MODERN WISDOM NUMBER 177 JULY 2013

MODERN WISDOM: AMERICA’S ONLY HUMOR MAGAZINE
NUMBER 177
JULY  2013
Copyright 2013 Francis DiMenno
http://dimenno.gather.com
dimenno@gmail.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com/

AND NOW…MODERN WISDOM PRESENTS:

1. YOUR SECRET IS YOUR WEAKNESS
2. ASS PRESIDENT
3. A REPUBLIC OF LIES
4. COWBOY FUEL
5. COACH CRUMP
6. BITTERWEED
7. THINGS THAT NEVER WERE
8. THE WHITE STORY
9. SCAT THE CAT
10. SECOND-HAND DAYLIGHT
11. WRITING BY SCALES
12. THE RIDICULOUSLY BAD DRAMA
13. SUPER MASTER
14. PLOT DISRUPTIONS
15. SUMATOPOPPY
16. SARGE THE WONDER DOG
17. BOB ACRES
18. ABRAHAM WORK
19. THE FOUR MESSIAHS
20. RAILROAD TOWN
21. NOIR MISFORTUNE COOKIES: SEVENTH SERIES
601. You are aptly modest about your past, which is best forgotten.
602. Everyone’s got a story, Pal–but yours is done.
603. Tomorrow is another day–of mindless terror.
604. Your excuses are not only half-baked but completely baked.
605. They very much care whether you live or, preferably, die.
606. Your punishment will be cruel but by no means unusual.
607. There will be a technicality, but you still won’t get off.
608. Nothing personal? Forget it. All of it is personal.
609. They will laugh at your “conspiracy,” for They created it.
610. You will find the Southerners friendly; even their Lynch Mobs.
611. You were born to be King–King of Nowhere.
612. The drugs are becoming more than a simple hobby.
613. They call the man you borrowed money from “The Butcher”.
614. Your ears are burning–because your head’s on fire.
615. Your beloved college professor is a CIA recruiter.
616. In thirty thousand days, not one moment of justice.
617. That man who calls you “brother” just murdered his.
618. You are a senior citizen of the Land of Broken Promises.
619. You will drown in the deep waters of your wounded pride.
620. For you a good beginning is only half the bottle.
621. Laughter is not the best medicine, but Slaughter.
622. You will be forced to make a virtue of Nasty.
623. Rats like you DESERVE a sinking ship.
624. Everybody else always ruins it for a few assholes–like you.
625. The world will always say Yes–to your punishment.
626. Your life is the fruit of your own undoing.
627. Those who have ever done you dirt will escape all punishment.
628. You’re too outspoken about The Problem–now you’re The Problem.
629. Everywhere you go will be the prison you left behind.
630. You are prey to the delusion that you are not deluded.
631. You will ride your grand illusions to their gruesome finale.
632. Pray they will be merciful, and murder you in your sleep.
633. Every little breeze seems to whisper “revenge”.
634. Monkey, you thought t’was all in fun–“pop” goes the Uzi.
635. You will never be avenged against your enemies.
636. Not one of your “old friends” will agree to hide you.
637. Your repentance is judged insincere–there will be no Pardon.
638. Man is Wolf to Man–and you’re a sickly little Mouse.
639. You have disgraced your people, so they will banish you.
640. Your slain kinfolk will cry in vain for justice.
641. You’ll accidentally shoot that kid who was on your lawn.
642. Your false accusers are forever secure in their evil slanders.
643. Those you have made wealthy shall abandon you and laugh.
644. You’ll be the #1 Fall Guy in the City Hall Scandal.
645. You’ll very soon be in love with easeful death.
646. Once powerful, you’ll be dispossessed and made wretched.
647. You will become the silenced victim of ambitious intrigues.
648. Once you were the Boss’s favorite–now your name is Mud.
649. You’ll never again raise your crippled hand against–The Master.
650. You are in thrall to Error and shall never understand.
651. From your depraved lips even the word “love” sounds vile.
652. Even your fabled eloquence shall prove woefully inadequate.
653. All dames are bad news, Mister–but yours takes the cake.
654. Your relatives will haggle over Grandmother’s possessions.
655. Fear of hereditary insanity shall drive you mad.
656. You will sacrifice your life for an indifferent State.
657. New riches bring evil; jealous friends now hate you.
658. God Bless your Day; your Nights belong to The Devil.
659. Your loving wife will throw you over for a two-bit Gigolo.
660. Your pampered mistress? On the side, she’s turning Tricks.
661. Hellion–the neighbors feel very sorry for your Mother.
662. Your budget tax preparer has made a massive error.
663. Your check will bounce, and soon The Boys will see if you can.
664. You’ll never explain those motel receipts to your bitter wife.
665. Your new “business partners” will make impossible demands.
666. They wonder what the Devil’s got into you–literally.
667. Your oldest son will inherit only your murderous rages.
668. Your false values will lead to your inevitable ruin.
669. You will sell your Grandma’s dentures just to buy a fix.
670. Surprise! Your new Romance is actually…a Bromance.
671. Your first grandchild is the spitting image of Mussolini.
672. Even your imaginary friend has turned against you.
673. You have nightmares of never being able to sleep again.
674. Your oldest friend has mysteriously died…and you’re next.
675. Your rival has lavishly bribed the entire police force.
676. She says “A ring, or else”–so you wring her neck.
677. You will look into a mirror and see the face of Jesus.
678. Your young wife’s handsome “visiting cousin” is no kin to her.
679. You’re a dead ringer for police sketches of the serial killer.
680. Your devout wife will find your treasure trove of ladies’ undies.
681. Your most characteristic trait is the one they despise the most.
682. You’ll discover Hell is not “other people”–Hell is You.
683. The next song you hear will be a Murder Rap.
684. You gave your brother a kidney–now he won’t return your calls.
685. You will be told you have a purty mouth.
686. You will never even make it in the Small City.
687. The Feds will discover your self-incriminating secret journal.
688. The Chief Detective will catch you in a big fat lie.
689. Your squeaking, squawking inside voices will never stop.
690. You think you’re giving them the runaround; they’re playing you.
691. Police notice your calm demeanor at your wife’s funeral.
692. You’ll lose 100 pounds–on a bread and water diet.
693. The Warden has decided you’re an incorrigible troublemaker.
694. Grandma will leave her vast fortune to her 28 cats.
695. Your neighbor spies upon you for the police.
696. That janitor job is suddenly looking very attractive.
697. The Police have a warrant to search your basement.
698. The Attorney General will investigate your bogus charity.
699. The neighbor’s wind chimes sound like they’re saying “murderer”.
700. The Secret Service seriously believes your crazy drunken threats.

22. THIS JUST IN:

ADVERTISEMENT:  Watch for my new book, CHICKEN SOUP FOR THE GRIEVING CHICKEN MOTHER’S SOUL.

READ WITH CONFIDENCE as you are dealing with a Born again, Bible believing, Blood bought child of the Living God through faith in Jesus Christ and a committed follower our Lord and Savior. I treat readers as I’d like to be treated. I write good too! God Bless!

MY GOOD FRIEND MR WALLENDA says: Thank you, long-deceased hallucinating desert nomad, for your imaginary assistance in crossing the Grand Canyon on a wire.

IN MY STATE, ON SUNDAYS, when the bars are closed, you’ll find me browsing the aisle of my local drug store. Listen: I will say this much about the generic drugstore brand: It’s a GOOD rubbing alcohol…it’s not a GREAT rubbing alcohol.

DEAR REPUBLICAN PARTY: Joe McCarthy was drunk most of the time. What’s your excuse?

IN THE FUTURE…the unregulated free market will regulate our freedom. (I’m sorry—did I say “In the future”?)

23. PREJUDICES
The best thing you can say about Maya Angelou’s poetry is that it sometimes struggles to rise, in vain, to the level of barely adequate prose. Like some saurian upstart slithering from the primordial ooze, she occasionally lumbers into the dawning of a coherent thought, only to sink back into her inevitable quotidian torpor.

Billy Collins: the poet for people who think that reading poetry–any poetry– makes them more intellectually advanced. In this, he takes over the slot previously held by Rod McKuen.

Mary Oliver’s fans are the kind of women who like to read her verses on posters with pictures of peaceful animals on them. They only guys who read Mary Oliver’s effusions are those who wish to impress chicks who read Mary Oliver.

They say that Jim Morrison died in the bathtub. That was probably the first bath that man ever took. It wasn’t the drugs, it was the shock of cleanliness that did him in.

No matter what he does in the future, I will always fondly remember Spike Lee as ‘Mr. Race Riot Man.’

24. MODERN WISDOM
“WILD HORSES” begs the question of whether Tame Horses, working in disciplined concert, could have dragged Mick Jagger away.

 

I’VE TRAVELED THIS GREAT LAND OVER. Top to bottom. East to west. North to south. And this is what I’ve learned. Take heed, youngster. (You might want to write this down.) I’ve learned…that most winos can’t play the harmonica. At all.

TOP TEN DATES I NEVER WANT TO RELIVE
10. She has just met you and she is already talking at length about her unpublished novel.
9. She talks about how her ex-husband was a slob–as she looks you up and down in search of sartorial deficiencies.
8. The moment you meet her she says she would like a large family.
7. She talks incessantly about her father, who, incidentally, is a truly great man.
6. First date small talk reveals she owns seven tomcats–each named after a Greek Goddess.
5. You arrive at her invitation at a restaurant of her choosing and she begins complaining about the service before the waiter even arrives.
4. She looks like John Adams, our second President.
3. She forgot to mention her psychotic ex-boyfriend–“Bruno.” Who is lurking nearby. And growling.
2. If you close your eyes you would swear you are talking to Fran Drescher.
1. From the moment she meets you, she looks exceedingly distracted. After five minutes she excuses herself to go to the Ladies’ Room, and never returns.

LADIES: Always beware of the date who orders “A water…for both of us.” Then explains the restaurant’s 300 per cent mark-up policy on drinks and says “That’s where they get ya.” This same guy will also consider buying you a five cent gumball as “treating you to dessert”.

ZOMBIES USED TO BE A METAPHOR FOR Communism.  Mindless and servile and voracious. Whereas the movie Alien was a metaphor for capitalism. Mindless and vicious and voracious. Why do grown adults continue to dignify such conceptual toys with their diligent attention? Time to move on, methinks, and confront the real monsters which haunt our lives. Feral children; hungry people; folks who have lost all hope. But that is too hard; we turn away and splash in a birdbath in idiotic spectacles. Put another way, perhaps, a zombie is simply anybody who doesn’t think for themselves. But nobody really and truly thinks for themselves, for we are only the sum total of the input we receive from being a part of an interstitial web of culture which we call our Civilization. Perhaps the prevalence of the zombie is a sign that, on some level, we live in a hyper-commercialized culture in which we recognize Madison Avenue for what it truly is: a machine for selling you something which promises to give you everything while at the same time it takes everything away. Commercials manipulate us into regarding inconsequentialities as consequential. They steal our souls and sell them back to us. Liberals and conservatives can both agree that the zombie drumbeat of the commodification of every life experience is ongoing and relentless.

IN THE MEANTIME…
Check out my award-winning series of American Zombie paperbacks:
THE IRAN-ZOMBIE SCANDAL
FORTY ZOMBIES AND A MULE
and–available soon–
GEORGE WASHINGTON ZOMBIE, FATHER OF OUR UNDEAD COUNTRY!

25. AMAZON REVIEWS
THE OLD TESTAMENT
Nope did not like this one. Nope nope nope. Too wordy. Too wordy. The author–who they never name–should be called Wordy McWord Word Word. Too many thees and thous. Too much smiting. Not enough character development. Took too long to get to the point, said the same things over and over again (more words). Things that happen in one chapter have nothing to do with what happened before. We never know who’s telling the story. At least in Russian novels you get some pretty far-out anarchist dudes. The OT: Nada. Just a bunch of tribal daddies living in flea-bitten tents trying to sex up their daughters or impregnate their toothless hag wives. This one was so bad I did not even bother finishing it. Would not recommend. One Star.

26. AN AMERICAN TUNE
Henry Orobos, the boy genius who founded his own company in 1985 at the age of 14, started college that same year, and was awarded a PhD at the tender age of 21—Henry Orobas has not aged well. I’m sorry to say it. I liked Henry. Henry was a friend of mine. A very smart fellow. But removed from ordinary human concerns. He had a bit of a drug problem in the late 1980s.

And, as a result, Henry has gotten…a little weird. He’s 43 now. He has money–lots of money…and very few people who understand him–or who want to.

If you were a big-city pigeon nesting in the cornice of Anytown’s highest building you could see Henry now, in his penthouse bachelor pad, replete with busts of Plato and Socrates that adorn his outdoor garden, which is also brightened year-round by the presence of rare greenhouse Orchids and award-winning Roses.

There he is, flouncing around, nearly as naked as the day he was born–or hatched–wearing only snow-white tasseled slippers and a skimpy purple tutu, and giggling lasciviously as he flaunts to unseen auditors–are they imaginary?–his fancy-Dan prep school vocabulary–words like “rotisserie,” and “anticlastic”.

Meanwhile, an assemblage of grimy and unshaven roughnecks from a nearby overarching construction site are staring down at him, gumming unlit stogies, and guffawing at his antics with mingled bemusement and disgust. “Thought I seen it all,” croaks Rocco, the superannuated assistant site foreman, in a phlegmy voice–incidentally, he looks for all the world like a dyspeptic Harry Truman.

As Henry bends over to snip a delicate Petunia, the site foreman, Bill “Brute” Brutowski, who resembles General Eisenhower after a three-day bender, picks up his tongs, and with a diastolic snort and a systolic chuckle, bandies about a white-hot rivet, and, with unerring aim, hurls it directly at Henry’s derriere and bellows, “Haw! You ain’t seen nothin’ yet!”

27. NEVER TRUST A MAN NAMED SHANGHAI JACK.
Sure, stranger–the parrot WILL say pieces of eight! Why? Ho! Matey–ye wouldn’t be after the secret of me treasure map, now, would ye? Well, ye’ll never get that secret out of me, and the bird canna betray me–for he knows nowt on’t! Ahrr…but lay me in a scupper for a swab if my bird didn’t drive us ALL barmy with his cries, sayin’ pieces of eight–over and over–as well he might—aye–for it was a fine treasure chest we saw…brimmin’ over with doubloons–Flint’s gold, or so they call it–if only I had me the coin to rig me a fine ship and three Huskies to man ‘er, I might yet dig up that half-buried plunder–ye wouldn’t happen to be a man of means, now, would

 

ye, Squire? No? Well, never mind–Have a drink–on me! Ho! Diabolo! Bring two Rum Toddies–a regular one for me–and a special one for me new swabbie!

28. STUPID CARTOON CAPTION
Frog: “Waiter…there aren’t enough flies in my soup.”

29. HAPPYLAND: HI FI PIZZALAND
“None of us is so pure as to be wholly good or wholly
evil, and the gray between the two, which is where we dwell, is vast
and unmappable.”—Nick Tosches, KING OF THE JEWS, 251-2.

For fifteen years, from the age of 22 to the age of 37, I lived right
over a fine fast-food Establishment in the Central Square neighborhood
of Cambridge, Massachusetts yclept Hi-Fi Pizza, and I can assure you
that 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. 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 the 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 $116 in 1994 dollars), and,
which, with the demise of rent control some fifteen years later,
eventually rented for the princely sum of $300.

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 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:
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 is like yo FACE!”

2) Two guys about to gang up on a cabdriver. The old guy, probably a
war vet, takes off his belt and wraps it around his knuckles and the
two back away.

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

I 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 there? 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 eleven years since I lived
there; it would probably take eleven centuries.

30. L’ENVOY
I DON’T MIND LETTING A RANDOM ACCIDENTAL FACT FLY every now and then but, if it happens when I’m passing a young intelligent scholar I get embarrassed. It is kind of silly. In the back of my mind I think I’m still a witty, erudite and esoteric man. Little do I know the only reason she smiled was out of pity and, in the back of her mind, she was saying, “Κύριε, ἐλέησον! Look at that useless washed-up pedant!”

30. THE MODERN WISDOM ALMANAC. ARCHIVE:
2007: http://www.gather.com/viewArticle.action?articleId=281474977004217
2008: http://www.gather.com/viewArticle.action?articleId=281474977221496
2009: http://www.gather.com/viewArticle.action?articleId=281474977565421
2010: http://www.gather.com/viewArticle.action?articleId=281474977969402
2011: http://www.gather.com/viewArticle.action?articleId=281474978851374
2012: http://www.gather.com/viewArticle.action?articleId=281474980950364
2013: http://www.gather.com/viewArticle.action?articleId=281474981829985

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THE INFORMATION #739 JULY 5, 2013

THE INFORMATION
#739 JULY 5, 2013
Copyright 2013 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com

…the caged bird/sings of freedom.–Maya Angelou

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN

CHAPTER SEVEN: PART TEN: THE PLAN

On a cool evening in late spring Baby Boy Maddox sat in my apartment bedsit. We were on the second floor overlooking a busy street, so, as Maddox recounted on the words he heard from Cadger Tandy, the dying tramp, below us traffic whooshed and subway cars roared and a strange evening half-light filled the sky as the sun was setting, well after 8pm.

“I said I would get even with Smash Conklin,” said Tandy. “But as it turns out I was just whipping the devil ’round the stump. Me, I was always after finding the Bully of the Town and fixing his little red wagon, but I was a little Yellof and should have been looking to my own hidey-hole instead.

I began to think it was time I took up my few mingy togs and blew town to go on the High Toby and fend for myself until such time as I could come back a tiptop swell and make trouble for mine enemy and have him on toast. I thought I was all alone in ever dreaming of this outcome, Dick Whittington and his fucking cat notwithstanding; I little knew it was the dream of every ambitious Yellof as ever drew breath.

Maybe, I said, it’s just a local condition. Maybe, I said, ye need to gather up your tents and steal away into the night…move your coop to another location…maybe.

Most of all, I thought to take to the High Road that led to Destiny because I knowed that at present, I wasn’t nowhere near to toeing the scratch. I thought I’d best remove myself with electric rapidity; I was sure that my ham-handed looching about Doc Ketman and Tipsy Smith had been overheard by eavesdroppers, who were sure to snitch me out to Smashmouth Conklin, and I drast the day that I would drape by the Seven Stars to find that it was Under New Management; Tipsy gone, and me without enough wherewithal to knock a sick baby off’n the pisspot.

One day I did ask Red Mary about the whereabouts of Doc Ketman; he was on the Toby, said she; he left without so much as Good-bye or Good Luck or Toll-Loll-Loll Kiss-Me-Dear.  Something must of spooked him, she said, and she gave me a wise look, but I kept mum. I was a tenderfoot; not up to a man’s work. I wished out loud that Doc had taken me with him. Red Mary didna like that palaver. Stopper yer gob, said she, and she raised up, then, and guv me a smack, and then she cried and whined, as women will, and called me an Ingrateful Yob.

You should of seen her at that moment, Yob—she looked like someone’s Maw, she did; tending to plumpness but with stray wisps of red hair escaping from where she had it up from a bun and casting a nimbus through the dusty parlor light like a high holy halo.

Never had I seen a sight more beautiful, before or since.

I didn’t know it then, but I was very soon to run into Peter Ketman anyway, tooling around on the Toby as part of a traveling medicine show. But that, Yob, is another story.

Ketman was gone; Tipsy Smith was likely on his way out; I knew of only one means to get revenge on Smashmouth Conklin, and that was by way of the Big Man, Cokey Stolas. It were a most dangerous game to play.

In spite of all her kicks and cuffs—given in pure love, as I well knew–I resolved to stick by Red Mary. But a Yob’s will is the will o’ the wisp; I was reckless in figuring that she alone was the key to reaching Stolas.

The Big Man had one weakness only—and it was for Night Hawks. Or what some called the Nymphs of Darkness. Doxies who roamed the streets at night.  He liked to play rough with these heavenly bodies. Like God playing pool–and making his shots with the thick end of the stick. He liked to hear the shock of a resounding smack. He was a powerful man, and whores played stand-offish at their own risk, but, even so, even the most desperate Bats tended to steer clear of Cokey Stolas and his known proclivities. The word went out ‘mongst all the soiled doves and their fancy-men to step it and stall the mug when the Big Man loomed into view, but, usually, one sacrificial lamb was caught—and he’d usually give her a starting. For when the lust-mood and the murder-mood overtook him he could sometimes be a rip-snorter and leave the moll bruised and battered and very much the worse for wear.

I think it was because, to him, everything that got in the way of what he wanted was ugly.

The doxies all thought that what he was really fixing to do was to go out and kill a woman; but that something held him back.

I even dared to think that even Smash Conklin’s legs would turn to jelly in the rare presence of the Big Man. That maybe the best way to quash Uglyface was to somehow get to the Big Man.

But that was a thought that I never breathed to a living soul, and more’s the pity, because “Doc” Ketman and Doc alone had the real goods and if I could of delivered those drugs into Cokey Stolas’ hands I might have had an in—but all in all, it is just as well that I never followed through, because the Big Man was too much for me to bite off. Even Red Mary, who was afraid of nowt, lived in mortal terror of the Big Man. And no matter how hard-strapped, I don’t think that Doc Ketman would have been a party to it anyway.

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

1*SALUTATION

PHILIP GLASS

V-2 SCHNEIDER

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gPNSh5AS0eQ

ALSO SEE:

NAQOYQATSI TRAILER

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jl1RcfvEsiA

NAQOYQATSI
http://documentaryheaven.com/naqoyqatsi/

2*REFERENCE

NASTIEST AND CLEANEST US BEACHES

http://www.npr.org/blogs/health/2013/06/26/195896606/a-look-at-the-nastiest-and-cleanest-u-s-beaches?utm_source=npr&utm_medium=facebook&utm_campaign=20130627

3*HUMOR

GERTRUDE STEIN REJECTION LETTER

http://tpr.ly/19xTpUQ

4*NOVELTY

WHAT TV SHOW RICH PEOPLE HATE THE MOST

http://www.vulture.com/2011/11/which-tv-show-rich-people-hate-the-most-and-27-other-unexpected-ratings-facts.html

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST

NEUROSCIENTIST SEES PROOF OF HEAVEN

http://abcnews.go.com/Health/neuroscientist-sees-proof-heaven-week-long-coma/story?id=17555207#.UctfFpz8nGs

6* DAILY UTILITY

Classic Books Annotated by Famous Authors.
Don’t hate Nabokov because he’s smarter than everybody else–hate him because he never lets you forget it.
http://flavorwire.com/394100/classic-books-annotated-by-famous-authors/

7*CARTOON

BEATNIKS, BONGOS AND BEER

http://beatsbongosbeer.tumblr.com/

8*PRESCRIPTION

THE WEIRD, RECURSIVE MAD MEN ADS

http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/culture/2013/06/the-weird-recursive-mad-men-ads.html

9*RUMOR PATROL                                                                                                        KENNEDY CONSPIRACY SPEECH                                                      https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QeYgLLahHv8

10* LAGNIAPPE                                                                                                       GEORGE ORWELL: POLITICS AND THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE https://www.mtholyoke.edu/acad/intrel/orwell46.htm

11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA     ODE TO A PIMP
O big fat pimp, you stealth of Vice’s lure:
You, whose hidden lingering the whores all dread,
Will thrive–so long as man and wife endure.

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE. 694. AEROSMITH

It has grown fashionable among people of taste to deride Aerosmith as “washed up”. Of course they’re washed up…even though there’s no denying that these guys WERE big deals back in their day. Why should we be any different in OUR regard for them than the oldsters–Squares from Dullsville to a man– who, 40 years ago, worshipped at the altar of the likes of Der Bingle, Swoonatra, and Kay Keyser, long after they were in their prime?

But…sentimentality aside, has Aerosmith ever been more than second rate in virtually every aesthetic dimension that matters? Appearance, comportment, music: all seemed–and seem to this day–derivative of earlier and superior models. Even their vulgarity loses some of its power when you consider how much it owes to their sedulous aping of the Stones, et al.

At this distance, “Walk This Way” sounds as dated as “The Rapper” by the Pittsburgh-based band The Jaggerz. Doesn’t “Walk This Way” also owe a great deal to the (to my mind vastly superior) 1970 recording “Rock and Roll Hoochy-Koo” by the Edgar Winters Band? (Rick Derringer’s version came out in 1973.) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q67drNe2aRg

Aerosmith is not merely kitsch; it is poshlust–kitch with no artistic aspirations whatsoever, and, therefore, with not even the possibility of being good.

Take, for example, Blue Oyster Cult. Critical darlings. Too much smoke and sentimental bluster and too few chops. (When you really think about it, a lyric like “Romeo and Juliet are together in eternity” is just the sort of thing a mildly depressed teenager might find “significant”.)

But BOC is merely kitsch–not poshlust.

Of Boston area bands, Mission of Burma was the real deal. Sure, there was also Throwing Muses (actually from RI) and Dinosaur Jr. (actually from Western MA), and the Pixies (actually also from elsewhere). MoB is another story altogether.

(I like to claim that I am their #2 fan. (Pride of place forever belongs to Eric Van.) I first saw them in the Spring of 1979 at the Mass College of Art and perhaps a dozen times thereafter–including their 1979 Rumble gig, their January 1980 Paradise show, their December 1980 San Francisco appearance at the Fab Mab, and their penultimate 1983 Boston-area performance at the Bradford Hotel. I also saw the very first Birdsongs appearance, at Jack’s.)

But…their early work owes a great deal to Wire. (Compare “Academy Fight Song” and “Surgeon’s Girl,” for example.) Even they have acknowledged as much. Still, their early body of work set a standard which their later (21st century) work, in my opinion, does not quite live up to. Though some of the Volcano Suns’ work does come close–for instance, IMHO “Balancing Act” should have been a hit, and “Bumper Crop,” is, in some ways, more exuberant fun than any MoB song out there.

And certainly better than anything by Aerosmith.

THE INFORMATION #738 JUNE 28, 2013

THE INFORMATION
#738 JUNE 28, 2013
Copyright 2013 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com

Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else’s opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation. Oscar Wilde

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

Cadger Tandy told Baby Boy Maddox about his dying regrets.

 A vag like me has no time for regrets, but when I think back, I’m sorry about only one thing–all the times I failed–to grab for what I could–with both meat hooks—and how I failed to get mine–when opportunity came a-poundin’ on the door. I don’t never think of the narrow squeaks, Boss, no–but only of the wild chances I could of taken and didn’t, and how in so NOT doing it was to be my downfall. 

Some Yellofs is crazy you know–or people say they are–only because they see more and feel more and remember more than other folk. 
 
Me, I was a likely lad–I never lived on prayer, peace, sherbet, love and tea, and I always kept the Sabbath–and anything else I could lay my hands on–I never howled in my sleep over guilty deeds–but only for being too sleepy and dull and passing up a sure thing and letting a main chance go drifting by.
 
But on the whole, I got no squawk to make–only that I should of taken care of the Bully Smash Conklin when I had the chance.

A tiny blue robin’s egg–lying on the grass on the first day of spring–what snake would pass that by?

I thought of Doctor Peter Ketman, and how I might use him to further the plan to get Conklin. He was a snake oil peddler as also had the mash for Red Mary. You’d see him at the trade entrance of the Cat House—he was so low down he couldn’t come in through the front door—looking like an agitated savage—mouth wide open–wild eyes–red hair, all ablaze like a burning bush—all the while talking a blue streak, peddlin’ his linaments and suchlike. “What I is got plumb fixes ev-er-thang that ails yuh—Man–ner Beast” was his pitch.  Said he was a “Doctor” but he warn’t. But he LOOKED like a doctor. A drunk doctor, gone to seed, holed up in a covered wagon, come to yon Big City ever now and again to look in on the home folk over in Noxtown, but otherwise inclined to make himself scarce.
 
I thought of Doctor Peter Ketman, and the next time he was likely to come to town, and all the oodles of bottled  kill-devil the little man peddled. And then I thought about Smash Conklin and I wondered if I could somehow contrive a way to get into Ketman’s good graces and dose the Bully myself, and how I would go about the business.

I’d of yoked myelf to Adam’s off Ox to have put to skids under Smash Conklin, if only I’d of knowed how.

I’d of given God’s last penny to have pulled it off, for by that time I had a powerful hatred for the man–one as amounted to a craze.

I’d of have done anything to beat Uglyface and get the best of him, because there was more real white man even in a rogue like Ketman than in ten Swaggering Bobs like Smash Conklin and company. Even as a tad I had my tail out about Smash Conklin. I was so angry I could feel my eyeballs boil at the very thought of him. I wasn’t murderous by nature–but his death would be my life’s bread

All the same, I KEPT my beady little glims on Smash Conklin—and was scared to do it—and I hoped that somehow he wouldn’t notice me giving him the stinkeye—but, like I said before, Kiddies and little Yobs can go anywhere—people see ‘em, and yet, mostly, they really don’t—it’s like they don’t really matter because they’re really not there.

Nobody cared a fig about a little boy like me. In the grand scheme of things I was pretty small beer.

Smash Conklin begun to be an obsession with me; he haunted my dreams as a snorting, snarling, sneery-faced monster; an enormous figure of evil. Make no mistake about it; he WAS a devil and still is—and his mob was mostly even worse than him—but when you’re just a little Yellof you don’t never draw such fine distinctions. Bad folks is ALL bad. People who hurt you is evil and there’s no two words about it. And people who hurt your friends is worst of all.

I figured if I couldn’t get to Conklin I could at least take the gloss off his racket, and hurt him that-a-way. But, cogitate as I would, I was tearing my seat trying to dope out a scheme. I thought on it so hard my head hurt. I figured the safest thing to do in that wind was to move my tent to the other side of the hedge.

I took to beatin’ myself up. If only I wasn’t so lazy, I said to myself, top lights gleaming. So full of grand schemes and yet with no friends to help me carry ‘em out. I look around, and there I ain’t. Who am I? Just a bug. Best stay out from underfoot. Don’t want to tangle assholes with a Bobcat like Uglyface. Best be on my road. Little man, you’ve had a busy day. And other, similar thoughts of gloom. But black thoughts never did serve to accomplish much.

Being foiled in that one thing I wanted more than anything else in life’s path—it put me off my feed and made me crazy. I would always be a wandering boy, the lad who’s only passing through, the quiet watcher on the sidelines who never adds to the show and never even ventures an opinion.  A gander, a josser, a sorger, a cull, a gill. My life was sold to me for nothing by a man it didn’t belong to, and I hated that man and longed to see him in his grave.

I came in through a side door; I was nobody’s child; born ‘tween Saturday and Sunday.

I was destined from birth to be a poor trumpery beggar; a sad clown; a dog-stealer and a tramp. I was destined from the day I took to the road to be a poor stick figure; a scarecrow; a mooch.

 Listen Yob: the more free you are regarding society’s conventions, and the more you ramble– the greater the chance there be that they’ll pen you in and lock you up.

 Never let them catch up to you!

 Imagine what it’s like as a likely lad, then–to be put in stir for vag, often for a full year–where at least they give you a laggard; thirteen clean shirts.

Well, I was a green punk;–the greenest. I didn’t know what it was like then; I surely know it now.

Previous: http://www.thenoiseboard.com/index.php?act=post&do=reply_post&f=1&t=218311

 1*SALUTATION

RAY STEVENS
SUNDAY MORNING COMING DOWN
Some say the music world took a wrong turn with Ray Stevens–at best, a poor man’s Roger Miller, at worst, a vulgar clown. Some might essay that “Ahab the Arab,” his culturally sensitive excursion into ethnomusicology, was trivialized and therefore superseded by frivolous stuff like “Jeremiah Peabody’s Polyunsaturated Quick-Dissolving, Fast-Acting Pleasant-Tasting Green and Purple Pills”.  Others might proclaim that “Everything is Beautiful” was his sell-out move.

“Sunday Morning Coming Down,” however, is the Citizen Kane of country music hangover songs.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v7R1cHlen0E
 
2*REFERENCE
LITERAL NAMES OF US PLACES
http://slate.me/1bWuENP
 
3*HUMOR
25 BEST ONE-TIME SIMPSONS CHARACTERS
http://www.buzzfeed.com/louispeitzman/the-25-best-one-time-simpsons-characters

4*NOVELTY
Created Equal: A Stunning Photo Series Exploring Cultural Difference in America
http://www.thephotomag.com/2013/05/created-equal-stunning-photo-series.html?m=1
 
ALSO SEE:
JUST MUGSHOTS
http://www.justmugshots.com/
 
5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST

MAD MEN: BOB BENSON IS NICK CARRAWAY
And Pete Campbell was Richard M. Nixon and Sammy Glick; now he’s also Rodney Dangerfield.
http://slate.me/10Wr3ue 

6* DAILY UTILITY
ROADSIDE SEX TRAPS
http://climaxyourmind.wordpress.com/tag/roadside-sex-traps/

 ALSO SEE: GROOVIE GHOULIES: WHERE YOU GOING LITTLE GHOUL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TLCoPO7Z5qo

7*CARTOON
GIGGLE COMICS 1949
http://www.bigblogcomics.com/2013/06/here-are-couple-of-more-fantastic.html?spref=fb
 
8*PRESCRIPTION
OVER SEXTEEN: PRUDES WON’T THINK IT’S FUNNY
http://blogs.villagevoice.com/runninscared/2009/03/studies_in_crap_9.php

 9*RUMOR PATROL
15 HARDEST COUNTRIES TO VISIT
http://www.garfors.com/2013/05/the-hardest-most-difficult-countries-to.html
 
ALSO SEE:
25 LEAST VISITED COUNTRIES IN THE WORLD
http://www.afghanscene.com/may-2013-issue-may-2013-issue/10384-the-25-least-visited-countries-in-the-world

 10* LAGNIAPPE
HORROR WE? HOW’S BAYOU?
http://forbushman.blogspot.com/2012/08/part-viii-horror-we-hows-bayou-ec-age.html

 11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
JED CLAMPETT AS AMERICAN ARCHETYPE
Jed Clampett lived in a shack. Until a Deus ex machina: when up though the ground came “a bubblin’ crude.” This is our central Horatio Alger myth of the 1960s–for better or worse. But at least Jed had some sterling qualities. He deserved his wealth because he was at heart a good person–unlike the venal Drysdale, his scheming factotum and potential nemesis. Imagine what the show would have been like if Jed were vulgar and crude, like his “nephew” Jethro. Probably wouldn’t have lasted more than one season. Of course, in the 1980s there was a show like that–Dallas. It ran on and on….
 
CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE. 693.
ULTIMATE COMICS SPIDER-MAN BY BRIAN MICHAEL BENDIS
I’ve just finished reading the third graphic novel in the series (issues 11-18) and found myself wondering–just where Bendis intends to go with this new Spider-man character? Not only is he an amalgam of multicultural cliches–half Black and half Hispanic–but he is also Gay, and his best friend and confidant is a chubby Asian guy. This is known, I suppose, as covering all the bases, but the character of Miles Morales is curiously flat, in spite of Bendis’ well-known talent for witty dialogue, and the current plots seem tortured into shape by the exigencies of everything else that’s going on in the ever-more contrived Marvel Universe. Captain America is now President, and the United States has been Balkanized. It seems like the fantasy world of a very bright 14-year old, or maybe a very stoned 28 year old. Not since the 1970s have we seen a comic book which panders so very hard to encompass every conceivable interest group. In order, I suppose, to lend some gravitas to the ever-more-incoherent proceedings, Aunt May and Gwen Stacy–and even Mary Jane watson—have been trotted out to grant their approval to young Miles Morales.

Here’s where I see the plot trajectory eventually heading:
1) Miles Morales loses an arm to some villain he shouldn’t be fighting.
2) Reed Richards enlists his brilliant scientist friend Curt Connors to help regrow the arm.
3) Surprise! Miles Grows SIX arms!
4) Curt Connors turns into the Lizard and menaces Miles.
5) Peter Parker returns from the dead, dispatches the Lizard, devises a cure for the extra arms, and resumes his role as Spider-Man.
 
(Note: This scenario for the imaginary “Ultimate” line is no more crazy than what has been going on in the “conventional” Marvel world, and if this plot is adopted I would, of course, expect to be compensated accordingly.)  

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w5A_2ItN3g0

THE INFORMATION #737 JUNE 21, 2013

THE INFORMATION
#737 JUNE 21, 2013
Copyright 2013 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com

THE BURDEN OF LIES
“[When] the Burden of lies is shaken off…the emotional result is a feeling of great relief.”
 –Theodor Reik

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

It’s all Hell, said Cadger Tandy to his wild young acolyte, Baby Boy Maddox.

Look over yonder at the scene that will meet your eyes in any small town the year round.

Look hinter the olden customs and you’ll see it—do I have to come right out and say it again?—it’s all Hell.

Now, I reckon ye ken the start of Winter is when the devils come out in full force. You see, Yob, there is a thin scrim—very thin indeed—that separates the normal world from the lurking hell that lay in back of it. Christmas and New Year’s Eve in particular was ever and is always simply a portal into license and the staving off of slow decay. Leave your liver at the door!

But in reality and fact, it is all hell the year round. Winter and spring, summer and fall.

In Spring you see evil old men with bitter twisted mouths settin on benches in front of the court house, their heads full of unfinished business. Hoping to ruin things not only for today, but also for the folks who will live on long after they are dust. And for all times. For example, you will always see them schemin’ to get rid of the newly-arrived young minister doing Good Works at the local Church of God and Gold Almighty. Who the Devil does he think he is–Him, and his newfangled ideas about God’s mercy and His forgiveness? No—give them the old time Preacher Man, and his pissy little hellfire sermons every time–he keeps the youngsters ready to toe the line.

In the Springtime you’ll run across the sour old biddies with triple chins and loose corsets, all spruced up in black funeral dresses on Easter Sunday, setting on stools in the ice-cream parlor, coolin’ off their poison tongues with banana splits and sody water—you can almost hear the water sizzle in the throats of them old busybodies as they gulp it down. They gulp and gab and blabber about the doin’s of the young mothers and their kin and it’s like you’re staring down a black smoke of hatred and spite as you hear them squawk “My Word!” and “Well, I never—“ and “The very idea!” Yut yut yut yut yut!

In Spring, look ye well upon that old man buying day old bread at the bakery window. He’s Pinch Warburg–rich as Croesus from bleedin’ the poor by sellin’ ‘em bogus insurance policies, and yet the old sinner wouldn’t give so much as a dime to save a starving Prince. All his life he’s acted on the principle of What’s in it for me, and he’s druve away all human companionship with his penny-pinching and twisted ways.

In Summer ye can go to the general store next to the post office, where the storekeeper—a pucker-faced snapping cove—will gladly take a hungry tramp to the back room and beat him near to death for trying to slip a can of sardines in his tattery coat pocket.

And what of the farmer in his sour apple orchard, three teeth in his rotting head, and a shotgun loaded with gravel and rock salt? The old devil looks like Lucifer himself, only in bib overalls, with boots caked in pigshit, to hide his cloven hooves, and he likes nothing better than blistering the ass of a starving ‘Bo who picks a wormy piece of fruit from off his land.

You can see the devil and his evil everywhere ye care to look, and in more’n a few places you wouldn’t expect. In Summer there’s the white-handed pasty-faced old Pastor back in his church, attendin’ to the bawling sheep in his congregation—talking smooth words of soft solace to ease the tired souls of the afflicted and trodden down, but all the time himself seething with hidden lust for good food and strong drink and other, more forbidden pleasures of the flesh.

Being a tramp is a hard road, and I wouldn’t commend it to a living soul, but you can look hard and long at the Yellofs who act the Square John, and what do you see?

In Autumn and all throughout the year, if you got eyes to see ‘em  you can glim the old broke down former factory workers in their dirty old work togs, gap-toothed and slack-jawed, deafened from working with machinery, too used to getting up at 6am on every day of their lives to ever sleep in—you can see them sittin’ there on park benches, starin’ glassy-eyed, wonderin’ where their next square meal is coming from, having spent their monthly pension checks on the 25th and sold all their furniture many moons ago. Living hand to mouth in a filthy boarding house overrun by bugs. Fishin’ for half-eaten sangwiches in the trash can behind the chophouse.

In Autumn, and the year round, you’ll see the old banty-legged consumptive railroad worker with a caved-in chest reduced to being a Flag Man and waving the red rag at the railroad crossing, working in all kinds of weather—freezing in the winter, broiling in the summer, eaten alive by skeeters in the rainy season, barely paid enough to keep alive, living on a crust and a prayer, and no shelter from the elements ‘cept a sad tarpaper shack—they also make him act the Railyard Bull even though he can barely walk, and he feebly chases off the bums and tells ‘em to get away from the railroad switches, but he himself is hardly got a better go than the best of ‘em.

In Autumn you’ll see the old sales lady as spends seven hours a day standin’ on her feet on Labor Day and smilin’ through the red mist of her constant pain until the day her heart gives out and she’s crawling on her hands and knees.

Come Winter. The gardener—an old Mustache Pete—poisoned by bug spray—spent his life tending to rich men’s flowers and lawns; spends his final days as blind as a bat in a charity hospital ward unable to eat or drink or do anything for himself, coughing out his lungs–and then he dies. On Christmas Day! No flowers for him!

In Winter–the old man in the barber shop—another Mustache Pete—eighty-nine years old–smells like pomade—shuffles like a man who’s dead but doesn’t know it—his world is his shop with the red striped pole and the baseball scores—makes with a line of glib chatter—gives a discount to veterans–knows everybody’s business—a spy for the police—thinks Mussolini had a lot o’ good ideas.

And when the frost is deepest and the ground is hard, in the iron season when the moon is full–that is also when you’ll find the crazy drunks screaming off their D.T.’s in the police station basement, swatting away at the imaginary maggots.

There’s more, far more—but I dinna ken as ye need to know the world’s full horrors, as you’ll find ‘em out for yourself, Yob, and soon enough.

Just about every man not born into money, every man who hasn’t got a way of finding some, will work his fingers to the bone until the day he dies. He lives for the weekend and the holidays, and what kind of life is that? He’s got nothing but the shirt on his back and what he’s managed to pick up along the way; he thinks nothing other than what he’s told to think; he thinks he’s nothing—and so he is nothing.

Me, I never wanted no part of none of that. That there is why I allus mostly kept to myself.

Now Yob, I’m a dead man and I know it. So let me learn you a few things I wish I had known sooner. Here’s my fond words of advice.

Sooner say goodbye than hello.

Sooner say too little than say too much.

Better to be a strange hermit than a violent jailbird.

And know ye this, and know it full well—behind and back of every seeming heaven is a burning hell.

Back of ever so soft-hearted a man or woman there lurks a devil with iron claws.

Stay far, far away from the seeming goodly men and women of this world–they is mostly devils in deep disguise.

Look at any two people together.

Two scorpions trapped in a bottle, they is—and the one will always sting the other one to death.

Two crabs in a bucket—claws out to always drag his brother down.
It’s a truth as old as Aesop, Yob–and older.

And if ye don’t care to be dragged down with them—if ye don’t care to be burned—by them or by nobody else– you will heed the words of a dying Yellof–and heed them well.

Harden your heart, Yob—make it hard as iron. Harden your heart. That there is the only way you navigate. Where? There—there–in the burning pit.

Previous: http://www.thenoiseboard.com/index.php?act=post&do=reply_post&f=1&t=218311

1*SALUTATION
OPEN THE DOOR, RICHARD
DUSTY FLETCHER
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U59OZ2L1C2Y

2*REFERENCE
ALAN MOORE ON THE CRIMINALITY OF THE COMIC BOOK INDUSTRY
http://www.bleedingcool.com/2013/06/14/alan-moore-addresses-the-criminality-behind-superman-and-the-comic-book-industry/
3*HUMOR
TRUMP DEMOLISHED ON TWITTER
http://nextimpulsesports.com/2013/06/13/donald-trump-gets-demolished-on-twitter-by-modern-family-writer/

4*NOVELTY
ROAD TO RUANE TRAILER
http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1991551957/official-billy-ruane-documentary/posts/509973

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
CRAZY NAKED MAN IN SF SUBWAY
Why is he not stopped? More to the point–when is he going to get his own Reality Show?
http://nymag.com/daily/intelligencer/2013/06/naked-man-san-francisco-bart-subway-video.html

ALSO SEE:
RANDY NEWMAN
NAKED MAN
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ycv6W-QSg0Q

6* DAILY UTILITY
ALBUMS THAT NEVER WERE (BUT SHOULD HAVE BEEN)
http://dangerousminds.net/comments/bust-a-gut-funny_albums_that_never_were_but_should_have_been

7*CARTOON
Beautiful Sexy Witch Melts Plastic Man
http://colescomics.blogspot.com/2012/10/beautiful-sexy-witch-melts-plastic-man.html

8*PRESCRIPTION
BOB BENSON’S SECRET
http://slate.me/19Yg6iG

9*RUMOR PATROL
NSA SURVEILLANCE
http://www.npr.org/blogs/thetwo-way/2013/06/12/191081329/three-exchanges-you-should-listen-to-about-nsa-surveillance?utm_source=NPR&utm_medium=facebook&utm_campaign=20130613

ALSO SEE:
PRISM SPYING PROGRAM
http://www.businessinsider.com/prism-spying-program-apple-google-microsoft-whistleblower-2013-6

10* LAGNIAPPE
THE 12 MOST AWFUL PRODUCTS MADE BY MONSANTO
http://fracturedparadigm.com/2013/04/15/monsantos-dirty-dozen-the-12-most-awful-products-made-by-monsanto/

ALSO SEE:
WORRYING ABOUT THE FUTURE
http://www.chelseagreen.com/content/chapter-1-worrying-about-the-future-an-excerpt-from-2052/

11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
AL JOLSON
Jolson created the prototype for the Monster Hit. John  Patrie Sr. once told me that he once asked his writers for a song so bad it was guaranteed to be a hit.

And here it is: The one, the only “Sonny Boy”–#1 for 12 weeks–the epitome of sentimental kitsch, and proof that all art is, in essence, either mating calls or danger signals.

SONNY BOY
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r2cYWxLQW9Yhttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r2cYWxLQW9Y

ALSO SEE:
AL JOLSON
“I’M SITTIN’ ON TOP OF THE WORLD
From ‘THE SINGING FOOL” (1928)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pfdh4JWlMeo

AL JOLSON
MAMMY
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PIaj7FNHnjQ

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE. 692.
ORIGINAL INSULT VOCABULARY LIST
“Sarge, why don’t you bite my spawning trout,” is a good one for openers. “You can kiss my Deuteronomy, Lummox” is another. “Agitate my Dingus, Blubber. I’ll stick my blunderbuss in your meatus, fink-face. Shudup, you supercilious snotnose. You are nothing but a monstrous homunculus.” The possibilities are endless! Here’s the vocab list to get you started.

Sarge
trout
liquor
ichor
misshapen
supercilious
coffin
codfish
psychotomimetic
reputed
Chicago
swag
booty
simple
whinge
blubber
snotnose
jagoff
laughter
slaughter
agitprop
genre
spatula
dingbat
malicious
venom
detriment
peppermint
 benign
 doozie
 sphincter
 crabapple
 hootch
 dingus
 dingleberry
 bloodbath
 tweezers
 lozenge
 analingus
 beef
 pork
 twerp
 pounce
 plump
 booboo
 ocelot
 humdinger
 indubitubly
 nipples
 golly
 shish-kabob
 knob
 uppity
 fussbudget
 fink
 shudup
 panties
 shitbird
 gadzooks
 brouhaha
 oscelot
 blunderbuss
 epistle
 aplomb
 lemony
 pantaloons
 galoot
 hewn
 truculent
 spasmodic
 succulent
 zinnias
 collusion
 conjugal
orangutan
proboscis
fatwa
pretzel
dollop
chicken
ointment
porcupine
sniffles
hideous
stench
platypus
bastion
hoary
disputatious
antiquated
giblet
trichotillomania
meatus
phlebotomist
insipid
muskrat
yummy
spellbound
witch
butter
onamotopoeia
minutia
lounge
floozy
wombat
flounder
bacon
ubiquitous
spraints
phyllo
radish
keen
homunculus
papaya
jambalaya
cous cous
maggot
behemoth
monstrosity
lummox
doom
squawk
moisture
brass
diabolical

THE INFORMATION #736 JUNE 14, 2013

THE INFORMATION
#736 JUNE 14, 2013
Copyright 2013 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com

If [John O’Hara] sometimes seems to exhibit the stormy emotions of a little boy, so do all great artists for unless they can remember what it was like to be a little boy, they are only half complete as artist and as man. Who wants to go through life with only easy friends? Nothing could be duller.—James Thurber
 
WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER SEVEN: PART SEVEN: THE PLAN

It was right before he faded from this mortal plain and shambled off to the Big Rock Candy Mountain that Cadger Tandy the dying hobo told Baby Boy Maddox exactly what was what.

“Back in my day it was a musty planet, Yob, a yellow tintype orb full of fumes and dust, but one as set the pattern for these so-called modern times. We still breathe shit, Yob, and eat it, too—all of us–only now we call it ‘Progress’.”

And, then as now, things warn’t always what they seemed.

Life was for the young; it is for the young; it always has been for the young. The lady folks is chatty and the men is strong and silent. In general a lad only needs to know how to say two things: ‘Jazz Me’ to a Frail and ‘Back Off’ to a Yegg. The rest is buncombe.  

And the old folks—then home folks—they is allus left to set a rockin’ on their porch to reminisce about how they did back when they was young.

But let me pull your sleeve, Yob—being young is also the time when you is got to get in all your accidents and make all your big mistakes, because being that you’re young is the only reason you can bear ‘em. You don’t stay innocent for long. And knowing what is what means that you are walking a big step away from stupidity and madness and are taking the man-sized step that leads you to a peaceful grave.  Lying six feet under the short grass—that’s your heaven. T’was ever thus. What monkey wouldn’t long to live forever in a safe old hidey-hole? There’s your paradise right there.

Only a fool will ever make moan over how he’s been missing out. Keep your eyes open. Stop, but never stay in one place for too long. Look, but never touch. Listen, but don’t talk. That’s the best advice there is, and you can take that to the bank.

Love is a sticky wicket. You love her, she don’t love you. Boo hoo hoo. Or you think you love her and she thinks she loves you and the two of you spoon and call each other Googy Wa Wa. That there is sickenin’ to everyone but the two parties involved.

Anyway, all too soon she’ll find you dull. She’ll look for new horizons. If she’s a bad ‘un, and turns out to be a lady of easy virtue, then the twitchet will involve you in a deadly game of choice and chance with evil strangers. She will dance for criminals and hard men; she won’t dance for you. She’ll make your life a living nightmare, and if you try to unhitch her, she’ll take you for everything you’ve got. Or you’ll turn to solace to a lovely barfly who’s nothing but trouble. Her boyfriend is a big man who will break your legs, if you’re lucky. Or she’ll clean you out and laugh in your face. Your friends can’t help you here—nobody can help you here. They’re all tired, anyway, of hearing about your financial embarrassments. You brought them on yourself, with your reckless behavior. You’ll be faded, fucked, and forgotten.

Or say you hew to the straight and narrow and work yourself to death to give her everything she wants. It will never be enough. Every hope you cling to will become another trap. She’ll cry that she wants some kiddies to brighten up the home. Soon you’ll have some children. Ungrateful children, who will break your lonely heart. Don’t you get it? The second you have a child you are already a dead man. A child is a trap. Even a child can tell you that. You are easy prey for your children–who will always wrong you. Always. When your children are youngsters you will be a God to them. But what kind of man takes pride to being a big shot in the eyes of a small boy– and nobody else? When you laugh you embarrass them; they despise you for your weakness when you cry. By the time they are grown and on their own, to them you are an old-fashioned relic of days that are better forgotten. You will be lucky if they even talk to you. And you can bet on one thing–you will never be forgiven for the pain you caused them. They will stop caring about you long before you die. Time will come when they will look in your eyes and see a dead man. You won’t die easy. You will go kicking and screaming into that good night. And when you’ve breathed your last, they will dance at your funeral–and sell tickets.

So let them old gummers set rockin’ on the porch and reminisce about the days back when Paw was Courtin’ Maw. Hay Rides, husking bees, barn raisings, and all that other sad bib-overall-starin’ –at-a-mule’s-ass farmer-boy fol-de-rol.

Country Younkers as had never strayed more than twenty miles from their back forty would find themselves drunk and naked and bleeding from multiple clouts to the head and lying in a puddle of their own filth and that’s why they all had good reason to be feared of and hate the Big City. Next time I bring the crop to harvest, says Farmer John to his self, I’ll not treat the boys at the saloon to a snifter—why, I’ll just buy me half a pint of skull-varnish and sleep in the wagon yard with Betsy, my faithful rifle, to provide me with my need for good fellowship.

That’s how the countryman saw the City—as a hell overrun by devils. Who’s to say he was dead wrong?

But the biggest mistake you can ever make in life is thinking that folks is very different from one place to the rest.

Hell is found the world over, and you don’t have to be no fallen angel to sniff it out.

What is Hell, anyway, but having to do the same thing over and over, and for no reason? The myths of olden days was spot on when they talked of fellers rollin’ up them boulders to the top of the yonder hill and watchin’ them roll back down and then having to pick up and start all over. It is no myth when every day you see some game Yellof tied to a stake while eagles tear away at his liver. It is the human condition, Yob, and you don’t need to be a smarty to know that Hell can be hard and Hell can be soft, but it’s only a matter of your perspective.

Because it’s all Hell.

1*SALUTATION
PURE POP
THE KINKS
PICTURE BOOK
http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=5MUHWfmSY-k

The Who – Happy Jack
http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=JY3hUdK56IM

The Beach Boys-Darlin’
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aUxlMwn1Ui4

Todd Rundgren
International Feel/Never Never Land
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_GI25GcKBf4

THE ROLLING STONES – IF YOU LET ME
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2hxQoM5lf24

Emmitt Rhodes – With my face on the floor
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ADK3RAtveY8

Robyn Hitchcock – Brenda’s iron sledge
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=In429UcuKaw

DAVE EDMUNDS LONDON’S A LONELY TOWN
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=31JMtz6l7rQ

Pylon – Read a Book
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ejO9-iTXOfk

The Magnetic Fields – 100,000 Fireflies
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lvSY4NYkySM

XTC- The Wheel and the Maypole
http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=vRIP77kLhxI

The Move-Tonight
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6nrqDOZMuMQ

Let Him Run Wild by Beach Boys on Mono 1965 Capitol 45.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=lFJLkC4Hd7M

Raspberries – Go All the Way
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=voKihZAN4ng

The Sweet – Little Willy
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hmbEuRzlhIs

2*REFERENCE
TAXI DANCERS
http://doves2day.blogspot.com/2009/09/dancing-girls-part-four.html

ALSO SEE:
http://www.christinefletcherbooks.com/dance_taxi.php

3*HUMOR
PAUL LYNDE ROASTS DEAN MARTIN
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w4VZLBOtN0I

4*NOVELTY
WHEN PIGS FLY, OR HOW TO ELECT NIXON AGAIN AND AGAIN
http://thedemocraticdaily.com/2012/08/10/pigs-fly-or-elect-nixon/

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
WHAT JUST HAPPENED WITH CATWOMAN?
http://www.bleedingcool.com/2013/05/29/what-just-happened-to-catwoman-massive-justice-league-of-america-4-spoilers/

6* DAILY UTILITY
WHAT’S ON MY FOOD?
http://whatsonmyfood.org/food.jsp?food=PS

FOODS YOU MUST BUY ORGANIC
http://www.naturalcuresnotmedicine.com/2013/03/foods-you-must-buy-organic.html

7*CARTOON
CELEBRITY COMIC BOOKS
Phil Silvers was in the select company of Gleason, Hope, Martin & Lewis, Pat Boone, and Dwayne Hickman–personalities who got their own DC comic book. Funny to reflect how Hope was saddled with a talking dog and, later, an obnoxious teen nephew; Lewis had to make do with a bratty nephew and a witch; Dobie Gillis’s comic book came out later as “Windy and Willy” and Maynard G. Krebs was transformed from a beatnik into a hippie.

ALSO SEE:
JERRY LEWIS AND HIS DC PALS
http://www.cbgxtra.com/columnists/craig-shutt-ask-mr-silver-age/jerry-lewis-and-his-dc-pals

8*PRESCRIPTION
STRANGE INTERLUDE STARRING MICKEY MOUSE
http://www.misterkitty.org/extras/stupidcovers/stupidcomics77.html

9*RUMOR PATROL
TWEET THESE WORDS AND WIND UP ON A GOVERNMENT WATCHLIST
http://slate.me/10WyyS7

10* LAGNIAPPE
GROCERY STORE BLACKLIST
http://occupymonsanto360.org/blog/the-grocery-store-blacklist-12-food-companies-to-avoid-and-95-sneaky-aliases/

11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
“MERMAIDS”
http://abcnews.go.com/GMA/video/mermaids-real-mermaids-caught-camera-animal-planet-documentary-19286637

When I hear the word ‘Mermaids’ I think of the Feejee Mermaid I saw at the Busch-Reisinger Museum at the age of 18. It was the head and upper torso monkey of a enbalmed monkey, who apparently died with a look of shock and horror on his face, crudely grafted onto the tail end of a fish. (You know–they say that fish don’t feel the pain. Sure–they flop around in the bottom of the boat for fun.)

A here unnamed circus impresario grafted a horn onto the head of a horse and tried to palm it off as a unicorn until some gov’t agency got into the act and said No Go.

Mermaids, unicorns, Bigfoot, Zombies…so what? There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in your philosophy, Horatio. Shakespeare said it over 400 years ago. Read Charles Fort and you will find literally thousands of examples of unexplained phenomena. What does it prove? That there are certain things occurring on the physical plain which humans can’t understand? Fine. But how does that change a single thing? Answer: It doesn’t. It would be far better if we pulled our heads away from the degrading society of spectacle and focused instead on being better human beings. Starting with being kind to each other. Be Kind should be our religion. Everything else is window dressing.

The ongoing zombie craze is virtually inexplicable to me. In the 1950s, Zombies were just a metaphor for Commies. Mindless and servile and voracious. Whereas in the early 1980s,  the movie Alien was a metaphor for capitalism. Mindless and vicious and voracious.

Put another way, perhaps, a zombie is simply anybody who doesn’t think for themselves. But nobody really and truly thinks for themselves, for we are only the sum total of the input we receive from being a part of an interstitial web of culture which we call our Civilization.

But this begs the question: Why do grown adults continue to dignify such conceptual toys with their diligent attention? Time to move on, methinks, and confront the real monsters which haunt our lives. Feral children; hungry people; folks who have lost all hope. But that is too hard; we turn away and splash in a birdbath in idiotic spectacles.

Providing people with stories which attract the most interest? Pandering to the degraded tastes of solipsists is more like it.

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE. 690.
GLOOMCOOKIES GOOFING  ON THE TOP 40
THE TURTLES
ELEANOR
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JeAtre3Bxg8

ALSO SEE:
THE SMALL FACES
LAZY SUNDAY
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rv41AgQTlrA

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE. 691.
MITT ROMNEY
http://livewire.talkingpointsmemo.com/entry/romney-i-wish-hurricane-sandy-hadnt-hit-week?ref=fpb

Had Mr. Romney been elected we might well have been saddled with our worst President since Harding–only perhaps this is unfair to Harding, since Mitt is way too uptight and rigid to be even one per cent as likeable in a slob sort of way as the unfortunate and overwhelmed Martyr President (who, allegedly, perished from eating spoiled Alaskan King Crab Salad). The 2012 Republican nominee (and has there ever been a potential President since the long-dead days of Schulyer Colfax and Horace Greeley with a stranger name than Mitt Romney?) seemed, not only insulated from normal American concerns, but also strangely ill-at-ease with arguably human concerns, and he even seemed utterly incapable of paying so much as lip-service to such generally-accepted conventions as Compassion for the Poor, Kindness to Dumb Animals, Equaliy in the Workplace, and any of a number of other modern-era homo sapien-like attributes. His boodle of bad jive seemed strictly from the 90’s–the 1790s. To make matters worse, his affect seemed deeply deeply off. He made Nixon come across like the lusty and profane stogie-chomping sailor he longed to be; made H. Ross Perot look like a hip, finger-popping Mack Daddy, and Al Gore come off as sophisticated a bon vivant as Noel Coward in his prime. But let’s at least say this much for Mitt–he was endlessly entertaining, like a holographic diorama of a perpetual trainwreck; his jeer-worthy campaign made him the priceless fodder of political jokemongers thoughout this great land of ours. Thankfully, for the future of the Republic, he was as gaffe-prone as his hapless Paw, Michigan Governor George W. “Brainwashed” Romney. As a matter of fact, he was a walking gaffe. Mitt will remain for a long time to come the gold standard for every other hopelessly isolated and insolent plutocrat with an unjustifiably inflated ego cojoined with an irrational, nearly messianic hankering for the highest office. To paraphrase Jack Warner: “No, no–MCCAIN for President; ROMNEY for POPE!”

MODERN WISDOM NUMBER 176 JUNE 2013

MODERN WISDOM NUMBER 176
JUNE 2013
Copyright 2013 Francis DiMenno
http://dimenno.gather.com
dimenno@gmail.com

https://dimenno.wordpress.com/

AND NOW…MODERN WISDOM PRESENTS:

1. YOUR POWER IS ALSO YOUR PRISON
2. THE END OF LANGUAGE
3. UNCLE DINK
4. THE ALL-ENCOMPASSING ONE
5. THE RACE HATRED HOUR
6. SISTER CULTURE
7. KID SATAN
8. HUNGER MOON
9. THE RAIN GODS
10. ONE LAST SUMMER OF GRAND ILLUSION
11. AMERICAN ASSHOLE
12. CARNY ISLAND
13. MY NOVEL
14. ALL MY EYE
15. AREA SNEAK
16. BUNGTOWN
17. HANGMAN’S BALL
18. MURDERTOWN
19. MR SWEETHEART
20. THAT “THAT”

21. NOIR MISFORTUNE COOKIES
501. They are never going to stop kicking your dog around.
502. Famed for reliability. No. They call you a “real liability”.
503. Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms; not only a Bureau–your hobbies.
504. Your Heart is made of Stone; your Jaw, of Glass.
505. Haven’t you heard the news? You’re all washed up.
506. The hangovers never used to be that bad before.
507. You learned, too late, that things are different in The South.
508. Don’t try to do the thinking–it doesn’t suit you.
509. Your life has been a Carnival–a Carnival of Crime.
510. Nobody’s fooled–everybody knows your name and your alias.
511. They will hunt you like the rabid dog you are.
512. You’re the biggest drunk in town–and it’s a big town.
513. Someday you will pay and that someday is right now.
514. You’re impossible to kill but they will find a way.
515. You are never lonely, for you are surrounded by enemies.
516. Midgets are good luck, until they shoot you.
517. She is nothing like the Little Girl you once knew.
518. Big mistake–referring to The Don as “Fatso”.
519. No more Sex Kittens for you–only the sad Cat Lady.
520. Like Jesus, you will die for someone else’s sins.
521. Eating this Fortune Cookie ensures a lifetime of misfortune.
522. Even the Psychotics whisper that you are completely insane.
523. Are you really Paranoid? Only They know for sure.
524. Listen, Hillbilly–Leave the musket. Take the pork rinds.
525. He who laughs last will be the first to die.
526. Your craven drunken partner does not got your back.
527. You are World Class all right–a World Class Chump.
528. Even the indulgent priest will never absolve you.
529. She’s either started smoking cheap cigars–or there’s another man.
530. Coward! You left your Men behind, to die in Tiger Cages.
531. The Early Bird gets helplessly swept up in the Dragnet.
532. Even your most educated guesses are illiterate.
533. Nobody gets fat by standing in the Big Man’s limelight.
534. Only change the Dame and the tale will be told of you.
535. You always said you wanted nothing, and now you got it.
536. Hunchbacks are lucky; all YOUR hunches have been dead wrong.
537. You’ve gone straight–why must they drag you back in?
538. Take only the clothes on your back and flee town–now.
539. They can easily prove your story is nothing but lies.
540. Poor Fool. You were so sure you could outsmart The Brain.
541. Your dog will accidentally maul the Boss’s youngest son.
542. This isn’t over–they aren’t through with you yet.
543. They’re not afraid of you and they will kick your ass.
544. They’ll find you long before you manage to find them.
545. They thoroughly discussed you. You thoroughly disgust them.
546. You’re acting like a dizzy sap over that two-timing Dame.
547. You’ll never breathe easy until all the witnesses are dead.
548. Chase her all you want–catch her, and you’ll be sorry.
549. They’ll call you ‘Chuckles’ because you never smile.
550. You’ll forever think the Fuzz are breathing down your neck.
551. You’ll beg for cheap liquor in a bar you once owned.
552. All men love the darkness, for their deeds are evil.
553. You will soon see even more of the world’s backside.
554. Very few people can match your callow, vain stupidity.
555. It’s a GOOD Sterno; it’s not a GREAT Sterno.
556. Your apartment smells like cat piss; you don’t own a cat.
557. You had better change your mind; it’s full of shit.
558. A million men and a million dollars can never be defeated.
559. Didn’t you even know enough to get out of their way?
560. You have lit the firecracker at both ends.
561. Hatred of you shall unite all feuding clans.
562. Your long nightmare is only just beginning.
563. When elephants dance, the dwarves must die.
564. At the Laughing Academy a padded room awaits you.
565. They tolerate your cowardly fear; it is fun to watch.
566. The strangers watch your house for a very good reason.
567. The Boss once found you entertaining; you bore him now.
568. No excuse can possibly explain your sinister behavior.
569. Your troubles will never end; not even in the grave.
570. You will never be permitted to atone for your sins.
571. You won’t know what you are until you lose it.
572. People are much happier when you’re not around.
573. You will never be allowed to eat solid food again.
574. You will die a million deaths, and yet live.
575. It is far from over. It will never truly be over.
576. A daily apple keeps away doctors–not policemen.
577. Justice will always be a luxury you can never afford.
578. None of the gossip about you can be refuted.
579. Enjoy your day; it may well be your last.
580. You are too experienced to ever be optimistic again.
581. Your marriage is made in Heaven but lived in Hell.
582. The explanation is a simple one: They all lied.
583. Survivor’s Guilt? You are fooling absolutely nobody.
584. You are far more spinned against than spinning.
585. Destiny whistles through your hollow existence.
586. Your wife will always put her business before your pleasure.
587. You are wearing a mask which will eat your soul.
588. A hand which you know not shall lay you dead.
589. You know everything, and yet you can do nothing.
590. What are your saving yourself for? You die tomorrow.
591. You’re living on borrowed time; now they want it back.
592. You are wise to run away, but not THAT way.
593. The man with the gun is looking strangely at you.
594. Bums will ask you for directions to the homeless shelter.
595. Magical Thinking? Magical Lack of Thinking will do you in.
596. The small, still voice inside you says you must die.
597. They’ll call you the cutest serial killer on Death Row.
598. She’s a smart cookie–too smart for your own good.
599. You have the virtue of being consistent–consistently troubled.
600. Dignity and self-respect are words you’ve only dimly heard of.

22. I WOULD BE PERFECTLY HAPPY IF I NEVER AGAIN SAW ANOTHER MOVIE WITH A…

Man causing a disruption in the lobby of a corporate skyscraper, and
the victim yelling, “Security! Security!” (Also seen in a hospital
setting.)
Man causing a disruption in the main room of a castle, and the lackey
yelling, “Guards! Guards!” (Also seen in Arabian souk setting.)
Venal small-town sheriff with a sloppy pot-belly and a hick accent
thick enough to cut with a bandsaw.
Obviously postcoital couple lolling nakedly in bed.
Group of five friends, one of whom dies.
Protagonist pausing after extended butchery to make witty remark, then
rushing away because he’s in a hurry.
Singing chain gang.
Guy working at the morgue and eating a sandwich.
Guy who gets the girl in the end
Guy who gets the guy in the end
Hooker with a heart of gold.
Group of people learning life lessons.
Magical black person.
Bitchy mother in-law.
Ugly smart girl who is actually hot.
Sassy black woman.
Cop drinking cold coffee from a takeout cup.
Wise old asian guy.
Vicious midget.
Gay best friend.
Countdown timer.
Crew of zombified children.
Computer password found on the first or second try.
Fist fights that take place on top of trains
Pregnant woman in stalled elevator.
Destruction of the statue of liberty.
Person of color who can’t get a bank loan.
Stuffy businessmen infinitely willing to degrade themselves for money.
Loaf of french bread sticking out of a bag of groceries.
Man going into a bar and saying “gimme a beer” and the bartender hands
him one, apparently feeling no need to ask him what kind.
Old white person rapping/breakdancing/talking jive.
Really drunk character suddenly becoming sober.
Pages falling or being torn off a calendar to denote the passage of time.
Running to the airport to get the girl at the gate before she leaves
the country forever.
Protagonist is attacked by one or more people wielding machine guns.
He never gets hit but manages to pick off his foes one by one with
well aimed pistol shots.
Teacher keeping a hot student late after school
Tenant who can’t pay his or her rent.
Doctor who says he needs to give an attractive patient a “physical.”
Massage parlor.
Single tear running down a cheek.
Guy catching an attractive female burglar.
Girl waiting for a ride and a limo pulling up.
Car driving through a fruit stand really fast.
Man turning his back to another man, and then turning around and decking him.
Hero with a gun that never runs out of bullets.
Person always finding parking space right in front of where they’re going.
Post-apocalyptic scenario where only several people survive, set in
some unspecified desert.
Wise child, hobo, Negro, or wise child accompanied by a wise Negro hobo.
A super-hot white, or black, or Asian or Hispanic babe, who is not
only a law enforcement official with an expertise in forensic science,
but she also has a sassy “don’t take no shit” attitude.
Go-go-go success-obsessed businessman/woman who by chance meets
and eventually falls for the laid back daydreamer type, thus learning
that there’s
more to life than making money.
Naked whore dies.
A non-fatal gunshot wound to the shoulder.
A maverick cop teamed with a by-the-rules partner.
Significant message left on an answering machine.
Woman crouched in the shower crying and trying to scrub away the memory.
Man who ducks down into the NYC subway, boarding the train just as
doors are closing, at that same moment the pursuer spots him, but is
too late to stop him.

AND CAN WE PLEASE HAVE A MORITORIUM ON THE FOLLOWING SCENES:
Scene in which a spreading fireball fills a tunnel, a boy whistling
his dog to him, and the animal then leaping into a convenient doorway
with nanoseconds to spare.
Scene in which money is flung into another character’s face.
Scene in which the protagonist miraculously manages to knock out the
seemingly invulnerable psycho axe murderer out, Then, invariably, he
walks up to him to make sure that he’s knocked out, oinly he isn’t.
Scene in which a person’s leg is injured when being able to walk is of
the essence.
A hero’s death scene accompanied by eerie music.
A courtyard or public square filled with flying doves or pigeons.

AND CAN WE ALSO PLEASE RETIRE THE FOLLOWING DIALOGUE:
“There’s no time for that now! We’ve got to get you out of here!”
“Never mind that….”
“I might as well tell you everything, since you’ve got me dead to rights….”
“I might as well tell you everything, since there’s no way you’ll be
able to stop me….”

AND WHY IS IT THAT:
If there’s only one person who smokes, ninety-nine times out of 100,
they’re the villain. Eaters of red meat are also suspect.
When a disturbing dream forces a protagonist to gasp, he always sits
bolt upright in bed, and is instantly 100% awake.
Some creepy old local guy always issues a cryptic warning to the
doomed teenagers.
The busy dad never eats breakfast.
The kids always go right off to bed.
The shots of ‘the big city’ always include a rap or rock music soundtrack.
Everybody always says hello to the hero as he arrives at work.
Nobody says hello or goodbye during a phone call.
Previously operational automobiles fail to start at the worst possible moment.

23. HAPPYLAND: SUMMER DAYS AND SUMMER NIGHTS

I completely missed out on the Beach Boys.

At the time of their peak popularity, I didn’t much listen to the radio, and, when I did, i tended to favor, in my infantine fashion, folk music, show tunes, movie themes, and suchlike. In that way, my taste was similar to that of President John F. Kennedy.

Besides, my childhood was full of hidden hazards.

First and foremost was “The Boogie Man”.

My best friend Harold Bauer (pointing under a decrepit porch): Don’t go there.
Me: Why?
HB: That’s where the Boogie Man lives.

For another thing, you had to always watch what you said. In first
grade I got paddled by the nun for uttering the vile oath “Son of a
Sea Cook.”

You also had to watch what you did. If you had an open fly (and WHY
was it called a “fly”, anyway?) you would hear the mocking sing-song
refrain, “Kennywood’s open!” [Kennywood was the local amusement
park.].

You had to make constant decisions which were matters, of not of life
and death, the at the very least of a pain-free vs. a pain-filled
existence. For instance, you had to learn to shun the following
paradoxical question: “Yes is no and no is yes. Do you want me to hit
you?”

Then there was the highly charged and extremely emotional game of “Gestapo”:

“Gestapo” officer: Vat iss your name?
Me: Frank….
“Gestapo” officer (smacking me in the face): YOU LIE!!

And various other games in which your foot would be stepped on:
Bully: “Say ‘Captain'”.
Me: “Captain”.
Bully (stomping on my foot): “CRUNCH!!”

Bully: “Say ‘Postage'”.
Me: “Postage”.
Bully (stomping on my foot): “STAMP!!”

Bully: “Want a Hertz Donut?”
Me: “Sure!”
Said bully then punches me in the arm and says “Hurts, don’t it?”

If you were a boy you soon learned not to broadcast the fact that it
was your birthday, because of Birthday Punches administered in the
amount of your age by every other boy in the class, the last such
punch invariably being the hardest, followed by “one for luck” (or
“One to grow on”) and sometimes “two for flinching.”

In Sixth grade gym class:
One time in gym a kid hit me in the head with a basketball. “What’d
you do that for?” bellowed the coach. “I couldn’t miss it,” said the
kid. Laughter ensued.

Finally, by the time you started going to shop class in the seventh
grade, you’d start to meet some really dangerous kids. And if you used
the snappy comeback on a wrongo, your wheel would most assuredly be
greased, ala:

Putcho: “What are YOU looking at?”
Me (unwisely): “I don’t know–I haven’t figured out yet!
[Violence and concomitant grievous bodily injury ensues.]

But during the summer our days and nights were also filled with
childish taunts, pranks, tricks and fiendish games.

“What do you want–a medal? Or a chest to pin it on?”

“There’s your girlfriend!”
“No, she’s YOUR girlfriend!”
“No, she’s your girlfriend!”

“You know what?”
“What?”
“That’s What”.

and

“Made you look, made you look, made you buy a quarter book.”

and the even more inexplicable:

“Tattle tales hang on pig tales.”

The all-purpose retort:
“I’m rubber, you’re glue. Whatever you say bounces off me and sticks
right to you.”

or

“Sticks and stones may break your bones but names will never hurt me.”
(Trouble is, in my neighborhood, this was seen as an invitation to
come after me with a big stick.)

or

“Last time I heard that one I fell off my dinosaur and broke my stone
underwear!

And it seemes as though whenever I tried to do anything mischievous at
all, there would be my little sister to say, in a scandalized voice,
“Ooooooh! I’m TELLIN’!” To which I would say “What are
ya…scaaaaared?” To which she would reply, “Nuh-uuuuh! Mom said!” To
which I would reply, “Shut up.” To which she would say, “I don’t shut
up, I grow up and when I look at you, I throw up.”

Usque ad nauseam ad infinitum.

Then there were the arguments over anything at all:
“I know you are but what am I?”

and

Oh yeah? Make me!
To which the proper reply was, “I don’t MAKE trash, I BURN it.”

And the optional response:
Yeah, well God made me and God don’t make trash!

Girls would play skipping games:

Cinderella met a fella…

A sailor went to sea-sea-sea…

Number one took the cookies from the cookie jar…

Boys would play tag games all night, notably one with the imaginative
name of “It-tag.” When playing “Prisoner’s base” (which we called
“Base”),
when the game was over, some kids would say “Olly, olly in come free!”
or even “Olly Olly Ox in free.”
Our version was “Olly Olly in free.”

When I was eight I remember how on summer nights we would also just
sit around under the streetlamps as late as ten p.m. and simply talk.
On such occasions we would occasionall indulge in choosing games. One
such had a peculiar rhyme which went as follows:

Three six nine
The goose drank wine
The monkey chewed tobacco on the railroad line
The line broke
The monkey got choked
[Final line recited in a lilting voice:]
And they all went to heaven in a little row-boat.

On my dying day I will surely be looking up to the sky and if I pass
away with a smile on my lips you will know for sure that the last
thing I saw on this earth was “a little rowboat.”