid=3853264&#entry3853264

1*SALUTATION
THROWING MUSES
SNAILHEAD
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LX6CDMHSOEA

CRY BABY CRY
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DH8ToSPaHNk

RAISE THE ROSES
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3H-C_mTnfzQ

SIX MORE SONGS FROM THE DOGHOUSE CASSETTE
http://grooveshark.com/#!/album/The+Doghouse+Cassette/5447746

2*REFERENCE
COWS, PIGS, WARS AND WITCHES
http://www.scribd.com/doc/127338546/Marvin-Harris-Cows-Pigs-Wars-and-Witches

3*HUMOR
YET ANOTHER…MUSIC FESTIVAL
https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10151713353828277&set=a.63028243276.74611.6049803276&type=1&relevant_count=1

4*NOVELTY
DIFFERENT FEET, DIFFERENT ROOTS
http://themetapicture.com/different-roots/

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
BOBBY FULLER FOUR
LET HER DANCE
This video is like some sort of tribal Love God Ritual.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bP9Xc9Nq4YU

6* DAILY UTILITY
25 HANDY WORDS THAT SIMPLY DON’T EXIST IN ENGLISH
http://sobadsogood.com/2012/04/29/25-words-that-simply-dont-exist-in-english/

7*CARTOON
MUNSON PADDOCK, COMIC BOOK PIONEER
VIA MARK NEWGARDEN
Munson Leroy Paddock (1886-1970) “was an illustrator, a commercial artist, a photographer, a collector of railroad photographs and memorabilia and an artist in the earliest comic books,” according to Jim Vadeboncoeur, Jr.
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Munson-Paddock/307430419288

8*PRESCRIPTION
A CLOWN’S NO GOOD
This is a song I first heard as an album-only track on the original issue of the first Merry-Go-Round LP. Unfortunately, their version is not available on youtube. It’s a great song which I suspect is intended to speak to the condition of entertainers in general.
Clown’s No Good:
The E-Types
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vQP_WjyB_gg
Emmitt Rhodes
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7y5BAM-qSxM

9*RUMOR PATROL
RICHARD SMOLEY AND MITCH HOROWITZ
THE STATE OF THE OCCULT
http://www.realitysandwich.com/state_occult_2013

10* LAGNIAPPE
THE SEEDS
PUSHIN’ TOO HARD
ON THE TV SHOW “THE MOTHERS-IN-LAW”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=pKc4-NU9oP8

Via: http://dangerousminds.net/comments/nuggets_on_video_sixties_garage_rock_proto-punk_megapost_part_1

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

WALTER SICKERT & THE ARMY OF BROKEN TOYS
Soft Time Traveler
18 tracks

Billed as a multi-media album, this collection features a variety of song stylings from the ever-innovative and ever versatile Walter Sickert and company. That there is something special and even uncommon about the experience of seeing the band live is undeniable; reviews often focus upon the spectacle of the band, and its carnival-like aspects. These studio recordings are densely textured and full of colorful touches which help the listener prepare for the live experience, but are also intriguing in their own right.  The first three tunes are served up relatively straight.  “Devil’s in the Details 1” is an ominous manifesto; “Survive Songbird 1” is a careering fiddle-slathered declamatory of schizoid intensity, while the instrumental backing of “Baba Yaga 1” partakes more of exotica—as Sickert sing-speaks (in his inimitable fashion) a foreboding tale, you halfway expect the hairy legendary Russian witch’s face to come looming up in front of you. On “Pornival 1” things get weird—a plinky tune is undermined and overwhelmed by an unbearable drum solo. “Soldiers Came 1,” however, is sublime—a heartfelt and enduring string-driven song of loss and regret. This is followed by the almost unbearably pretty “Radioactive Brush 1,” the emotive “Walls,” and the hallucinatory “Dead Cowboys” with its dada-esque lyrics and deadpan despair. Nearly all the songs on this collection—even the frivolous numbers like “Atom Bomb”—are worthy of note. Some are downright brilliant, particularly the heartening off-kilter love song “Droog and Devotchka,” the wrenchingly emotive march “Little Paper Song,” and, possibly the best-of-show, the outstanding, truly epic “28 Seeds.”  Sickert and his co-conspirators seem to follow a sometimes brutal but often surprisingly graceful musical philosophy of what the Russians call Ostranie—the art of making familiar things strange. It is an aesthetic gamble which on this collection pays off in spades about four times out of five—which is a truly high ratio of accomplishment by any standard.         

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE. 681.
WONDER WOMAN
Let’s face it: Wonder Woman was never good. Most of the time the comic books she has appeared in were hardly even tolerable. Except for its weird masochistic subtext, the Golden age stuff is unreadable; the silver age stuff is goofy and utterly childish and sometimes even idiotic; the less said about the bronze age version, the better; and all of the character’s iterations from the 1980s onward have been either solemn and dull or just plain dull. The only halfway good Wonder Woman tale I have ever seen is this one :
http://www.amazon.com/Wonder-Woman-Hiketeia-Greg-Rucka/dp/1563899140

MODERN WISDOM #174 APRIL 2013

MODERN WISDOM: AMERICA’S ONLY HUMOR MAGAZINE
NUMBER 174
APRIL 2013
Copyright 2013 Francis DiMenno
http://dimenno.gather.com
dimenno@gmail.com

AND NOW…MODERN WISDOM PRESENTS:

1. EVERYNOIR
2. THE POLICEMAN’S BIBLE
3. MOMMY & DADDY IN THE HAUNTED HOUSE
4. THE HUBRIS BROTHERS
5. YESTERDAY, INC.
6. THE OHIO DIET
7. THE TWELVE PRESIDENTS
8. COUNTING COUP ON THE TURNPIKE
9. THE EXPLODING MANTRA
10. THE FACT OF NOTHING IS BEAUTIFUL
11. NICKELS, DIMES & QUARTERS
12. SUPERHERO VERITIES
13. USELESS APPENDAGES OF A SHATTERED REGIME
14. WELCOME TO PERFECTION
15. YOUR PARTNER DOESN’T HAVE YOUR BACK
16. MINDSET LISTS OF AMERICAN HISTORY
17. SPEAK ENGLISHO OR GO TO HELLO
18. YOUTH IS AN ILIAD; OLD AGE IS AN ODYSSEY
19. I CAN KNOW TWO THINGS AT ONCE
20. COMMERCIAL INSURGENCIES
21. PSYCHOTIC ENTREPRENEURS
22. DELIBERATE CHINTZ
23. QUOTATION-MARK ROCK
24. SUPER-REPORTER: A MILD-MANNERED MAN
25. THE WIT & WISDOM OF CALIGULA

26. THE WISDOM OF THE WRONG HERO
During the bulk of my comedy career, such as it was, particularly from 1990 to 1998, I performed using an entire persona which might have been characterized as “Gutteral Croak by Menacing Alien.” I would appear masked and costumed on stage–mostly at music venues–as the outer space standup comedian known as The Wrong Hero. This month’s sampler:

When you rant at strangers, people call you crazy. Unless you happen to be Irish; then they call you a “storyteller”.

This Easter Sunday, let us ponder this sacred conundrum: What if the crucifixion was just a friendly dice game that went terribly terribly wrong?

I believe that all life is sacred–unless I just don’t like you.

I’m in love with the spotlight–because I’m afraid of my own shadow.

My dreams for America are as big as America itself. And they will probably disappear down an America-sized rat hole.

I want you to remember–no matter how strangely I act in the days to come–I JUST DO WHAT THE GUN TELLS ME TO DO!

I think we should abolish the World Bank and the IMF– so that poor people can starve in peace, without arrogant interference by American imperialists.

I have two devils on my shoulders. One’s a good devil. The other one’s…just a fuckin’ devil, I guess.

I went looking for a cross between fame and fortune. And I’ve found it. It’s called Famine.

Just when I thought I’ve seen everything, I’m starting to develop cataracts.

27. NOIR MISFORTUNE COOKIES

301. Only you will think your pathetic excuses are amusing.
302. Your long-abandoned son has vowed to destroy you.
303. The Circus Dog scratched you; the infection will be fatal.
304. The male jury will never convict your attractive murderess.
305. Listen, Mister: Even God is tired of You.
306. Not even Wal-Mart or McDonald’s will hire you.
307. Your final words will be uttered through broken teeth.
308. Cheap bourbon and disappointment will be your steady diet.
309. Your tormentor is a registered nurse, skilled in inflicting pain.
310. A giggling psycho will throw your mother out a window.
311. They all recognize you by your thousand-yard stare.
312. Your backgammon technique marks you as a former jailbird.
313. All’s not right with the world while you’re in it.
314. Your employers are plotting to have you arrested and fired.
315. Your unmarked grave will be routinely vandalized.
316. If they gave Value Stamps with rotgut, you could open a warehouse.
317. Broken race-track touts are not entitled to collect unemployment.
318. The crooked sawbones who writes your scripts has been arrested.
319. Every light you see will be a setting sun.
320. Your bogus madhouse act is now becoming all too real.
321. A liquor store clerk will pocket your winning lottery ticket.
322. Pray that you never discover the whole truth.
323. Your enemies will be the smartest people you ever knew.
324. Give up, Punchy. Fifteen rounds with Kid Destiny and you’re washed up.
325. The whiskey was your only friend but now it’s gone.
326. They all know you as one who can be trifled with.
327. No matter where you step the ground is shifting.
328. You will continue to torture yourself–for it WAS your fault.
329. Born in the Gutter, you’ve never lost your taste for it.
330. You’ve devised 101 ways to escape–all will fail.
331. Your distant past is a wound that will never heal.
332. That hostile barroom brawler is nicknamed Karate Motherfucker.
333. The Police Captain you shot was a short-timer.
334. The Yardbirds shun you–even they deplore your crime.
335. The investigator knows you are an incurable Firebug.
336. Because you refused to bend, you will be broken.
337. Treason is the mildest name for your transgressions.
338. Your identity has been stolen by a corrupt Nigerian.
339. You are falsely listed as ringleader of the Subversives.
340. You are marked for liquidation by a vengeful spymaster.
341. Your most mundane activities are being closely scrutinized.
342. You have mistakenly offended the Man With the Twisted Face.
343. The Police are very interested in your friendship with “Boris”.
344. They know you caused the Election Day race riot.
345. They will not even allow you to commit suicide.
346. Racketeers resent your friendship with the new Mayor.
347. You will be sorry until the day you die.
348. Newspaper accounts of bizarre murders hint at your complicity.
349. Your boat will be manned by a skeleton crew–literally.
350. You will be arrested for selling cats as rabbit meat.
351. Surely your current infamy will linger indefinitely.
352. A washed-up comedian will dispense wisecracks at your funeral.
353. You are too weak to work but too sturdy to beg.
354. Burglars will murder your teacup Chihuahua.
355. You cannot sweep it under the rug–don’t even try.
356. You will sell your kidney to pay an angry loan shark.
357. Be a man–kill yourself now, before they find you.
358. In your case, the Final Judgment is long overdue.
359. You are even a failure at suicide.
360. Your enemy will steal your mother’s corpse.
361. The Big Man is dead certain you’re giving him the runaround.
362. Face it. Nobody even pretends to understand–or care.
363. You were, are, and always will be Doomed.
364. Your dead soul squats in a condemned tenement.
365. Honestly? You will never escape your predicament alive.
366. You are in a race against time–which you will lose.
367. Your childhood nickname was “Little Mo”.
368. You have a well-earned reputation for selfish treachery.
369. Nobody wants you around because you are a needy pest.
370. The drunken quack will botch your plastic surgery.
371. You are certainly a man they love to hate.
372. The cabdriver remembers the address of your hideout.
373. Opportunity will knock–Deadly Opportunity.
374. Nature culls the Stupes, so you’re shit out of luck.
375. You didn’t want to snitch but you had no choice.
376. They are watching for your face at all the Borders.
377. That small town Sheriff is anything but dumb.
378. Your Last Meal: Hobo Tomato Soup and despair.
379. In the county lockup you will give birth to a Yenshee Baby.
380. Your prison sentence will set a harsh new precedent.
381. Your best friend will engineer your downfall.
382. No one is willing to take a chance on you.
383. Strange doings at the Old Mill are linked to you.
384. You don’t look nice even when you’re all cleaned up.
385. They have stolen your identity and you are helpless.
386. Innocent? Perhaps. But guilty of many other things.
387. You are and always will remain a two-bit punk.
388. You hated your mother–no, but you loved her, too.
389. Murder Two? No dice. They know you are a Psycho.
390. You really stepped in dogshit this time, Little Pal.
391. Rivers of whiskey will never wash away your awful guilt.
392. The first impression you give off? Professional Crumb-Bum.
393. You’re so low-down you’d even cheat a starving Hobo.
394. The cops know all about your attic hideaway.
395. Stowaway on a Tramp Steamer? Punishment: Forty Lashes.
396. In the Jingle-Jangle Morning they’ll come slaughter you.
397. The Road to Hell is full of scum like you.
398. You were rich before you went nuts and started drinking.
399. The Sheriff knows the Alky you sell is pure poison.
400. Swinging a lit firecracker on a string you blinded your best friend.

28. HAPPYLAND: THANK GOD IT’S THURSDAY
In December of 2012 I spent a rather pleasant luncheon today with a former
high school classmate, whom I’ll call Sal Copeland.

We met up at TGI Friday’s in a town close to Swansea. The sky was brooding,
gray, and as tremulous as Frank Sinatra; the blackened clouds had all the promise
of being ominous without ever quite spilling over and erupting into disordered snowfall.

Incidentally, the turnover of businesses in part of Massachusetts is horrendous.
Fall River Avenue, especially the locality at the confluence of Route 6 and Route
114A, is stretch of road which seems particularly inimical to business
success. South of the TGIF, immediately behind it, is a defunct motel.
(Formerly a Best Western. Now, I suppose, a Dead Eastern.) Adjacent to
it, on its western flank, stands a now-shuttered restaurant which has
gone through a succession of franchisees, all of whom were indubitably
as dead as a mackerel once they alighted upon that accursed spot. Is
it bad juju? Or something more? (I should research the area and find
out what was in place there during the Colonial era. Was it the site
of an Indian massacre? Are the souls of dead aborigines inexorably
continuing to exact their karmic revenge?)

Sal chatted amiably about business, and sundry other matters, with our server. The waitress was
a slender, red-haired, freckled Irish lassie with merry dancing eyes
which may or may not have been as green as Erin’s auld Sod. (Don’t ask
me her name. Ask Sal. He’s the personable one. He’s Michael the
Archangel bearing tidings of Great Joy; I’m the creepy spider in the
corner who dispassionately observes all human interactions and
converts them into insalubrious narrative algorithms.)

Sal engaged in some light badinage with her about her ring–not her fiancees’;
rather, her aunt’s. (Good thing, too, said he; anyone who’d give such
a pretty girl such an impoverished ring deserved to be drowned in the
Atlantic Ocean like a mingy rat.) Herr Copeland and I talked of many
things. Let’s see–in no particular order we talked of the our former high school.
Sal confided that when he first arrived there he was somewhat shy:
I rejoindered that I was a notorious troublemaker during my time
there; also, that I was good in one-on-one chats but that otherwise I
was not really what you might call a people person. (Hence my lack of
career success.) Sal mentioned that rock was big when I attended
boarding school; disco was big when he was there. (Later, I said “No disco, no gay
marriage.” Probably the wittiest thing I said all afternoon.)

We talked of how, in the early 70s, the monks could get away with quite a
bit–leastways in terms of doctrinal asseverations, and throwing stuff
at our heads–but also in terms of telling us what to do–though
not so much by the latter part of that decade.

We spoke of a few of our mutual high school acquaintances; for
some reason, the talk turned to the nature of Jesus. Christ, I said,
was a great example to us all. Particularly Americans. He was the
ultimate Underdog. (Bruce Barton, the ad-man, in his bestselling book
Greatest Story Ever Told, turned the story of Jesus into a parable of
how to succeed in business. Which I found cheap and deplorable, while
conceding that he had a good point. The story of Jesus IS a very
interesting story, whether it happened or not.)

I also put my oar in—how could I resist?–about the falsity of
the (presumably Jesuitical) logic that He was either God or
Madman. Why couldn’t He have been a great thinker of the
first century? (Never mind the fact that his beliefs were radical and
extreme–even for their day.)

Sal and I then had a mild dispute, which never rose to the level
of an argument, regarding the allegedly insidious nature
of creeping secularism and anti-secularism. The whole
‘Happy Holidays’ issue. (Prayer in schools? Why not, said Anthony. I
demurred. We didn’t argue. I don’t feel all that strongly about the
issue either way. I simply mentioned that 20 per cent of the
population professes no religious belief.) Our talk turned to the Newtown massacre.
How could it not? Huckabee blames the gays, said Anthony. Don’t blame
the gays for this current mess, ala Huckabee, said I. Huckabee might
not even believe it himself, but is merely preaching to the
evangelicals, who are quite active in pushing the Republican Party so
far to the right that they’re ruining it. If you need to blame
anybody, said I, blame Madalyn Murray O’Hare, who took the issue of
school prayer all the way to the Supreme Court. Or blame the Second
World War and its aftermath, with its ensuing enormous societal
dislocations, its promulgation of a sex-and-violence nexus, its
equation of guns with virility, and the gibbering preachments of
sapheads who inevitably prescribe simplistic cure-alls to deal with
complex societal neuroses. (Yes, I grew somewhat heated. Incidentally,
the whole sex-and-violence argument is not original to me, but taken
from an 1940s monograph by the social critic Gershon Legman called
“Love and Death”. )

Indirectly, we also spoke of gnosticism, astrology, and
the nature of free will, as well as intolerance and the nature of
evil. Anthony mentioned that an acquaintance recently told him that we
should be very careful, because everything he said on Facebook was
being monitored by government agencies. Anthony dismissed this as a
fantasy. I asked him how old this person was. I already knew the
answer. He was my age. In his Mid-fifties. Meaning that he came of age
during Watergate. That paranoid mentality. I mentioned my college
friend Whitney, who, with deadly seriousness, told me to never
march in parades or sign petitions, and who also advised me to buy a
patch of land in the Maine woods and to construct a log cabin there in
case the world falls to shit. Sal and I agreed that the police
probably do look at Facebook; we also implicitly agreed that the
notion that everyone who posts on Facebook is a marked man is the
sheerest balderdash. All in all, we had quite an interesting
discussion.

As the afternoon was winding down, we spoke of progeny and
near relatives. I told him that the picture of his daughter which he
showed me indicated to me that his child had a shrewd, but kindly
and innocent face. We also spoke of ethnicity, and race, and social
class. The sense of offended dignity felt by first-generation Irish
and Italians and Jews during less enlightened times. I mentioned how
the Blacks must have been truly aggrieved by their perception of a
double whammy. (This was implied, not spoken of at any great length.
Though I did mention the concept of White Privilege. And how the
country is still divided into people who believe that Whites are
actually superior and those who believe that whites simply enjoy
superior advantages.)

We spoke of how help wanted ads were divided into male and
female right up until the early 1970s. We chatted about
the nature of people born into wealth; of old money; of the habits and
mores of the top-out-of-sight wealthy, to use an expression favored by
Paul Fussell. I mentioned Pierre Bourdieu, and his theories of social,
educational, and financial class. We also spoke of the art of writing.

In my mind, in spite of my own inevitable tergiversations, it was as
fine a discussion as any which might have been found in any highbrow
salon in Paris circa 1850.

I suppose the most intriguing thing we discussed was a theme
which was touched upon in a story that Sal had written: namely,
the possibility that all those weird government “programs”
which one used to read about in The National Enquirer, in
which hundreds of thousands of dollars are supposedly spent to study
the mating habits of, say, the hammerhead shark may, in fact, be cover
stories for more unsavory activities.

Sal left me with several pieces of good advice in regard to networking.
I should mention in closing that, while Mr. Copeland’s burger was
done to his liking, in my own chicken and pasta dish I found a piece
of twisted plastic, which I brought to the attention of the waitress.
I was as kind about it as I could possibly be. Told her I had
worked in a kitchen (as indeed I had) and that I could readily
understand how such mistakes can happen, etc. When it came
time to pay, my portion of the meal was therefore
deemed gratis. (Incidentally, I was not so appalled by the presence of
a foreign body in my lunch that I neglected to take home a doggie
bag.) Sal tipped well. (I’m sorry; I notice these things.) I’d
have to say in all honesty that it was an afternoon extremely well
spent. I highly recommend having lunch with Mr. Copeland. (But with a
caveat: Steer clear of the Chicken Florentine Piccata Pasta at the
TGIF near Swansea.)

29. EAST COAST SCENE REPORT
*Thee Quick-Acting Hypnotics may be signed to the Akashik records label.

*The band Milk Of Amnesia was mentioned on Kitchen Nightmares.

*S.E. Hinton was seen in the audience at a recent concert headlined by Gonna Do It For Johnny.

*Acid Is Groovy Kill The Pigs will be mentioned in a new book to be published by Feral House in October.

*Laugh It Up Furball came in second in West Warwick’s annual “Rock Unt” competition.

*Rumor has it that a song by Gorilla Crime Boss will be heard on the soundtrack of the next Batman movie.

*The Scum Bozoes have reunited after a six-month hiatus.

*Circuit Of A Dogma will entertain the troops at an unspecified location overseas.

*Syndrome of a Down will be mentioned in a forthcoming issue of Spin Magazine.

*The Drizzlin’ Shits have a new demo recorded on–get this!–an old-fashioned cassette tape!

*The Beatnik Jet Pilots are to star in a video to be aired on cable access television.

*The Stompbox Wankers are relocating to Vegas.

*The Minor 6145 Choir can be heard every Sunday at the Ranch House in Marshfield.

*Three members of The Blowjob Alibis are decorated Marines.

*Me Love You Long Time will be playing at the opening of the new Johnny’s Foodmaster in Malden.

*Kenny Chambers has named Smash Ugly “a band to watch”.

*Inspector Pigg recently performed on the roof of Hi-Fi Pizza, until the police closed the show down.

*At a recent performance, The Sphincter Monkeys caused a ruckus by throwing firecrackers into the crowd.

*The Pork Messengers have been denied a visa to Saudi Arabia.

*The Vagina Puppets have been condemned by the Archdiocese of Boston.

*After 19 years, The Fat Little Nothings are breaking up.

*The music of the Spit-Backs now appears in a public service ad for stroke victims.

*Apex Predator from Wakey Wakey Eggs and Cakey claims that the “Scene out West” is “better by far than anything you got going on here”. He suggests that we “check it out, maan.”

THE INFORMATION #726 APRIL 5, 2013

THE INFORMATION

#726 APRIL 5, 2013

Copyright 2013 FRANCIS DIMENNO

http://dimenno.gather.com

francisdimenno@yahoo.com

 

BOB HOPE

 

Welcome to the Academy Awards, or, as it’s known at my house, Passover.

 

A James Cagney love scene is one where he lets the other guy live.

 

There will always be an England, even if it’s in Hollywood.

 

When they asked Jack Benny to do something for the Actor’s Orphanage – he shot both his parents and moved in.

 

I love to go to Washington – if only to be near my money.

 

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER SIX: PART FIVE: BIG TROUBLE

“Oh listen!” said Baby Boy Maddox, as frozen rain melted down outside my window at seven in the am. It was the first day of Spring, in 1986. “The sins of the Stolas family didn’t end with the grandfather. Accordin’ to the old Cadger, the Stolas boys is been responsible for a lot of the dirty doings in this clown-town, and it would take a pretty strong blowtorch to burn away the stench of that gang of muckers. I could run you down the entire list, but it would maybe take weeks. But here’s a sampling of some of their hijinks.”

“I told you all about the grandpaw, Cokey Stolas, The Big Man, shot-caller and mastermind. He managed to haul away more loot from the public treasury than Boss Tweed and Tom Prendergast put together. What did you suppose he done with all that lucre? Give it all to charity? Haw! It’s to laugh! Naw, he guv it all in trust to his son, The Colonel. A real bad egg, him. Old Cokey finally got around to whelpin’ a brat, must of been around June of 1908. The very same day the meteor hit. That boy was born under a bad sign. His only begotten son growed up to be a worse rotter than his Paw. A real sinister Yellof. What pies didn’t he have his fingers in? It would be a lot easier to name those, I think. I reckon he left widows and orphans strictly alone—in public, anyway–it’s bad PR to pick on the helpless–when people are watching—but if he could turn a pretty copper by selling bad drugs to the lungers in the sanitarium, or by cutting the buttermilk with plaster of Paris, or by selling bad paint to the warden at the penitentiary–why, then he’d do it in an instant.”

 

“Was he really a Colonel? Who knows? But I’m inclined to think so. I got the low-down from one of the gees at the Carny, who knows a guy who knows a guy. Did some dirty work in the 30s for United Fruit, down in Central Amer-i-kay. Way back when. Commanded a flea-bitten brigade of cut-throats. Pretty amazing what he did, down in that banana republic. Helped put a strong man in power. Was the power behind the throne by all accounts. Helped ’em build an air force. Muzzled the press. Squeezed the peasants to pay off British bank loans. Outlawed the Commies. And–get this–lured the exiled lefties back to the country with big promises, then had ’em all thrown in prison. Colonel Richard Stolas was a bad apple all the way through. While he was down in the jungle there they say he practiced unspeakable perversions that would make the Marquis De Sade look like a bleedin’ choirboy. Old Cadger Tandy, he told me some pretty amazin’stories, too, about when the Colonel came back. He was still a young man, and all during the last half of the Great Depression he lorded it over the poor people of Noxtown and everybody else was scared to death of getting in his way—spoiled punk prince, pasty white, probably a hype, too, though nobody ever knowed for sure—had a temper like a mad dog and a growl like the devil his own self if ever you crossed him the wrong way or even if’n you didn’t—just like his old man, only worse, if that’s possible, because while he was growin’ up he never slept in a hard bed a single day of his life, but he made the lives of the people around him a pure misery. I say that he was none other than Babylon the Great, ‘drunk with the wine of his fornication.’ Others might beg to differ. Statesman, soldier, scholar–he’s been called all that, but here’s the score. He was a jocker, a brute, a burn artist, and you name it. Think of something truly terrible and there’s a good chance he done it, and worse.”

“But this is all buncombe. I guess you truly have to judge him by his works. He shot old harmless crazy Seneca Sprague to death outside the Community Drugstore because Sprague was babbling on about how he, Sprague, was George Washington come back to earth and how maybe he would drop his pants right then and there to prove it and Stolas pretended to think the man was insulting his Wifey, so he pulls out his forty-four and boom boom bingo. The goof, he was dead as a mackerel. Deader, even, if that’s possible. The D.A., he said it was ‘justifiable homicide’–and he didn’t even press charges—there was a preliminary hearing and that was all –and Stolas was as free as air.”

“Listen! There was this Italian cook named Del Delvecchio as made his spaghetti a little less than al dente? Stolas had him deported–and the poor wretch died while working on Mussolini’s railroad!”

One time The Colonel, he didn’t like a job of work that Bob Trim the carpenter done on his house? So he had some hard boys come along and break his thumbs. ‘That’ll teach him how to hold a hammer,’ said the Colonel. And a great big smile creeped across his pudgy face, It was like watching a cat laugh. Gave you an ooky feeling. The inside meemies. All the boys at Loafer’s Corner said it was a sin and shame because Bob Trim had a family to feed, but Stolas couldn’t care less and not one of them loochers dast go to the Police about it neither. “

“The Colonel put a fat wad of his daddy’s crooked dough behind a development called Stolas Village. It was built on a swamp that was used fer dumpin’ paint thinner and other industrial solvents and if you worked at the mill, as many did, and you was poor enough to have to move into one of his dilapidated shacks, as many were, then it was a death sentence for your kiddies for sure, but Stolas only laffed–and counted the shekels. Had him a big old slob named Shadrack Taylor come by the first of every month to collect the rent. He was a big black man weighed 300 pounds and he liked to make interesting deals with the pretty hussies whose old men were out of work. He’s have his way with ‘em and then the Colonel, he’d evict them families anyway. Old Shadrack also collected the rents down in Chocolate Town, another set of Stolas properties. Bad as Stolas Village was, Chocolate Town was even more hopeless. Shutters hanging off the windows at crazy angles, cheap paint peeled right down to the wood—and those were the deluxe properties– some of them tarpaper shacks didn’t even have windows! And the roofs was always leaky and never got fixed, and the rats down by the canal was the size of cats–a menace to man and beast alike. The whole damn place smelled just plain rotten–like it was situated on the very outskirts of hell. And it was.”

“Stolas himself, he lived on a moated property. Folks called it Little God’s Island. He sure was sittin’ pretty. In the Catbird seat, for shoo. It was the depths of the depression, like I said. Some mills were closed because business was bad, some closed because of salary cuts and striking workers who just wouldn’t take it any more. And who was the bully boy who put hisself in harm’s way to fight them strikers? Even though he didn’t have to? Just out of sheer cussedness?”

“It was none other than Colonel Stolas.”

 

“I’d say it must have been April of 1937. It was in the springtime, just after Roosevelt was elected to a second term, and hope was in the air. All the working chumps was standing about in the gin mills and was gassin’ on about how Frankie Roosevelt was going to give it but good to all the fat-cats and that now he had a mandate and they dast not stop him. And I guess we all know how that turned out. Like it always does. With the fuckers on top stayin’ right where they always have been.”

 

“I’m guessin’ the riot happened right after the second lunch whistle blew. The strike at the cotton mill was only in its third day. There was about twenty men was out there picketing in front of a chain link fence and strongly discouragin’ any of the very few scabs from enterin’ to clock in for the remainder of their shift. There was a news hawk from the Patriot Press takin’ snapshots of the pickets with one of those big old speed graphic cameras. The sky was overcast and gray, according to the one picture that made it into print. The sight of the Patriot Press taking a hand in the controversy must of enraged The Colonel. You should have seen him there, said Tandy, surrounded by a beefy squadron of about three dozen bruisers, wading into the milling strikers with a baseball bat and cracking heads. It was as smooth an operation as you could ever want to see. PAM! says the bat, and a spurt of blood comes out of a Linthead’s ear and down he goes. The bullies crept up on the strikers from behind and poleaxes ‘em, and one or two of the goons goes for the reporter and smashes his camera, only there was another reporter there farther off as took a couple of pics from far off under cover of some shrubbery.”

“Colonel Stolas drops his bat, goes for the ringleader, burly fella named of Quammen, grabs him up by his denim jacket—and he picks him up and hurls him to the concrete face first–and the goons all fall in, and they commence to kicking him until his face is a raspberry jam. They grab about five of the other ringleaders and pin their arms back and Stolas picks up the bat and PAM PAM PAM. Down goes three of ‘em, just like that. Then he goes after the other two and works ’em over while the goons stand watch. One guy had his neck broke and the other, he broke his back. There was also some young women there, dressed all in black, handing out flyers, and the goons roughed them up too, tore off their clothes and sent them packing. Then the coppers came and arrested all the remainin’ men, nearly a dozen of‘em. Some of ‘em tried to run but the coppers chased ‘em down and beat‘em. They punched ‘em and kicked ‘em and dragged them face down to the Black Maria.”

 

“Next day, Tandy tells me, the strike was broken–and the remaining workers clocked into the mill–meek as pie. All during the remainder of that year, all the very same working chumps was standing about in the same old gin mills and they wasn’t gassin’ on about Frankie Roosevelt no more. They was all strangely quiet on that score. One grizzled old mill-worker as had tended the loom for goin’ on forty years ’til he was turfed out for bein’ too old and weak, he borrowed a nickel and put it in the juke and spun “The Donkey Serenade”–and you ought to of seen all them hard old mill hands–cryin’ in their boilermakers–as the toothless old duffer stood there–in the dim light and the risin’ swirlin’ smoke–all of a sudden nobody was jaw-jaw–everybody had their yappers shut– and he leaned up against a stool and sang along–in a cracked voice that would just about break your heart–about how all I am is just a fool–serenadin’ a mule. And then he screamed–just like a donkey. After that song was over, you could of heard a pin drop–then somebody bought a round—and somebody else bought another–and they all got drunk—and more and more drunk–and I suppose they forgot all about it. Only Tandy, he didn’t. Tandy, he din’t never forget nothin’.”

 

“Listen, Yob–sometimes the lamb lies down with the lion because he got no choice–but that don’t mean he is got to like it. There was all sorts of slowdowns at the mill–and about three months later Stolas shut down the cotton looms altogether–and they stay closed until about 1942–when they was converted for war work—makin’ parachutes.”

 

“But you should have seen the Colonel—him standing there on the little mount above the mill –right after he done broke that strike—standing with his goons—doin’ a little victory dance–all silhouetted against the black clouds–and the skies opened up in a pouring rain–the lightning flashed and the thunder roared–and you’d think you were seeing the devil his own self–doing a merry jig and a merry little jog–and all at the very gates of hell.”

“You might say the Colonel got involved in a real hands-on way in beatin’ down them strikers–because it was his job–and he loved his work. Seems as though he had him a vested interest in seeing that everything ran his way. Right down to the last detail. Because him and his family and his wife’s family, too–they ran that town like a kingdom. He controlled all the electricity and the water supply too, if you was fortunate enough to even have ‘em, and he owned the largest bank, the best movie theater, the hospital, the bowling alley, the billiard room–and even the only drugstore in town with a marbletop soda fountain.”

 

“Yah, Richard Stolas cut a grand figure in Noxtown, and there wasn’t any whispered nicknames they hung on him, because, ‘specially after the day he broke that strike, he went by one name and one name only. “

“They called him The Colonel. A harmless name, but round about Noxtown it done scared the pants off’n all the babies. “Ye’d best behave—or the COLONEL will come and dust yore britches! Yaassss…ye’d best take care, young ‘uns–or the COLONEL’s gwine git you!”

 

1*SALUTATION

KINKS RARITIES 1968-1973

 

THERE IS NO LIFE WITHOUT LOVE

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DavvhwKo-Rk

 

GOD’S CHILDREN

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

 

MR. SHOEMAKER’S DAUGHTER
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AV0m9FtBqwM&playnext=1&list=PL4E38C5742034CE1D&feature=results_main

 

SWEET LADY GENEVIEVE

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GqgNyYXTK4s

 

SCRAPHEAP CITY (ALTERNATE TAKE)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oV_WwzqXx0Q

 

 

 

2*REFERENCE

SHADY ORIGINS OF FIVE POPULAR BOARD GAMES

http://games.yahoo.com/blogs/plugged-in/shady-origins-five-popular-board-games-202719027.html?fb_action_ids=10151779026137627&fb_action_types=og.recommends&fb_ref=facebook_cb&fb_source=other_multiline&action_object_map={%2210151779026137627%22%3A421647544595463}&action_type_map={%2210151779026137627%22%3A%22og.recommends%22}&action_ref_map={%2210151779026137627%22%3A%22facebook_cb%22}

 

3*HUMOR

50 UNEXPLAINABLE BLACK AND WHITE PHOTOS

http://www.buzzfeed.com/mjs538/50-unexplainable-black-white-photos

 

4*NOVELTY

PEANUT BUTTER CONSPIRACY

IT’S A HAPPENIN’ THING

Love is the grooviest thing up til now in the world.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G6Pujw98O8o

 

 

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST

Louisiana Voucher School Students Taught Hippies Were Dirty, Rude, Rock-Loving Satan-Worshippers

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/03/06/louisiana-voucher-school-hippies_n_2823510.html?ncid=edlinkusaolp00000009

 

6* DAILY UTILITY

 

IS LOUIS C.K. OUR GOGOL?

http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/books/2013/02/louis-ck-our-gogol.html

 

7*CARTOON

ANIMATION ANECDOTES

http://cartoonresearch.com/index.php/animation-anecdotes-101/

 

 

8*PRESCRIPTION

SOVIET WORK SAFETY POSTERS

http://www.buzzfeed.com/copyranter/11-wonderfully-violent-soviet-work-safety-posters

 

9*RUMOR PATROL

ONE-MAN TRUTH SQUAD STILL DEBUNKING JFK THEORIES

http://www.dallasnews.com/news/local-news/20121117-one-man-truth-squad-still-debunking-jfk-conspiracy-theories.ece

 

ALSO SEE:

JFK assassination: Lone gunman theory gets more support in new documentary. Lee Harvey Oswald was only shooter, film claims

 

http://www.montrealgazette.com/news/assassination+Lone+gunman+theory+gets+more+support+documentary/8064315/story.html

 

10* LAGNIAPPE

EARTHQUAKE MAP
http://earthquake.usgs.gov/earthquakes/map/

 

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

LEAD PAINT

Our whole neighborhood was poor, but, even so, some of the kids were kind of snobby. They’d come over to my house and say, “Well…it’s a GOOD paint chip; it’s not a GREAT paint chip….”

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10152693048725501&set=a.123802975500.217153.897570500&type=1&theater

 

11A BOOKS READ AND REVIEWED

AL CAPP. SCHUMACHER AND KITCHEN. ***1/2

ALMOST PRESIDENT. FARRIS. ***1/2

BEST AMERICAN COMICS 2012. ****

BOB HOPE: THE ROAD WELL-TRAVELED. QUIRK. ****

THE BOOK OF REVELATION. KOELLE. ***1/2

CALLING DOCTOR LAURA. GEORGES. ***1/2

THE COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO. DUMAS, NODDS, BANERJEE. ***1/2

CRUISIN’ WITH THE HOUND. SPAIN. ****1/2

DAREDEVIL: REBORN. ****

DISTRICT COMICS. ***

EX LIBRIS. FADIMAN. ****

EXILE ON MAIN STREET. JANOVITZ. ****

FAIREST 1: WIDE AWAKE. WILLINGHAM. ***1/2

FABLES: WEREWOLVES OF THE HEARTLAND. WILLINGHAM. ***

GROUNDHOG DAY. [FILM.] ****1/2

HEADS IN BEDS. TOMSKY. ***1/2

HELLBLAZER: PANDEMONIUM. ****

INVINCIBLE ULTIMATE COLLECTION 6. ***1/2

JOHN CONSTANTINE, HELLBLAZER: THE FEAR MACHINE. ***1/2

JOHN CONSTANTINE, HELLBLAZER: THE ROOTS OF COINCIDENCE. ****

JOHN CONSTANTINE, HELLBLAZER: INDIA. ***1.2

 

LITERARY ROGUES. SHAFFER. ****

MAD VOLUMES 1-4. ****1/2

MARVEL UNIVERSE VS. WOLVERINE **1/2

AN OFFER WE CAN’T REFUSE. DESTEFANO. ***1/2

A PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST. JOYCE. ****1/2

ROAD RAGE. HILL & KING. ***

ROTTEN REVIEWS REDUX. HENDERSON, ED. ***1/2

THOMAS NAST. HALLORAN. ***1/2

TOP OF THE ROCK. LITTLEFIELD. ***1/2

UNCLE SCROOGE: ONLY A POOR OLD MAN. BARKS. ***1/2

THE WAY YOU WEAR YOUR HAT. ZEHME. ***

WONDER WOMAN 1. AZZARELLO. ***

 

 

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE. 680.

ANTI-WAR SONGS: A SELECTION

PART FIVE: DERANGEMENT

 

THE BYRDS

DRAFT MORNING

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X6pb2pLeR_s

 

CREEDENCE CLEARWATER REVIVAL

RUN THROUGH THE JUNGLE

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EbI0cMyyw_M

 

ERIC BURDON & THE ANIMALS

SKY PILOT

http://youtu.be/69zvFnVa03g

 

STIFF LITTLE FINGERS

ALTERNATIVE ULSTER

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qLo7z50Tt2g

 

MOFUNGO

EL SALVADOR

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gtqo0vSkcFs

 

THROWING MUSES

HATE MY WAY

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9gdoUIgWZ5c

 

SKIP SPENCE

WAR IN PEACE

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e-ZOjZztGzs

 

MAD RIVER

THE WAR GOES ON

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g0PCzH-K1hg