THE INFORMATION #735 JUNE 7, 2013

THE INFORMATION
#735 JUNE 7, 2013
Copyright 2013 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com

YES—THEY HAVE MORE MONEY
Let me tell you about the very rich. They are different from you and me. They possess and enjoy early, and it does something to them, makes them soft where we are hard, and cynical where we are trustful, in a way that, unless you were born rich, it is very difficult to understand. They think, deep in their hearts, that they are better than we are because we had to discover the compensations and refuges of life for ourselves. Even when they enter deep into our world or sink below us, they still think that they are better than we are. They are different. — F. Scott Fitzgerald, from “Rich Boy,” 1926

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

“Listen, Yob,” said Tandy to Baby Boy Maddox, on that long-ago day —“I dinna ken how many times I can tell you how different a world it was, in Noxtown, back when I was a green Yellof, back in the short-pants days.”

Take your breakfast sausage. Right now you can buy your 100 per cent pork sausage all lined up  in a neat little package or even in  big plastic wrapper  from one of them newfangled supermarkets, but back in the olden days your sausage hung from the ceiling of a butcher shop and was likely made from a pig’s snout, a hog’s eyebrow, and any other ground up part of the sickly beast as would fit snug in the see-through casing, which was made out of his gut. The butcher wore a white apron with black stripes, as was useful to hide the blood, which got to be everywhere.It was no job for a cream-puff inhaler—the butcher man wielded a mean cleaver and had to be strong enough to drive a knife through the thickest bone, which is why the job would often go to a roughneck.

Your fire department was manned, not by clean-shaven professionals, but by young toughs who like as not would battle each another for the privilege of aiming the hose, all the time ignoring the fire, and sometimes you would watch as your house burned clean down to the frame while they knocked each other on the head with clubs and axe-handles. There was never enough water pressure, especially in the summer months, and the patched-up hoses would sometimes only deliver a thin trickle instead of a powerful spray. The only protection you had agin a fire was to keep your own staff at the ready to form a bucket brigade, and that, of course, was only if you were one of the rich folks as lived on Snob Hill.

Cleary the Baker was a fat Yellof and his wife was a sallow wench who looked out into the street from her shop window and dreamed of all the pretties she mought have bought had she married the banker’s son. All for the want of an ‘N’! All in all, the baker was a good Yob who didn’t ladle too much plaster or alum into his bread—just enough to keep abreast of his rivals. You didn’t mind paying an extra half-penny for a good loaf. That’s what Red Mary told me when she’d send me to his shop a few blocks away. A word to the wise.

The blacksmith—big Yellof with a thick black handlebar mustache–also doubled as a harness-maker–he would chase me away from his shop—it was dangerous with all the chemicals and the flyin’ sparks for a little Yellof to be standing ‘round—but he wouldn’t pay me no never mind if I watched him doing his work from a distance. That blacksmith—I disremember his name–was my ideal. What could be a better object of admiration for a sprout than to watch a big strongman with muscles the size of small boulders–with his tongs and his mallets and his chisels–striking sparks from a big anvil or wrassling a hoss to fit him for a shoe? Mister, I says to that blacksmith, How does it feel to be you? It feels swell, little fella, says he—it feels swell.

I was afraid of the funeral home—but fascinated—drawn to what I dreaded, like many a lad before and since—and I feared the undertaker—him always dressed in black, with his starchy white shirt and his thin black necktie, and black bags under his eyes as if he never slept–never smiling but never really frowning either—you’d see his eyes light up in their sockets and become alive mostly when folks walked into his funeral parlor, but never would his poker face betray a human feeling. You’d see a faint smile curl up his lips only when he managed to sell a coffin made of  slippery elm and manage to get the price of a coffin made of oak.

There was many a business establishment that you don’t see much of today.

The stout woman who made pastries and also had a line in wedding goods—spun sugar fantasias on top of creamy frosting and good honest cake. Makes my mouth water to this day.

The thin yaller wretch who sold priests outfits—store always smelled like musty candle-wax.

The oyster bar, with sawdust on the floor and fellers swallering shellfish the size of a puny baby.

The fat cheesemonger with his sweaty wares wrapped in pure white cloth.

All gone the way of the wind—done blowed away by progress.

On the dusty streets—dusty with the smell of dried horse shit– you’d see puchcart vendors you don’t see the likes of any more—the knife grinder—the vegetable pedlar—the watermelon man—the old clothes buyer—the ice man. They’d fill the streets with their cries: WATTY—WATTY-MELON—CLO’ES—OLD CLO’ES– ICE—ICE-Y—GETCHER ICE!

There was endless entertainment for a green mite who was out on the town on a summer day, with nowt to do but look and listen. You could go to a hardware store and hear the big men talk shop. The hardware store was full of shiny things a small boy could stare at and treasure up—if only in his memory–saws, axes, knives, and hammers. You could earn a penny or two by hanging around the baker’s or the druggist’s or the butcher’s  and delivering a package for ‘em. Never occurred to ‘em that you might scoff the lot. That would of queered the pitch of the other small Yellofs, and it just wasn’t done. Back then, I noticed, everybody promoted themselves all the time. The butcher would burn his mark into the ham, the baker would have a raised brand in the loaves he would send out, and the druggist had his name and address stenciled on the bag.

The sign-painter was a big man in Noxtown. Business people always needed window dressing to promote their wares, and crumb-crushers and slack-jawed loafers would allus love to gather round to see the sign man ply his trade. He was a vagabond, who traveled light, with only his brushes and sometimes his paints, but he could whomp up a window glass sign, a placard, or even paint an entire billboard or a side of a building, and he’d make a pretty penny off it—and then would go and drink it up. Painters and cooks is mostly drunks—must be the fumes. But the sign painter was welcome anywhere, because he was a skilled man and could make art that the everyday people could understand. To this very day is a Tom Tucker Ginger Ale sign that I first saw painted back in ought-nine. Back then they used a certain kind o’ lead paint that wouldn’t wash away come hell ner water high.

On the fourth of July and especially on election day we young ‘uns would get up to all manners of devilment, what with hauling outhouses away and swiping empty wooden barrels and burnin’ ‘em up right there in the middle of the street—you can well imagine such a thing not flying today—you got to remember that even the main streets was paved with cobblestones–traffic back then was horse-drawn—not even the trolleys was all-electric. We would go wild with firecrackers and cherry bombs and other dangerous toys and many a tom-fool got his thumb blowed clean off, acting the smart-aleck with dangerous ‘splosives.

Some say we should bring back the stocks to punish thieves and tramps, and mischief-makers, and maybe even bring back the forty lashes. I can’t hold with that line of thinking, Yob. That’s the thinking of a born punk. Know this well: A caning can sometimes serve to simply fill a felon’s heart with a bitterment, rather than a resolve to hew to the straight and narrow.

And never you mind going to the law for justice in a case of fraud. If you was to lash all the dishonest tradesmen there ever was, that might be a good start, but it will never happen—never has and never will–only the poor are made to take their lumps—the well-off, with their clubby pals and secret handshakes always get off scot-free, or with forty lashes with a wet feather.

And know this well, Yob—then as now–it still be the Way of the World.

PREVIOUS: http://www.thenoiseboard.com/index.php?showtopic=218311&st=50&gopid=3853378&#entry3853378

1*SALUTATION

THE SERENDIPITY SINGERS

DON’T LET THE RAIN COME DOWN
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KtBGG49T50E&feature=player_embedded
2*REFERENCE

DICTIONARY OF THE VULGAR TONGUE

http://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/5402/pg5402.html

ALSO SEE:

DICTIONARY OF THE VULGAR TONGUE BECOMES ONLINE HIT

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/books/9103258/Dictionary-of-the-Vulgar-Tongue-from-1811-becomes-online-hit.html

 3*HUMOR

THE WORLD’S MOST AWKWARD TAXIDERMY
http://io9.com/the-worlds-most-awkward-taxidermy-509470092

4*NOVELTY

WHAT YOUR PICTURE PROFILE SAYS ABOUT YOU
http://jesuschristsiliconvalley.tumblr.com/post/46537875392/what-your-profile-picture-says-about-you-hint

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST

WEIRD BOOTLEG SIMPSONS MERCH

http://www.mandatory.com/2013/05/31/the-weirdest-bootleg-merchandise-from-the-simpsons/

6* DAILY UTILITY

CREATE YOUR OWN WEBSITE
www.Wix.com/HTMLsites/CreateAwebsite

7*CARTOON

RELIGIOUS AFFILIATIONS OF COMIC BOOK CHARACTERS
http://www.openculture.com/2013/05/the_religious_affiliation_of_comic_book_heroes.html

8*PRESCRIPTION

DON’T HIRE PEOPLE WHO AREN’T GREAT AT SOMETHING ELSE

http://asalesguy.com/2013/05/28/dont-hire-people-who-arent-great-at-something-else/

9*RUMOR PATROL

HOW TO RUIN YOUR PROFESSIONAL REPUTATION
http://money.usnews.com/money/blogs/outside-voices-careers/2013/05/20/how-to-ruin-your-professional-reputation
10* LAGNIAPPE

HALF OF AMERICA IN POVERTY
http://www.alternet.org/economy/real-numbers-half-america-poverty-and-its-creeping-toward-75-0

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

THE GRAMMAR OF ROCK: ART AND ARTLESSNESS IN THE 20th CENTURY

By Alexander Theroux. Fantagraphics Books.2013. Hardcover. 346 pages.

Review by Francis DiMenno

Two things I’ve got to say right off. First is that Mr. Theroux was a teacher of mine way back in the 1970s and I even hung out with him on Cape Cod for an afternoon or two. Second is that he is a witty guy, a very witty guy, but I am very jealous of him, because he has written an exegesis of rock which puts my own humble effort in this vein, “Masterpieces of Rock”—you can google it if you like—far beyond the pale. This book is like one continuous stream of bafflingly hilarious erudition; dense, dithyrambic and infuriatingly opinionated. Early on he states: ”We cannot help but see, then, that pop music is, among other things, an extensive gallery of postures and… a compendium of diverse attitudes and odd approaches… I think it worthwhile to look at the successes and failures of this music, bringing an intelligence… to conclude what we will.”

And does he ever, This screed is one of those marvelous feats of writerly bravura which lifelong aficionados of the outré tend to treasure up. In its language it sometimes reminds me of Richard Meltzer’s bafflegab-laden put-on pronunciato “The Aesthetics of Rock” (1967). Its rhetoric is similar to Gershon Legman’s careering anti-hippie monograph “The Fake Revolt” (1967). Compare and contrast.

First, Legman: ”The main feeling one gets, picking one’s way through the sodden bodies and surly faces of the “flower children” in these psychedelic pads nowadays, is that of a terrible and empty sadness and meaninglessness. Mostly, the kids just sit around among the unwashed dishes, scratching their unwashed armpits, screwing…and work themselves up on drugs to writing newer and worse manifestoes and poems, all in a bad imitation of the style of Walt Whitman’s bad imitation of the King James Bible….”

Next, Theroux: “The continuing irony of lyrical verbosity in popular music is that…it is a kind of pedantry of the vigorous and athletic sort that usually expresses itself in a virulent form of anti-intellectualism. It is big on nature mysticism. Going out and getting grubby. Romantic solipsism. Wordsworthian trust in nature. Suspicion of ritual. The holiness of solitude. Hatred of authority. The inarticulate hero. Guitar as ikon. Spontaneity. Drugs-as-viaticum….”

In his polymathic verve, Theroux equals and sometimes excels the inspired snark of J. P. Donleavy’s “The Unexpurgated Code” (1975), and, at his best, he even rivals Walt Whitman’s rant-laden description of a antebellum Democratic National Convention: “The members who composed it were, seven-eighths of them, the meanest kind of bawling and blowing office-holders, office-seekers, pimps…carriers of conceal’d weapons, deaf men, pimpled men, scarr’d inside with vile disease, gaudy outside with gold chains made from the people’s money and harlots’ money twisted together; crawling, serpentine men, the lousy combings and born freedom-sellers of the earth.”

Why read the collected writings of, say, Hunter S. Thompson, when Theroux is much more often profoundly accurate, as well as insightful about a subject dear to any musician’s heart—and, also, far more willing to fling spiteful invective around like a dripping-wet workdog coming into your spotless vestibule from a gale-force hurricane? Theroux’s myriad of opinions regarding high culture might enlighten you; his roundhouse condemnations of low culture can and should make you laugh out loud. He takes an axe to the idiocies of—just a random survey sample here—Yes, REM, Springsteen, Cher, Elvis, Karen Carpenter, Barbra Streisand, Burt Bacharach—and he’s just getting warmed up. He also takes the time to get in subtle and not-so-subtle digs at his siblings; at Cape Cod Community College; at G.W. Bush; at NPR, and at Rush Limbaugh—you might say that he’s an equal opportunity hater, as the cliché has it, only his feelings never seem to rise to a crescendo of deep loathing—only to one of profound annoyance and scorn. He hilariously execrates hillbilly logic in general and country music in particular: “It was so hokey the way country singers tried to seem so ass-kickin tough, surly, and macho, monosyllabic and deep, meaningful and nonsensical, when any fool could tell it was all show-business.”

Nor does he stop there. He mocks the mawkish; knocks the props out from under hippie sentimentality; slaps hip-hop into a cocked hat. He comes off  like the world’s wittiest curmudgeonly uncle complaining about That Damned Noise in language so efflorescent he might as well be writing one of his novels—a great American novel, as a matter of fact, in which not one word is fiction. (His 1973 novel “Three Wogs” caused a sensation—mostly for its hilarious cruelty—and his 1979 novel “D’Arconville’s Cat”  was singled out in Anthony Burgess’s 1984 book  “99 Novels: The Best in English since 1939.”)

This uncommonly opinionated production is likely to provoke many people into violently hurling the tome across the room or scribbling “bullshit” and “wrong” into the margins of nearly every other page.

Alas, such sticklers may have a point. The book is riddled with numerous small errors.  Muddled song titles, for instance: The Big Bopper sang “Chantilly Lace,” not “You Know What I Like.”  Muddled attributions: Donovan, not Dylan, wrote “Catch the Wind.” Brian Wilson never wrote a song called “Van Dyke Parks.” The song Theroux is thinking of is “Heroes and Villains,” with lyrics by Van Dyke Parks, and the line “columnated ruins domino”—which he professes not to understand—is surely no more obscure or difficult to understand than the poetry of, say, Hart Crane. (Some of these lapses may be due to shoddy editing. Souza wrote five novels. [Page 264.] Souza wrote three novels. [Page  272.] Which is it?)

But so many of his defenestrations are so devastatingly spot on that one is tempted to pluck the best of them from their overwhelming context and compile a list of favorites, and, surely, someday some canny operator will do just that. I will say that despite his breadth of knowledge regarding the American songbook, Theroux does not seem to know much about Boston-area rock—he does, however, have a kind word for the Remains, singles out the Lemonheads, and name-drops the Dropkick Murphys and the Modern Lovers.

Theroux is intensely vain. Only an egotist could have written such a book. But I say more power to him. It is brilliant. It is flawed and full of curious blind spots, and it is also very far indeed from a truly comprehensive survey of all the lyrical gaffes to be found in pop, rock, blues, rap, country, and show tunes. We get the impression sometimes that Theroux has been compelled to empty out, not only his notebooks, but his brain pan. Still, the book is compellingly entertaining.

Ultimately, what Theroux most vigorously protests is, not simply pop music lyrics, but the ongoing debasement of rational discourse: “Cliches, threadbare phrases, inane word usage, trite expressions, verbal tics, stock terms, cheap slang, and grammatical errors that even third graders would not make are indications of national brainlessness.” It is basically the same message that Confucius sent out some 25 centuries ago: Rectify the language.

http://thenoise-boston.com/2013/05/book-review-3/

11A BOOKS READ AND RATED (APRIL/MAY)
1001 FACTS THAT WILL SCARE THE SHIT OUT OF YOU. MCNEAL. **
AMAZING SPIDER-MAN: AMERICAN SON. **
ANARCHY COMICS: THE COMPLETE COLLECTION. ****
ANYTHING FOR A VOTE. CUMMINS. ***
ARCHIE MARRIES. **
THE AUTHORITY: WORLD’S END. ***1/2
AVENGERS BY BRIAN MICHAEL BENDIS 2. ***1/2
AVENGERS ASSEMBLE  BY BRIAN MICHAEL BENDIS. ***1/2
BATMAN 2: CITY OF OWLS. ***1/2
BATMAN: THE DARK KNIGHT 1. **1/2
BATMAN: THE DARK KNIGHT RETURNS. MILLER. ****1/2
BATMAN: YEAR ONE. MILLER. ****1/2
BATWOMAN 1. ***1/2
BATWOMAN 2. ***
BIG TROUBLE. LUKAS. ****1/2
THE CARTER FAMILY. YOUNG & LASKY. ****
CLAUDIUS THE GOD. GRAVES. ****1/2
COLONEL SUN. ****
COMEDY BY THE NUMBERS. HOFFMAN & RUDOREN. ***
COMPLETE CRUMB COMICS 5. ****1/2
COMPLETE FABULOUS FURRY FREAK BROS 1. ****
COMPLETE FABULOUS FURRY FREAK BROS 2. ****
THE CORNER. SIMON & BURNS. ***1/2
DAMN GOOD ADVICE. LOIS. ****
DAREDEVIL: RETURN OF THE KING. ****
ESSENTIAL JACK ZEIGLER. LORENZ. **1/2
EVERYTHING WE MISS. PEARSON. ****
FINDER: TALISMAN. MCNEAL. **1/2
THE FURRY TRAP. SIMMONS. ****
THE GOOD OLD DAYS—THEY WERE TERRIBLE! BETTMAN. ****
THE GRAMMAR OF ROCK. THEROUX. ****1/2
HUNTINGTON WV ON THE FLY. PEKAR. ****
I, CLAUDIUS. GRAVES. ****1/2
I’M DYING UP HERE. KNOEDELSEDER. ***1/2
IRON MAN 2. PUBLIC ID. **
JOHNNY RYAN’S XXX SCUMBAG PARTY. ***
JUSTIN GREEN’S THE SIGN GAME. ****
KENNEDY & NIXON. MATTHEWS. ***
THE KENNEDYS. PORTER & PRINCE. ***
LA NOIR. BUNTIN. ****
THE LEAGUE OF EXTRAORDINARY GENTLEMEN. MOORE. ****
THE LIFE & TIMES OF WM. SHAKESPEARE. LEVI. ****
THE LOWBROW READER READER. RUTTENBERG. ***1/2
MAN WITH THE GOLDEN GUN. ****
MENTAL FLOSS: THE BOOK. ***1/2
THE MENTAL FLOSS HISTORY OF THE WORLD. SASS & WIEGARD. ***
NEAR DEATH 1. FAERBER ETAL. ****
NEMO: HEART OF ICE. MOORE. ****
NEW AVENGERS 3. BENDIS. ***1/2
NEW AVENGERS 4. BENDIS. ***1/2
OCTOPUSSY. ***1/2
ON THE ROPES. VANCE & BURR. ****
PETER BAGGE’S OTHER STUFF. ***
PILLS A-GO-GO. HOGSHIRE. ***1/2
POLESTAR. ***
A PRACTICAL GUIDE TO RACISM. DALTON. **
PRESIDENTS’ MOST WANTED. RAGONE. **1/2
RED DAWN. [FILM]. *1/2
SCANDALOUS! FRYD. ***
SHARK BAIT. ***1/2
SIGN PAINTERS. LEVINE. ***1/2
STORIES MY FATHER TOLD ME. LYONS. ***1/2
SUPERMAN: TALES FROM THE PHANTOM ZONE. **1/2
SUPREME POWER 2. ***1/2
TAKE A JOKE. RYAN. **
THE 12 CAESARS. GRANT. ****
ULTIMATE COMICS AVENGERS: CRIME & PUNISHMENT. **1/2
ULTIMATE IRON MAN 1. EDMONDSON. **
UNDERSTANDING THE CRASH. TOBACMAN. ****
THE UNITED STATES OF PARANOIA. WALKER. ****
THE UNITED STATES OF STRANGE. GRZYMKOWSKI. ***
WHISKEY TANGO FOXTROT. AXELROD. ****
WHO IN HELL. KELLY & ROGERS. ****
WILDCATS 3.0. YEAR ONE. ***1/2
WILDCATS. WORLD’S END. ***
THE WORLDLY PHILOSOPHERS. HEILBRONER. ****1/2
YOUNG ROMANCE. SIMON & KIRBY. ****
CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE. 689.

SOUNDALIKE APES AKA CLASSIC KNOCKOFF PSEUD
PART TWO:

Three Notable examples:
Rolling Stones “It’s Only Rock and Roll” = T. Rex.
Hollies “Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress” = Creedence Clearwater Revival.
 Zombies “Care of Cell 44” = Keith, “98.6”.

MORE (KUDOS TO “MUSIC OBSCURICA” ON FACEBOOK):

= Beatles http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sYwqrod154Q

= James Taylor, Paul McCartney, Harry Chapin, Lou Reed, Bob Dylan, Randy Newman, Bruce Springsteen, Van Morrison, Cat Stevens, and Joni Mitchell! (Who’d I leave out? John Lennon. Jackson Browne. Elton John…) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2xxugNQUtpE

= The Hollies “The Air That I Breathe” (and Radiohead was successfully sued for their plagiarism).
http://youtu.be/XFkzRNyygfk

= Keith Jarrett solo (not a compliment to either, btw): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B-mLkzFUzTA

= BST: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sxJFjO4Skgo

= Phoebe Snow (voice, not mix): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0O9OmyV7BhY

= John Fogerty (in reverse): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8h0irK11vk0
ALSO SEE:
Washington Phillips’ song ‘The Church Needs Good Deacons’, recorded 2 December 1929, bears a remarkable resemblance to the Theme from the ‘Magnificent Seven’.—Patrick Whittle http://youtu.be/9iteRKvRKFA

= ‘Handel’s Messiah’, with a heavy borrowing from ‘Angels We have Heard on High’. http://youtu.be/fy3kJt_tQrY

= Bach’s Minuet in G major: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FmJ1AqtTuyo
SEE: http://youtu.be/on1DDSLdDOo

= “Dixie”. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dEuqWuQTSe4

Tribute to Kinks, “Lazy Old Sun”: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ttPNilF3v5A

Later swiped by Chicago. (kudos to Richard Smoley for pointing this out.) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c9OcPzjpXnk

Later swiped by ‘King Crimson’s’ ‘Lark’s Tongues in Aspic’, and ‘The Moody Blues’ ‘Days of Future Past’. http://youtu.be/JTGwTH1PUeI

Do I dare to suggest that Paul Simon’s principle flaws as a composer seem to be stem from self-indulgence and laziness? And a certain amount of –flay me until I drop–bad taste? “Mother and Child Reunion” as a touching encomium to–a Chinese chicken and egg dish? “Lincoln Duncan”–“Just thanking the Lord for my fingers.” (Cute.)

And Exhibit A: “American Tune”–a straight cop from the Christian hymn “O Sacred Head Surrounded. (By Crown of Piercing Thorns)” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h0wIbgDVp5c

SEE: http://youtu.be/XppXi_jZKWk

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THE INFORMATION #734 MAY 31, 2013

THE INFORMATION
#734 MAY 31, 2013
Copyright 2013 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com

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

Cadger Tandy had far more to say about the rough men as made their base the Seven Stars Saloon.

“Tipsy Smith, as was in love with Red Mary—well, he didn’t know it at the time, but he was bounden to be cheated out of his share of the Seven Stars Saloon.

It was hard cheese, but facts was facts. Old Judge Rance Sniffle was part owner and he was a slippery chap; a loocher of the lowest kind; a graft-happy skin-flint as would steal the pennies from a dead man’s eyes. And laugh it up. He stole loose change from the blind news-vendor, and scyped apples from the goofy Eye-Talian fruit-peddlar, who would stomp up and down and roar at him in fractured English–but could do nowt. The Judge had connections.

T’was a low dive, the Seven Stars, with low patrons. Few reputable heads were ever seen there. The stench alone would gag a maggot. As matters stood, Tipsy was bound to make his crust solely on the pennies as was begged, borrowed or stolen by his regulars.

THERE was a crew. Here’s a roll-call of them loafers. Hardly fitten company for a broth of a boy. Such as they was—a sorry lot—they was also Tipsy Smith’s very own Revenge Incorporated. His hired muscle. I should snicker.

Sots such as the squinny-eyed Adam “Happy” O’Day—the court jester—every hellhole has one—of the premises. Wit, poet, mimic, singer, orator, and facialist. He was a pee-culiar creatur—fat faced—grinning—sharp fangs– with teeth as yaller and black as an ear of Indian corn–had a slickered-down patch of thick hair as black as greasepaint—and he looked out at you with black, lonesome, faraway eyes. Had but one tattered suit of swell clothes which he wore into patches. Allus laughin,’ as if he was on to some great joke as only he knew what was so funny. When he was vexed he could swear like a cutter but mostly, he was a one as to cut up didoes—he could ‘personate a Dutchman, a Johnny Chinaman, Ikey Moe the Jew Pedlar, or even a Red Injun about to go to his Happy Hunting Ground. He did not have a happy ending, him.

His head was too big to support his neck, if you get my drift.

Then there was his paw—Count “No Count” O’Day—self-styled– bald, frowning, rumbustious—smelled always like cabbage—dressed in rags–said he owned an estate in Ireland—purest piffle—always barking orders that nobody ever paid much never mind to—as dour as his son was cheery. He could cut up nasty if he saw that folks was goosin’ him—‘Cut that,’ he’d snarl, and folks would hop to—he was a mean one with a pig sticker—and bein’ an old ‘un he must of felt as he didn’t have much to lose—proud—like so many of them border Irish—would rather die than be disrespected—HE was a real Jack Nasty as would claw out your glims in a heartbeat. Didn’t have a job. He would sometimes sweep the old sawdust from one corner of the room to the other, and Tipsy would feed him the slops—the leftover drinks—which all got poured into a metal bucket at the evening’s end—and was like to eat a hole right through that very same bucket. Tanglefoot, it was called—the remains of drinks that was anyway made with raw alcohol, burnt sugar and chewing tobacco. Think I’m putting one over on yuh? Nix. To this very day, in some low dives the top shelf could be anything from the real goods to low grade rotgut made from bad hooch that had some turpentine, ammonia and cayenne pepper mixed in– for flavorin’. Old “Count” O’Day never et much—had nary a good tooth in his head, so he couldn’t chew no wise—so he got most of his calories from slops—but he was never drunk—much—either that, or he was always drunk—nobody could really tell.

One day he vanished and was never seen again. Some say he went back to his estate. More likely, he was transferred straight from a ‘nonymous slab in the Country Morgue to a shoveled out hole in the Potter’s Field out there on Mistake Island.

Then there was Jack the Painter—I dinna ken whyfore they called him that—never saw him with a paintbrush in his dukes—he lived in one of the back warrens of that basement saloon—Tipsy Smith said he was his ‘handyman’—he was a gray-headed rascal as kept his hair long in a sort of rat-tail, like a Jack Tar, and he was grim as any penitent—never cracked a smile—kept his own counsel, him—shoulders always in a kind of slump–always looked cross-wise and peevish when you hailed him or deigned to ask him a question—so it was hard to tell when he was really cross—only when he gritted his teeth, and then you knowed for sure.

You could hardly blame him for bein’ full of the glooms—he performed nearly every dirty job in the place—no joke—washed the glassware, rolled in the barrels of beer, took out the rubbish, swept up the broken glass, threw out the exceptionally depraved inebriates as had bepissed and beshat themselves–and who knows what all else besides.

I heerd as he later became a copper’s nark—a grassman—a snitch. Went from the rookery to a swell jailhouse bunk with three hots and a cot—who knows where he is now—and who cares? Can’t stand a stoolie–nohow.

Then there was Jimmy Ragmop—a ginger-headed lout with the makings of a skimpy beard such as you’d see on old pictures of Mephistopheles. Kind of dull-witted—slow on the up-take–an ee-jit, as they called ‘em back then—and Tipsy put him to work when the bar was crowded—toting mugs and shot-glasses back to the kitchen—and mopping the tables with a filthy rag—hence his name—nobody knowed his real name. Nobody ever even asked.

He was a cheerful dunce—I’ll give him that much—hard to put him off his feed—not a hopeless drunk—more like a hopeful, red-eyed drunk—stuck mostly to beer—he’d attack the free lunch with gusto—a dedicated eater–knew what was in the hot dogs; didn’t care—was actually seen to take a drink of water on occasion—unheard of in them parts—most of them sots avoided the aqua pura like poison. Friendly fella, him, and folks would tease him—accuse him of things he hadn’t done and couldn’t of done—bizarre murders and the like—make him out to be the goat.

One fine day many years later he went nuts and cut his own fingers off. No one could figure out way. The loochers said it was on account of his deplorable habit of drinking uncut water.

And we also had Mick Ninny—or Nick Minny—who knew his real name?—an old coot with fishy breath and a beaky nose and a pointy head, as had a pissy old man smell to him. They also called him Musky Dan—he sure did smell—smelt of fish and mildew–and yeck.

He never moved. Nary a muscle, unless he had to. Planted himself in the same corner for 18 hours at a stretch. I’ve known some lazy bummers in my day, but Musky Dan made even the most broke-down Hobo look like a Captain of Industry. You’d swear he was a tree.

That man could drink, though. He could also talk. They say I have the gift of blarney, but that Yellof made the likes of Georgie Jessel come off like a chump. He would bloviate on any subject and sub-subject you could think of, but sooner rather than later his little talk would always come round to how things was far better in the olden days, by which I suppose he meant right after the War Between the States, when he was but a little shaver. You know—the days before all the damn immy-grants with their gibble-gabble, and O, the thieving rookers, he’d bellow, they’re a bunch of rolling kiddies every last Man Jack of ‘em, as would steal the halo off a plaster saint—even through Musky Dan was known to pick a pocket or two his self, back in his day, before his fingers got all clawed up from the rheumatiz’.

Many a man there was who’d tell me–Watch out for that cove—sure and he’s a Spiv as would gladly fatten his purse–by riflin’ through your’n.

He seemed to have it in for the Bloody British—even though he looked for all the world like a spavined Limey his own self.

What happened to him? One day his daughter came in, all full of gumption, and dragged him out of that den by his ear, and we never saw him since.

It just goes to show. Nothing like a meddlesome old hag who stinks of sour milk to queer the lushman’s pitch!

Previous: http://www.thenoiseboard.com/index.php?showtopic=218311&st=50

1*SALUTATION
FAIRPORT CONVENTION
COME ALL YE

2*REFERENCE
THE NURSERY RHYME BOOK (FULL TEXT)
EDITED BY ANDREW LANG
“Onery
Twoery
Tickery
Tin
Alamacrack
Tenamalin
Pin
Pan
Musky Dan
Tweedleum
Twiddleum
Twenty-one
Black fish
White trout
Eery, Ory
You are out.”
http://www.gutenberg.org/files/26197/26197-h/26197-h.htm

3*HUMOR
GARISH ZOW
http://popularprint.org/wordpress/willbanks/2013/04/03/artifact-reading-2-a-call-for-subscriptionsadvertisment/20130402_213957/

4*NOVELTY
THE GRAY VIDEO

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
BOSTON BOUNCERS CRACK HEADS
http://bostonherald.com/news_opinion/local_coverage/2013/03/herald_review_boston_bouncers_crack_heads_despite_crackdown

6* DAILY UTILITY
MONSANTO GMO DO NOT BUY LIST
http://covvha.net/monsanto-gmo-brands-and-foods-printable-shopping-list/#.UZ_6qRpr58G

7*CARTOON
VIA MILTON KNIGHT
El Mono Relojero de Quirino Cristiani

ALSO SEE:
http://www.taringa.net/posts/videos/13023108/Una-joya-argentina-mono-relojero.html

8*PRESCRIPTION
BAR MIXED DYE WITH RUBBING ALCOHOL AND SOLD IT AS SCOTCH
http://www.ctvnews.ca/world/new-jersey-investigators-bar-mixed-dye-with-rubbing-alcohol-and-served-it-as-scotch-1.1295526

9*RUMOR PATROL
CLASSIC CONSPIRANOIA:
http://kkkaraoke.wordpress.com/

10* LAGNIAPPE
WHY RATIONAL PEOPLE BUY INTO CONSPIRACY THEORIES
http://www.nytimes.com/2013/05/26/magazine/why-rational-people-buy-into-conspiracy-theories.html?pagewanted=all&_r=2&

11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
THE WITTIEST THING EDNA FERBER EVER SAID
Edna Ferber’s comeback to Noel Coward when they met and found each other dressed in similar suits.

Coward: “Edna, you look just like a man.”
Ferber: “So do you”.

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE. 688.
SOUNDALIKE APES AKA CLASSIC KNOCKOFF PSEUD
PART ONE

Three Notable examples:
Rolling Stones “It’s Only Rock and Roll” = T. Rex.
Hollies “Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress” = Creedence Clearwater Revival.
Zombies “Care of Cell 44” = Keith, “98.6”.

MORE (KUDOS TO “MUSIC OBSCURICA” ON FACEBOOK):
= Love ( Arthur Lee) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3HfAsJ8AUmA

= Procol Harum http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NohUoMgzXps

= “Paperback Writer” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GQ3CDxXiKRM

= Bob Dylan. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LqmzLgoWl3w

= Bob Dylan http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b9KrRDNPKZ8

= Jimi Hendrix http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mvvgHM_D12Q

= Doors http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8xn_o0-ORJ8

= Van Morrison: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wCWVuCCWqzQ

= Kinks “All Day and All of the Night” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RMpwHHpDf7o

= Theme from Born Free x Theme from Lawrence of Arabia: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EjMNNpIksaI

= Neil Young: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tm4BrZjY_Sg

= Stephen Stills: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7uJL8er_tV0

= George Harrison/ Badfinger: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XIycEe59Auc

= Rolling Stones. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C5-Uqj8TwZk

THE INFORMATION #733 MAY 24, 2013

THE INFORMATION
#733 MAY 24, 2013
Copyright 2013 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com

https://dimenno.wordpress.com/

CAPONE
Don’t you get the idea I’m one those damned radicals. Don’t get the idea I’m knocking the American System.
 I don’t even know what street Canada is on.
I’ve been spending the best years of my life as a public benefactor.
All I ever did was to sell beer and whiskey to our best people. All I ever did was to supply a demand that was pretty popular. Why, the very guys that make my trade good are the ones that yell the loudest about me.
This American system of ours, call it Americanism, call it capitalism, call it what you will, gives each and every one of us a great opportunity if we only seize it with both hands and make the most of it.

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

Cadger Tandy, as related by Baby Boy Maddox, resumed his tale of the Seven Stars Saloon.

Tipsy Smith took great pride in overlooking the cavemen in his acrid basement dive and, with the help of Stingaree, his favorite slippery-elm club, keeping the peace at that vile snuggery.

It warn’t much, but it was one-quarter his’n, or so he was promised by the real owner of the joint, none other than Judge Rance Sniffle, the crooked barrister—also known as Judge Fixit of the Honorable Court of Noxtown. Tipsy Smith had the help of worn-out cinder drab named “Growly” Bet, who got into a scrape with none other than the legendary Hellcat Maggie and was later replaced by a sloppy and unkempt cleaning lady named “Lousy” Louisa who, rumor had it, used to work for old Joe Kennedy himself. In exchange for his quarter share, Tipsy Smith kept the place open at nearly all hours—you’d often see him fall fast asleep in the middle of wiping a filthy glass with an even filthier rag. He worked for what amounted to over 100 hours a week, all told, closing only between the hours of 5 and 11 am—Rounders hated the  high sunshine like pisen—and all day Sunday.

But, as I said, he was young, and furthermore, he had certain ambitions to someday run his own place 100 per cent, and then retire at an early age to a little cabin deep in the piney woods, where he would never again have to hear the jabber of jockeys and gamblers, boxers and mobsters, firemen and constables, and all the bent and semi-bent members of the demimonde, to say nothing of the underworld, with its jockers and rounders, plungers and trollops, safecrackers and gorillas; its muggers and its bummers and its men who were more than willing to do the Big Job for the price of a bottle of cheap rotgut or sometimes even just a snap or two at the jug.  

But before Tipsy Smith blew town for good, he wanted one thing more than anything—he wanted the tender regard and genuine embraces of Red Mary—whore though she may be.

Funny how some menfolk love their womens all the more when they’re in their high dudgeon. You often see old married couples where the only palaver between the two long-sufferin’ parties is when Hubby does or says something stupid just to provoke a response from Wifey—he bathes in her scolding—you can see the old rascal grin from ear to ear as Wifey makes with the tongue lashing—I can’t tell you how many times I seen it with my own eyes, Yob.

I’ll tell you again that the not-so-distant past was a strange world full of old people with weird stuff in their heads. Crazy notions that just wouldn’t wash no more, only they just didn’t realize it. Because they just didn’t get it. Because they just didn’t have room in their tiny little heads.for none of it. Thirty years of taking care of screamin’ mewling bairns and tellin’ off their tomcattin’ sons and sluttish daughters had done taken all the starch out of ‘em. They was all done in. So in their golden years the two of them together  is like two scorpions in a bottle a pinchin’ and a lungin’ at each other like mindless things.

Like, I’m strolling through the Park in Harmony, and this is what I see. Long-married Wife and Hubby in an evening out on Hicktown. Nothin’ fancy—they’s frugal; ain’t got much spending dosh; they allus eat th’ Early Bird Special at the same tired old chophouse as has been dishing out the same old cheap slop since God was a pup. An all-starch diet; filling, yes, but nothing else. White food. Yellow food. Cheap saltines, mashed potatoes, flour gravy, canned corn. Chicken-fried steak that even the lowest dogmeat bum would turn up his nose at. They don’t order a drink; they order ‘a water’. And it’s all in the way they say it—“Waiter–Bring us a water.” Like their shit don’t stink. For dessert, maybe they’ll splurge, and buy a gumball from the vendin’ machine. And then they count the tip out in pennies and go their merry way. And, mind you, this is climax of their big night.  

But next, Wifey is got to promenade the town, her Man in tow. For starters, they stop and stand in front of the brightly lit shoe store on the main drag. At the corner of First and Main. Place is done up like a jewelry store. All manners of ladies shoes on pedestals in the front display and in the recessed bay windows to the left and right that she has to stop and gape at before she goes through the dusty outdoor vestibule into the store proper.

Hubby hates watching his wide drool over expensive footwear like he hates having to drink ice cream punch at a party over-run with screaming brats. He has his own hobbies and interests, y’see, that the Wifey cares nothing about; and none of ‘em involve shoes. Mostly drinkin’ and laughin’ and carrying on and talkin’ stupid nonsense about sports and local politics and other nothin’ topics in a loud tone of voice with a bunch of other loudmouths in some smoky gin mill.

Hubby would rather have his eyeteeth pulled than accompany Wifey inside that musty leather shoe-brothel dominated by an obsequious clerk with frayed knees on his pants from kneelin’ down and touchin’ ladies’ tootsies. She wants to go in; he opts to stay outside. Maybe grab a quick snort at a local rookery. Nothin’ doin’. Wifey insists and he knows full well she’ll make his life a livin’ misery—she’s studied her whole life just how to do it too—if he don’t cave in to and  humor her obsessive whimsies.

So he goes into the shoe store, lined with boxes of toggery, but he makes sure her stay, and his own misery, is brief–mostly by dropping strong hints that she’s “only lookin’”.

What can make a measly shoe clerk more surly than the thought that he works like a slave and crawls on his hands and knees for pennies per hour?

The thought that none times out of ten, he’s forced to go groveling around on the sales floor on the whim of some fatuous old biddy as don’t know what she wants, don’t like anything you show her, can’t make up her mind about one damn thing, and has no intention of buyin’ anything anyway, so that the whole edifyin’ spectacle is nothing more than a power grab. Hubby treats me like shit, but I’ll sure give this young shoe-clerk the runaround, and that will ease my ache and shame.       

So they’re finally in and out of the shoe store and go strolling down the boulevard of the one-horse cheapjack tank town looking for divertissement. There ain’t none to be had, and well they know it, too—they been living in the town their whole life through and know every hidden corner of it and they ain’t been anything new there since the time Jenny Lind the Swedish Nightingale made a s’prise visit back in 1863.

So they walk down the street and Wifey reads out loud every ad in every shop winder. Drives Hubby wild, this habit of hers. What’s with all the talk talk talkin’? After fifty years of wedded bliss, she’s said enough, he’s heard enough, and some peace and quiet would sure be nice, if only for a change of pace. But no—she’s got to go yak yak yakkin’, and he is got to bear it in silence—like a Man. But when he ventures to say something in that low phlegmy rumble of his’n, she ain’t listenin’ no how. Her hearin’s gone bad from all the screamin’ bairns and she’s too vain to tote an ear trumpet. So she gabs, he grumbles–and somehow they get by.

The sun is low and the moon is high and they go strollin’ through the park—the same park where first they sparked and courted nearly fifty years gone. Same stone wall; same old oak tree, same winding path, same acorns underfoot.  

And then they shuffle home and wait for yet another dawn.

Anyhoo, I contrived to bring them together–Red Mary and Tipsy Smith. By hanging around the Seven Stars—no place for a little Yob like me—Red Mary expressly forbade it–and letting the word slip out—accidental on purpose, like—I made sure that Red Mary would catch me and it was worth taking a licking and enduring her cold stares at suppertime. It was all according to plan. Tipsy Smith did get a good gander at her in all her delightful wrath—and it was love.

And so…time it was to put my plan in motion.
 Previous: http://www.thenoiseboard.com/index.php?showtopic=218311&st=50

1*SALUTATION
THE RISING SUNS
CANDY MAN
Ry Cooder, Taj Mahal, Gary Marker, Jesse Lee Kincaid and Ed Cassidy. Circa 1966.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H6OCKnpYqRs&feature=player_embedded

2*REFERENCE
THE TRUTH ABOUT AMERICA’S SECRET, DIRTY WARS
http://www.alternet.org/news-amp-politics/jeremy-scahill-and-noam-chomsky-truth-about-americas-secret-dirty-wars?akid=10448.252335.K3WJ3H&rd=1&src=newsletter841592&t=3&paging=off

3*HUMOR
RED BLOODED STORIES
Amazing how contemporary and vital this publication remains.
http://www.philsp.com/data/images/r/red_blooded_stories_192812_v1_n3.jpg

4*NOVELTY
NO USA FOR HIM
http://www.fluentin3months.com/no-usa-for-me/

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
STOLEN LAPTOP RECOVERED WITH JESUS PHOTOS
http://www.happyplace.com/23966/stolen-laptop-returned-bedazzled-and-full-of-jesus-y-photos

6* DAILY UTILITY
BOOMER SUICIDE SPIKE
http://www.alternet.org/hard-times-usa/cutthroat-capitalism-pushing-growing-number-baby-boomers-suicide

7*CARTOON
BAZOOKA JOE
The great American novel is written on Bazooka Joe bubble gum wrappers.
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1419706322/ref=oh_details_o02_s00_i00?ie=UTF8&psc=1

8*PRESCRIPTION
FAVORITE GOETIC DEMONS
http://www.rankopedia.com/Favourite-Goetic-Demon/Step2/14642/.htm

9*RUMOR PATROL
CRYIN’ WOLF
BY JOHNNY ANGEL WENDELL
http://www.sfbg.com/politics/2013/05/16/cryin-wolf

10* LAGNIAPPE
FRANKENHEIMER’S SECONDS ON BLU-RAY
http://www.quietearth.us/articles/2013/05/Face-Off–John-Frankenheimers-SECONDS-Coming-to-Criterion-Bluray

11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIAON STEAMPUNK
As the world endures de-evolution
I’ll go back to the industrial revolution.

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE. 687.
INFANTILIZING THE CLASSICS.
L’il Inferno starring Hot Stuff.
Pride and Prejudice featuring Playful Little Audrey.
The Turn of the Screw–guest starring Casper and the Ghostly Trio.
Catch 22 with Sad Sack ‘n’ Sarge.
The Great Gatsby–with Richie Rich and Mayda Money.

THE INFORMATION #732 MAY 17, 2013

THE INFORMATION
#732 MAY 17, 2013
Copyright 2013 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com

EXPERIENCE
If you think you can do a thing or think you can’t do a thing, you’re
right.–Henry Ford

Be careful the environment you choose for it will shape you; be
careful the friends you choose for you will become like them.–W.
Clement Stone

A man always has two reasons for doing anything: a good reason and the
real reason.–J. P. Morgan

Hold yourself responsible for a higher standard than anybody expects
of you. Never excuse yourself.–Henry Ward Beecher

A leader is a dealer in hope.–Napoleon Bonaparte

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

The Plan, said Cadger Tandy–with his old fashioned lingo–to Baby Boy
Maddox, “proceeded apace.” But first we pause, he told Maddox,
“for a word about my Cat’s Paw–Tipsy Smith.”

“It was well known,” said he, “that Tipsy Smith was sweet on Red Mary
and would do anything for her and though I was a Boy and didn’t
understand such things, I was old enough to know how to turn his
feelings about her to my advantage. And I swore I was going to figure
out some way to use him to get back at Smash Conklin. To put a spoke
in his wheel.”

Back in his own laughing days Tipsy Smith was a suds-puller who didn’t
need to quiff the bladder with a floppy hat, as he did in later times,
when he lived on scrambled eggs and squirrel brains in the deep piney
woods of the back country. No, back in his salad days he had more hair
than sense and would gulp down bodacious coffin varnish as was strong
enough to float an egg–not because he was on a drunk, but just on
gen’ral principle, to prove he was one of the boys–to demonstate, in
other words, that he could belly up to the bar with the very best or
worst of them and he warn’t back’ard none and didn’t put on airs and
demand only the Top Shelf.

His background was mysterious. Some say he came from old
money–Scottish, or Scotch-Irish– and that his father had lost
everything in the Panic and though he still owned a little land he was
cash poor and sent Tipsy out at a very early age to earn his own crust
and make his own way. Still, there was that once-upon-a-time money in
his background, and you always got the distinct impression that he was
a cat whose tastes outran the world.

Tipsy was a shrimpy feller, but stocky and stroppy, too–a former
feather-weight boxer, and a good one at that. But he warn’t a petunia ner a
shrinking violet; no. He was a stumpy brute, hairy in the fetlock, but
when working behind the bar and at most other times as well he kept
his thick handlebar mustache well-waxed, and his hair slickered down
with some sort of bear grease–or Parker’s Hair Balsam when he could
afford it–and he always wore a starched white shirt, a celluloid collar,
a bow tie–black while he tended bar, polka dotted for the after hours, when
he was feeling festive–a red tuxedo vest–don’t ask me where he came
by such an item–and trig suspenders–as black as melted midnight–to
hold up his neatly pressed and sharply creased black tuxedo trousers.
He always looked as if he had just stepped out of a band box.

You would have laughed to see him presiding over The Seven Stars
Saloon. Standing hinder what must of been the sorriest-looking bar in
all creation. Presiding over a gin mill palace as what must of been
one of the the ugliest holes in Noxtown. The bar was throwed together
out of old barrels and planks. And the sawdust on the floor, he liked
to say, was “yesterday’s furniture.”

The Seven Stars Saloon was a basement drinking hole of the lowest
repute, and the back rooms of this dirt-floored cellar dive, with
stone walls that sweated, were used as a dossing house for the
lurkersmen, beggars, footpads, low men and drunkards who liked nothing
better than a lush at Freeman’s Quay–in other words, a free drink, or
several–followed by sinking into the hard floor of the back room if
they was lucky, and the cobblestones and trash of filth of the back
alley, if they warn’t. All the gugglers and guffins, all the molls and
moochers and molly-heads, all the gallows-birds and
rotgut-buzzards–every class of low squatter, poxy madge-cove,
and gutter-lane mahogany-topped mamsell could be found there
–in that dismal set of rooms.

The bar room itself was not much larger than the hallway of a cheap
boarding house, with dim electric bulbs that flickered and glimmered in
the smoky gloom like a weak stammer amid a circus of drunken
hoo-raw.

And the smell! It had the same aroma you’d find in any low dram shop
and knock-out joint the world over–a stale odor of brick dust, sour
beer, horse lineament, foul tobacco smoke, burnt meat, and damp paper.
A stunning smell–enough to knock a yellow Parson into a
three-cornered hat.

It was sartin no fitten place for a milk-faced Yob to hang his cap,
and Red Mary told me, and more’n once, that she’d skin me raw if she
ever heerd I was habituatin’ that particular establishment.

But now, as bad a place as The Seven Stars Saloon was, Tipsy Smith had no truck
for rough-housing in his joint. He always walked with his hands behind
his back–as though he was used to having people to hold his doors
open for him. More often than not, however, it was he as opened doors
for others–and threw them out right on their faces, when they started
in to acting “cute.”

When the loafers got out of hand, he would wallop ’em with a special
cudgel made of “good solid and honest Slippery Elm.” He called it his
“Stingaree” and the very mention of it by him was enough to gentle
down all but the most inebriated sot.

Just as Cokey Stolas was known as “The Big Man” (among other honorific
titles), so Tipsy Smith ruled the denizens of Drunkdom as the
unsalaried Mayor of Liquortown. Some Bohunks and Greenies even took
this title literal and called him Mayor Smith–a ceremonial title that
old Tipsy never objected to.

Anyway, that cudgel of his’n was what you might call a Sledgehammer
argument. By the way, Yob, have you every swung a sledge to earn your
daily bread? Hm. Thought not. If you ever get ambitious that way,
remember–fifteen minutes of heaving a sledge will learn you more
about The Blues than fifteen years of study from afar–and that’s no
Harvard Lie.

Well, Sir, once Stingagree was produced it was known to crack many a
nut. Many an upright sneak and budge and snick-fadge had also felt the
sting of his famous cudgel and were dead sartin to ply their trade
elsewheres. Posthaste. To more hospitable climes.

On any given night the Seven Stars Saloon was filled with Yekkmen and
their Priggs–they were avid partakeners of Tipsy’s Special
Mix–which, rumor had it, was the rawest of half-distilled corn
squeezin’s with just a drop or two of ether and maybe also a soupcon
of rock oil. It would straighten your hair in a New York Minute. Many
of them blodgers and their doxies worked a parson’s week, meaning they
lived in riotous abandon from Monday morning to late Saturday night
and earned most of their spending dosh on The Lord’s Day, via various
and sundry nefarious schemes, such as–get this–prowling the houses
deserted by churchy folks, or breaking into various business
establishments as was closed in honor of the Sabbath and cracking open
their strongboxes and safes. Or, often, just plain flat out highway
robbery.

Now, Tipsy Smith didn’t approve; ner did he play the judge. He was The
Mayor of Liquortown, after all, and he didn’t give a hoot in
hell–just so long as the yaller boys weren’t snyde.

Hanging around that place, a Yob learned the way of the world both up
and down–and in a right smart hurry, too.

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1*SALUTATION
MISSISSIPPI JOHN HURT
SPIKE DRIVER BLUES
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nKkw4nkifa8

2*REFERENCE
LOWEST GAS PRICES
http://www.gaspricewatch.com/

3*HUMOR
TEST YOURSELF
http://testyourself.psychtests.com/

4*NOVELTY
ANTIWAR SONGS
http://www.lacarte.org/songs/anti-war/

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
THE CINNAMON CHALLENGE
http://pediatrics.aappublications.org/content/early/2013/04/16/peds.2012-3418.full.pdf+html

VIA:
http://pediatrics.aappublications.org/

6* DAILY UTILITY
DRUGS
http://www.DrugWarFacts.org

7*CARTOON
ARCHIVE OF MISHEARD LYRICS
http://www.kissthisguy.com/

8*PRESCRIPTION
FIXING APPLIANCES
http://www.repairclinic.com/

9*RUMOR PATROL
IN THE FRAY
http://inthefray.org/

10* LAGNIAPPE
TV CLASSICS
http://www.tvclassics.com

11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
WHY PEOPLE HATE BOSTON
I’m originally from Pittsburgh and the New England
chill takes some getting used to . But I prefer the
prickly independent-minded Boston attitude to the
deracinated earnestness of the Californian any day.

To those who hate Boston, I say this: New York City is
a veritable garden of Eden, I take it. And I imagine
you’ll experience a love feast if you stray far from
the bus station in burgs such as North Philly, the
Lower Bronx, Los Angeles, Detroit, Denver, Buffalo,
and East St. Louis.

I’ve spent time in nearly every one of the lower 48s,
and was a telephone surveyor who called folks all over
the country, and there are assholes in every state.
But I will admit that the most guff I’ve ever gotten
was from a resident of Brooklyn.

Of course, I can’t afford to live anywhere near
Boston, which is why I currently reside in Rhode
Island.

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE. 686.
NAMES OF WORKING CLASS BOSTON PUNK BANDS
Groundskeeper Willy
Goodwill Hunting
The Search For Real Ale
Fuckaduck
Mama Get the Hammer
Rosa Parks Killerz
Martin Lucifer Coon
In With Flynn
The Day Hicks Louise
Erin Go Blargh
Away with the Orange
Ugly and Slawnche
Bezzychum
Doin’ Yer Nut In
The Big Grewig Band
The EEjits
Wifebeatr
Muscle T
Reggin Eggs
Yoo Gize
Th Dawgz
Syko
Grand Am
Don’t Call Me Yo, Yo
Killer On the Run
FTW
Johnny Clash
Groovy Death Candy

THE INFORMATION #731 MAY 10, 2013

Aside

THE INFORMATION
#731 MAY 10, 2013
Copyright 2013 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
http://dimenno.wordpress,com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com

GIBBERISH
People know two languages: their native language and gibberish.–Maribel C. Pagan

I only speak English and gibberish and I’m fluent only in the gibberish. – T Jay Taylor

After learning the foreign language Gibberish, I became a dream spokesman.–Jarod Kintz

But Noodynaady’s actual ingrate tootle is of come into the garner mauve and thy nice are stores of morning and buy me a bunch of iodines. —James Joyce

The dogs on Main Street howl, ’cause they understand.—Bruce Springsteen

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER SEVEN: PART TWO: THE PLAN
Early on the morning of May Day of 1986 I awoke at about 9am from a listless sleep, my stiff fingers balled into clawed fists. A nearby denizen of the housing projects near my apartment had seen fit to drive past my building and blast loud obnoxious music at some ungodly hour and I had had a hard time falling back to sleep.

You know how sometimes, when you haven’t had enough rest, you sometimes have a peculiar insight? My insight upon waking on the morning of that day was that the ominous three story towers of the projects, constructed in concrete made to look implausibly like stucco, were so poorly designed that they were virtually guaranteed to turn the residents into heedless delinquents, whose sole productive activity was acting out. I thought that, truly, architecture is frozen morality.

It was therefore through a mist of sleepy incredulity that I listened to Baby Boy Maddox as he renewed his tale of the dying Cadger Tandy and his delirious account of how he had sworn to get back at Smash Conklin.

“What is a kiddie, after all?” Tandy said to me. “A kiddie is just a very small person standing atop a great big pile of everybody else who’s grown—a pile that could tip over at any moment, and it’s better if you don’t forget it. A child’s bad mood is like a runaway horse—takes a strong person to master it. If a kid knew how precarious life was, it would turn him to brooding. Lucky thing that most kiddies are in no wise thoughtful, unless they have to be. “

“Having no money is normal for a kid where it can drive a grown man mad; the kid doesn’t feel being poor as keenly as a man who once had lots of cash but is broke, owes money, prospects none. Anyway, a modest campfire is better than a burning manse.”

“Sure and it was a foul day when I set out for the House of Never. It was crazy for me to think I could cross the river, sit under the trees, and dope out a way to queer Smash Conklin’s pitch, but a small boat can cross a shallow stream; it’s only when the big boats get in the Big Muddy that you got to watch out.”

“Older and wiser heads would have told me how I might go about it, but you can’t teach a young pup old tricks; I had my own ideas about the matter; nobody can force you to take good advice; ‘that’s the way we’ve always done it’ is the explanation of a fool. Besides—even a little Yellof knows that the devil knows many things–simply because he has seen it all.”

“But don’t send the devil and don’t send Jesus; send God; this is no job for a boy. It was a man-sized task, Yob, and no job for a youngster, but a kid will take on a chore that a grown man would balk at, provided it was all his idea in the first place and nobody’s trying to force it on him. I could maybe forgive Smash Conklin in time, if he’d of behaved like a white man, but I could in no wise forget. Claw me, Yob, and I’ll claw thee. It was my turf he had spoiled, and I was like a lion on my own turf. Know this, Yob–there is no piece of turf so small that it can’t be fought over.”

“You can only die once, after all, and a kiddie in no wise understands what it means to be dead because he’s hardly even started to live and that’s why so often he’ll do foolish things. You know a person is a child forever by the foolish things he says and does. Smash Conklin was like that. Walked around—strutted, more like—as if he did not give a good goddamn. A bragging fool with a hell of a nerve who talked for buncombe and swilled the loafers with bumbo. Nothing makes a Yellof madder than the hoarse loudmouth blabber of a lazy blodger. Every crow thinks he sings like a nightingale. But he had rats in his attic, him. Listen: If you can’t stand the kitchen, stay away from the sun. The man that fears long ladders should not go climbing up the sides of tall buildings.”

“Now, I did promise myself and the whole world wide that, come hell or water high, I would get even with that blodger, no matter what. Every dog has his day. You can’t eat promises, though. They say that Kiddies must not play with sharp axes. Oaks may fall where reeds bow down. But it was going to take more than one stroke of the axe to fell that oak. And doping out how to do him in would be the hard part; once The Plan was in place–that would come the easy part. He who hesitates is last. Besides, look at a blodger long enough, you become a blodger yourself, filled with blind hate and powered by spite. People who have never once been hungry tend to be fussy about trifles. Who has never tasted bitter, knows not what is sweet. But it takes all kinds. Ill talkers eat dirty suppers. The scalded dog fears milk. But small boys can kick up lots of dust. To get what I was after, I was bounden to pull the devil himself by the tail if need be. Because I have kept company with the wolf and knew well how to bark—and when.”

“Listen, Yob–in your dreams you’re biggity but you soon find out that in reality you are very very small, a puny sprat, you can’t make any difference and you never have no influence over nothing at all. Until the day that all of a sudden, you do.”

“And that’s the day ye ken that things ain’t always what they seem. When you’re a kid you allus think ye mought grow up to be a cowboy or a doctor or maybe a street-car conductor. Or a magician or a reporter or a cop—or a cornet player. You never think you’re going to wind up a mugger or a vagrant or a castaway or a convict.”

“Now, like I said, as a kiddie, you’re very much taken in by mokes who blow themselves up big and have a hell of a nerve and talk for buncombe and mix everything up together and make with the soothing verities and roar like a lion and call on God Almighty to bless these undertakings and mostly spread themselves thin—very thin–and give themselves airs. As a grown ‘un, Yob, you yourself will be no different, I suppose.”

“But mark: You can allus flatter a man to do your bidding if you take into account that, just as boys do, most menfolk dream themselves bigger’n they really are and fancy they’re a sport as will someday be at the top of the heap—king of the whole rotten mess–when this world catches fire. Lots of men is bent on their own amusement and get sulky when they haven’t had none in a spell—women too, but womenfolk tend to be more stoical, ‘less’n they be spiled rotten. That’s human nature the world over. It’s all a game of squabble. And all a Yellof can do is snuff the breeze and try to figure which way the wind is blowing and whether there’s blood on the moon.”

“Always remember, Yob—a hook who’s about to be lagged will always tell a lad to play it on the square and not to do what he has done. Fear of the rope makes swell gooks out of us kiddies. But a fly cove who will rob anybody will never play the square head–and HE will sing you a very different tune.”

Previous: http://www.thenoiseboard.com/index.php?sho…218311&st=0

1*SALUTATION
GENE VINCENT
LONG TALL SALLY (LIVE 1963)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jpzs-N2LWrU

2*REFERENCE
1000 ENGLISH PROVERBS
http://www.citehr.com/59225-1000-english-p…love-blind.html

3*HUMOR
WHAT DISNEY PRINCESSES WOULD BE LIKE IN COLLEGE
http://www.smosh.com/smosh-pit/what-disney…ould-be-college

4*NOVELTY
29 SIGNS YOU WERE RAISED BY HIPPIES
http://www.buzzfeed.com/sandraeallen/29-si…ised-by-hippies

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
DEATH TO WACKY
http://www.thisamericanlife.org/radio-arch…/death-to-wacky

6* DAILY UTILITY
SHEMPY
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5U5M0U1a6tU…eature=youtu.be

7*CARTOON
DAY JOBS OF THE POETS
http://www.incidentalcomics.com/2013/04/da…s-of-poets.html

8*PRESCRIPTION
ILLUSTRATED BALTIMORE CATHECISM (1969)
http://www.flickr.com/photos/pantufla/sets…57605128108804/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/pantufla/sets…8108804/?page=2

9*RUMOR PATROL
DIVISIONS OF PROTESTANTISM
http://www.outsidethewalls.org/blog/wp-con…955-p190011.jpg
VIA:
http://www.outsidethewalls.org/blog/639-di…-bless-the-uns/

10* LAGNIAPPE
BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN
PROMISED LAND
How can anybody listen to the solemnly stentorian hysterical gibberish of “Promised Land,” as brayed by the quavery-voiced Bruce Springsteen, without wanting to toss his cookies? I swear, it is enough to make a cat laugh.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n_Cf6pgwm0I

11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
1940: FDR, WILLKIE, LINDBERGH, HITLER–THE ELECTION AMID THE STORM. BY SUSAN DUNN.
In Professor Dunn’s account of the lead-up to America’s involvement in World War Two, she discusses the crucial 1940 Presidential election and how it changed American electoral politics. Learn how Republican Willkie was briefly considered as FDR’s 1944 running mate and other fascinating, little-known facts. Dunn is an award-winning historian who is a Professor at Williams College. This Yale University Press publication is written in an accessible style but is also rigorous in its scholarship. If you enjoyed Lynne Olson’s “Those Angry Days: Roosevelt, Lindbergh, and America’s Fight Over World War II” then you will find this book of related interest.

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE. 685.
AMAZON REVIEW: ULYSSES BY JAMES JOYCE
I do not like ‘Ulysses’ because of the cussing and other hard language. I noticed with great displeasure that the name of the Lord was taken in vain on several occasions. Also, it was not at all like the movie ‘Clash of the Titans.’ I liked the part with the dog though. I do not like this book hardly at all but if you want to read it go right ahead. Two stars.