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.

Previous: http://www.thenoiseboard.com/index.php?showtopic=218311&st=50&gopid=3853340&#entry3853340

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

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