MODERN WISDOM: AMERICA’S ONLY HUMOR MAGAZINE NUMBER 181 NOVEMBER 2013

MODERN WISDOM: AMERICA’S ONLY HUMOR MAGAZINE
NUMBER 181
NOVEMBER  2013
Copyright 2013 Francis DiMenno
http://dimenno.gather.com
dimenno@gmail.com

AND NOW…MODERN WISDOM PRESENTS:

1. PRIVATE INTELLECTUAL
2. BREED ON WASTE
3. CITY OF NO FLIES
4. HEAVEM
5. LAZY PITYTOWN
6. FOOLISH MEN, FOOLISH WOMEN
7. FANTASY HILL
8. DOES BERESHIT IN THE WOODS?
9. MONTY MOOLAH
10. JUNKIE DETECTIVE
11. BROTHER FOR A DAY
12. FOR SOME REASON
13. THE MARX
14. ARISTOCRAT FREAK
15. RAINBOW PAYOLA
16. HITLERMAN
17. ENCHIRODON GO AWAY (I’M NO GOOD FOR YOU)
18. DULSANE & MADBRIGHT
19. KAN-YA-MAN-KAN
20. SCHIZO KILLER

21. NOIR MISFORTUNE COOKIES: ELEVENTH SERIES

1001. It’s your moment in the sun–and you’ll get burned.
1002. You act as if there’s no tomorrow–and there isn’t.
1003. You’ll stake your life on it–and you’ll lose that bet.
1004. They’ll lock up the key–and throw you away.
1005. You are a gold mine of information–Fool’s Gold.
1006. You can’t put your finger on it–They broke them all.
1007. You can’t win them all–but you can lose them all.
1008. It’s too late to keep a civil tongue in YOUR head.
1009. They’ll roll out a red carpet–soaked in your blood.
1010. Two heads are better than one–except in your satchel.
1011. Very soon you’ll literally be tickled to death.
1012. The cat’s got your tongue–and very soon, the rest of you.
1013. A chip on your shoulder–a monkey on your back.
1014. Your American Dream is now three hots and a cot.
1015. They have crossed out your name in the family Bible.
1016. You are old and in the way–but not for long.
1017. You have nothing to lose–you are already half dead.
1018. If you weren’t perpetually angry you’d feel nothing at all.
1019. It’s a long way to be happy–you haven’t even started.
1020. The suspense isn’t the only thing that’s killing you.
1021. You will be killed on the very day the conflict ends.
1022. They won’t even put pennies on your cold dead eyes.
1023. Very few know your pain and fewer still would even care.
1024. They’ll arrest you from stealing pennies from a public fountain.
1025. The policeman decides he must seriously chastise you.
1026. Your body is willing, but your mind is in the way.
1027. She’s a two-timing tramp; you’re the last one to know.
1028. Even in the quietest moments they are plotting your downfall.
1029. They will stick a fork in you until you’re completely done.
1030. Poker face? Not for long. They’re warming up a hot poker.
1031. You are anything but family friendly.
1032. You proudly bear the flag of hectic mania.
1033. Your enemy is everywhere at once, for it is anyone.
1034. You brag about yourself as though you matter. You don’t.
1035. You have yet to realize the world is cold and harsh.
1036. You’re curiously blind to the duplicity of your “benefactors”.
1037. You are a hopeless dust mite swept up in The Process.
1038. Your comforting illusions will be serially destroyed.
1039. Excuses? The Big Boss has no time for excuses.
1040. It won’t do any good, but pray. Pray as hard as you can.
1041. You’re like fat-free cream–thick, but not rich.
1042. Your low motives are exceeded by your nonexistent morals.
1043. You may worship God–but He doesn’t much like you.
1044. You got it backwards–the Boss asks the questions. You listen.
1045. The old folks say that you were Born to Hang.
1046. The odds have already beaten you–a long time ago.
1047. The Universe teems with life which plots your demise.
1048. Normal people wish you’d get out of their way.
1049. You have a real knack for making people nervous.
1050. People like you only survive by pretending to be stupid.
1051. Idiots have loud voices–yours is the loudest of all.
1052. It’s you against the world; you’re punching above your weight.
1053. The Wheel of Life is ready to crush you flat.
1054. The Devil says he’s a big fan of your recent work.
1055. You’re too dumb to grift and too weak for the Heavy Rackets.
1056. Where is Riddle? Who is Ransom? The world may never know.
1057. You’re down to nothing… and you deserve even less.
1058. Everywhere you go you spread a contagious psychosis.
1059. You’re a hit and run victim–only you ran over yourself.
1060. You will become an unsuccessful beggar in a Mexican border town.
1061. Comeback? First minute of Round One your chin will kiss the mat.
1062. Your friends are wild animals who will devour you. Run!
1063. Even the mosquitoes are repelled by your funky aroma.
1064. You’re guilty as hell. It’s written all over your face. Literally.
1065. You’ve been blacklisted, Chump. Better light out for the Territory.
1066. No medicine will cure the bite of that two-timing dame.
1067. All your High School friends know where you are–in jail.
1068. Do nothing, be nothing, and get it over with.
1069. You are well known for throwing gasoline onto fires. Literally.
1070. You will find neither Fame nor Fortune, but Famine.
1071. You love the spotlight because you fear your own shadow.
1072. Secretary? Lookee–no touchee. She belongs to the Big Man.
1073. Jealousy, greed and lust–and those are your good qualities.
1074. Inspiring your every action is a dead man’s soul.
1075. You will drown in a river of your own tears.
1076. You’ll go to sleep dreaming and wake up screaming.
1077. Stay, Go–All the same. Nothing matters. No way out.
1078. You’ll only find yourself at the moment of your death.
1079. You have thrown your life into a soundless well.
1080. You are an animal. And you know what they do to animals.
1081. You weren’t made for these times–or for any others.
1082. Your mind’s an empty vessel on a dying sea.
1083. Stop your blubbering, Lard–they will have absolutely no mercy.
1084. She thought you were a man–you are only a boy.
1085. It’s no wonder you love money, for you have none.
1086. You will deeply offend a man who has frightening tattoos.
1087. Even the Devil doesn’t want a soul like yours.
1088. You’re not a man for all seasons but for all treasons.
1089. Some animals actually live quite well–until the axe falls.
1090. Only one man could exonerate you–and you killed him.
1091. You don’t give a damn–and now you are damned.
1092. You live in the House of Murder–rent is overdue.
1093. Everyone knows that all of your motives are wicked.
1094. You’ll live on canned spaghetti and Muscatel in a welfare hotel.
1095. Not one of your grandiose schemes will ever bear fruit.
1096. She’ll treat you to dinner then announce she’s dumping you.
1097. You think you’re insanely talented. You got the first part right.
1098. Love’s hard to come by; hatred’s two for a penny.
1099. Nobody’ll look you in the eye–not even the one good one.
1100. It’s your life. Dive in. There’s no bottom.

22. PREJUDICES

People say to me, “You’re not very masculine.” And I say to them,
“Oh, behave–you great big burly man!”

Q:There’s a Black History Month–why isn’t there a White History
Month? A: EVERY month is White History Month.

There’s no business like show business. True. And there’s
also no shower like a golden shower–and for much the same reasons.

Misery for bachelors. Isn’t that the unspoken meaning of “fun for
the whole family”?

Men are good at fixing things. They can fix anything. Except the
broken hearts of their women.

Why do they call me “Sergeant”? Perhaps…because I wear a flea collar.

Back in the Good Old Days the Army was just College for drunks.

Only women have a “soulmate”. Maybe because only women have souls.

I once had a parrot that spoke 70 languages. Unfortunately, all of
them sounded like “AAAWWRK!”

Tell me: What must I do to get some respect around here? Beg on my
knees like an animal?

For my part, I wish gigantism would itself get gigantism, so we
could have giant giants, instead of the boring regular giants that
we’ve all gotten sick of.

I don’t learn slowly but surely. I learn showily but surly.

23. BUMPER STICKERS FOR THE VERY RICH
L’Etat, C’Est Moi
Bumper Stickers Are Vulgar
I Really Don’t Give a Damn About Impressing Others
Bonesmen Rule OK
Ask Me About My Inconspicuous Status Displays
My Son Is a Mediocre Student at an Exclusive Private College
Trustafarians Make Better Lovers
My Trophy Wife Yes, My Swiss Chalet, Maybe, My Club, Never
Life Begins at 40…Million
This Car Has Been to Bohemian Grove
My Other Car is a Cessna 180
Money Bores Me
Ask Me About My Market-Neutral Arbitrage Funds
I Brake for Plutocrats
I Love My Lowchen
Power Doesn’t Impress Me
I Support the Brookings Institute
Honk If You Love Non-Morganatic Dynasties
Lyford Cay Is For Lovers
Warning: Please Do Not Try to Wrangle an Invite to Our Family Estate
Speak Softly and Carry a Big Portfolio
We Rule OK

24. FIFTEEN HYBRID NOVELS
1) A Town Like Alice In Wonderland
2) War and Prejudice
3) Cold Comfort Bible
4) A Bridget Jones Christmas Carol
5) The Five People You Meet in Moby Dick
6) Lolita the Obscure
7) Brave New Swallows
Hamlet the Little Prince
9) Nineteen Eighty-Four On the Road
10) Charlie and the Wasp Factory
11) Lord of the Madding Crowd
12) The Wind in the Miserables
13) Gump Quixote
14) The Magnificent Wind

15) HUCKLEBERRY FINNEGAN’S WAKE

Riverrun past Pap’s and N. Jim’s leads us via
circumlocutious locutions to Aunt Polly’s house.

Agog and come to the raft Huck Honey and get a tree
and was smash, and how bank to unfurl and down that
happened, and what sign when they’re all over the
river; but it is how it is; I won’t be romanticipating
of generoused to be the cold chickest west of the
morning, and then I run off from Pap and they
mistooken me for a murder victim and they said I died
o’er in that cabin and the judge says “Well, I
reckoned so the whole time.” “Oh, go for a light.” I
said, moral: in for a dough, in for a dolour, and said
his head hanging, Jim, he said he thought I was fit
“for a pine box.”

The Mississippi wigwams floated and flecked backward
and I took all the riverroad’s lines, evening as it
turned was as much for us as it was in say, Erie. And
so we lazed. I could shoot my rifle and the bees wouldn’t
know I singed them and that was mighty smart. We just
floated that way for weeks; and hunted this and the
the other and could we be any more free yet, with the
days rolling by after a lot and by and by, I was about to
look out of that old me for the source of my
sourcelossness. But it–as any a tiny steamboat as ever was–
capsized us in the night was almost the final night of
our girth for we was starving. First daylight burrowed.
There was a house and a man all gashly and there, that
was a body, else, a littersomeness. I thought about
what happened up I spoke Jim was all mysterious and
said “Shet de eye; a log hut is all this is wuth.”

I said “Jim, that king and that duke is snakes, don’t
you think? That’s their majesty.” “No,” says Jim,
“don’t, don’t, be careful, dere’s country jakes you
got about here who I want to not see me for
another day.”

Somebody sold Jim out our own humbug royalty and
letting him get sold and telling them to tell me why
was to get from them the old line, “What we done we
done it for yousterity.”

“Yes, so he didn’t never do me no wrong” and yet I went
away saying “I want my nigger,” being Tame about it.

They was the tarnation and so I took in the country
when and as I could. I would swell with words about
all the murdered around me earthside out it froze me
and by and by a rifle patron rings out but I couldn’t
hold a candle to it, wouldn’t be Senegal, in the dark,
and sunrise by certain would bring the dogs, and old man Mose,
and about them a strangersomeness like where they told
you “We don’t know you and there’s no place for you.”

I plugged along and saw they had swung a limb right
over the tree and I paddled off all pale all hanging
by the rope was dead and it was off Jim said he wanted
to go to Ohio, and yet now I was in the thick of
murder; I remembered that; I remembered the house on
the river and the cellar. So I found Jim and he asked
for help and I told him Uncle Silas was coming he may
be iron-jawed but maybe there’s a heart in the salty
old bird.

So soft and they’re talking away she warn’t sure if I
was Tom or Sid. So I laid that still, and Tom says: “I
know by the way you care about that nigger
that you don’t have fun with one
you’ll have fun with nether;” and the thing I was
going to do there the chained one; I know there would
be a reckoning they done it on the reckon I didn’t
know why. I asked.

“Why, what wreck? About that will be to show my oldest
my plan that third time, and Mr. Wilks’ broke, and I
knowd Jim was done eatin’ supper and Mars Tom, and he
drooped down on the Oconee exaggery every time and I
bet he was going to come to harm in it. “

Who’s the runaway in Miss Watson’s way my gunshot wound that
made up another mark if it’s being pain not so much,
and I want it? What’s done easy’s not worth to do, and
snother smother thing to sing out to explain the house wreck
reckon the reckon’s in the awning this mawning and I had a notion
agin a motion, and Jim grabbed me take me free
I says there might be millions, why can’t I see
what I came to see because you see. I didn’t.
“You fetch yourself away Marse Huck
one day some one will come one with rats to
say about dat wreck.” I forgot about a soft bed
but if it ain’t the river it ain’t got all the excesses and I
warn’t knowing what to make of it. Well, Ben Rogers,
and like them,is used to it but when I was out in
the thick of it, why it warn’t no time at all I forgot
what I was about and set to shouting, and
crashing every which way and I knowd I was
pretty poor about taking my ease and acting sivilized
so away I got westward ho so after that I was in the
light away alone alas as

25. ON INFLUENCE

If popular opinion you seek to move:
Assert as true the very thing you seek to prove.

26. FACEBOOK FORM REBUTTAL LETTER
Dear Fucky McFuck:

Your accusations are A WHOLE HEAP OF MISCHIEVOUS NONSENSE. Your behavior is TEXTBOOK EMO. I think a DOG, a CAT–even a RAT could’st do a better job of writing than you. My advice: Put down your copy of Maxim and actually pretend to write something that makes sense. I’m sorry if I don’t write in SHORT, DECLARATIVE, ONE-SENTENCE PARAGRAPHS so you can read this without moving your lips. Not to be unkind, but you are slower than a MONKEY ON DOPE. And trying to stop you when you’re on one of your tirades is like THROWING PEBBLES AT A CHARGING RHINOCEROS. I understand that your comprehension of the English language is, at best, SHALLOW and, as a result, you are FULL OF ATTITUDE. This does not mean that you are therefore entitled to behave like the GENGHIS KHAN OF THE INTERNET. Some may be inclined to humor your WRETCHED BLUBBERING. Personally, I believe you to be A MISERABLE SPECIMEN OF WRECKED HUMANITY. Your HOOLIGAN REPRESENTATIONS, IRRESPONSIBLE FABRICATIONS, and DELICIOUSLY INFANTILE FANTASIES OF DESTRUCTION reveal you to be a HOPEFUL and PERPETUALLY THIRSTY ALCOHOLIC who probably treasures up a bottle of Harvey’s Bristol Cream and hides it in the file cabinet under D for Drinky-Poo. I, for one, am not one to indulge in COARSE JOLLITY WITH TERRIFIED TOADIES. However, I shall fight your idiocy UNTIL MY HEART EXPLODES.

Very sincerely,

27. THE NEW ADVENTURES OF DEATHIE

Death, or “Deathie” to his friends is the funniest thing going. It’s
the ultimate banana peel on the road to all your foolish good
intentions. Only think–you spent your whole life doing good and
helping others and learning new stuff and providing warm, loving
caring mentoring relationships and rescuing sick dogs from the animal
rescue league and patting furry bunnies and eating a sensible diet and
staying out of smoke-filled rooms and yet, no matter how good and kind
you’ve been, death comes, and not only that, death is not kind…oh,
no, my friend, death is not kind. Death is nothing at all. And you are
nothing. And that’s all there is! Haw! Everytime I watch an old movie
and see a dog I say to my wife, see that dog? That dog’s dead now. And
then we’re both sad for a minute. And then we fuck. But it still
doesn’t change to fact that THE DOG IS DEAD!!! Or perhaps we change
the channel to PBS and watch a ballet. See that dancer? Pretty
ballerina, right? GUESS WHAT!!!! SHE’S DEAD NOW! GAW HAW HAW!!!

Death is funny. Everything about it is a barrel of laughs. I wish more
people could see that. Like, what’s with the maggots that feast on
your putrifying flesh when you’re supposedly “at rest” in your coffin?
“At rest”, ah hah hah, that’s a good one. Yeah, I always take a quick
40 winks and wake up refreshed ONLY TO DISCOVER MAGGOTS ARE OOZING OUT OF MY JELLIED EYE SOCKETS! AAARGH! GET EM OFF! GET EM OFF!

Hey, and another thing that bothers me about death is the organ
harvesting–I don’t mind donating my fingers for science or
whatchamacallit, but why should I give up my pristine liver and
kidneys for some blotchy-skinned coma bum who boozed it up for 40
years and now expects my poor body parts to carry his saggy-ass weight for
another 20 years of whoop-de-doo. WHY CAN’T I DECIDE WHO GETS MY
ORGANS?? And for that matter, I WANT THE MONEY UP FRONT, SCHMUCKO!!

(This one’s for my Scottish friends.) Oi! …and another thing about
death that’s got my goat–anaerobic microbes! I say that if the wee
daft fuckers don’t have the courage to attack me when I’m in a
position to fend them off, they ought to have the bollocks not to
fester in my guts after I’ve croaked and it’s no go the white blood
cell count. Cor!

Oh, death, where is they sting? or grave thy victory? Isn’t it funny
that our bodies are 70 per cent water and yet we’re afraid to get wet?
And isn’t it downright hilarious that death is all around us and yet
we’re afraid of the one thing which is powerless against us once it
has finally claimed us and we go back to where we came from, free at
last?

Thank you. You’ve been wonderful.

28. 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 #757 NOVEMBER 8, 2013

THE INFORMATION
#757 NOVEMBER 8, 2013
Copyright 2013 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com

https://dimenno.wordpress.com

Whip it on me, Jim.–Lou Reed

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE

BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER EIGHT: PART SEVENTEEN: THE FALL
For all his shifty habits–and bad attitude–and fawning and cringing to men of power–and his treating with the greatest of scorn men in need who fell within his ambit, Cool Slopp did have one weakness–and that was his dog, little Eamonn. He was a small mongrel, mostly black but with white markings around his muzzle and eyes which made him slightly resemble a grizzled old man. Eamonn looked like a chow or possibly a Pomeranian though after all these years I couldn’t say for sure. Slopp also called him “Circus Boy,” for the little dog was well versed in standing on his hind legs and frantically waving his grey and white paws for treats. He had a perpetually shocked look, though that was only the effect of having his fine black fur brushed out daily until it sleekly shone. Eamonn, he was a brave as a little lion, him, with a great soul and more than a bit of mischief–allus barkin’ up a storm at hungry footsore tramps and dejected toothless vagabonds forced by the extremity of their need to pawn their coats and sometimes even their pantaloons and shoes. Slopp would allus chuck the yapping creature beneath the chin to quieten him lest the wild little beast emit displeasing noises in the presence of local eminentos, but he would never otherwise correct the dog or even command him to be still. Many’s the day and night time I would pass, running errands for Cool Slopp, or simply sloping about his pawnshop all idlesome, and I could always hear him extol the virtues of the little animal to anyone as would listen. “That ar’s a brave little soldier for his size. If he was full-grown he’s be a terror sure,” said Cool Slopp, who was always well-chuffed when the subject turned to Eamonn. “He’s worth his weight in diamonds, is this ‘un,” Slopp would say, “And he kin tell a wrong ‘un from a furlong off.”

The surest way to get into Slopp’s good graces–or such good graces as Cool Slopp ever showed–was to compliment his dog; strangely enough, those who criticized the animal were not dismissed out of hand but treated instead to a haranguing argument which Slopp, greatly offended, would deliver as an encomium on behalf of the little mite.

One rainy day Old Uglyface Smash Conklin barged in to Slopp Brokers to pawn some ill-gotten swag, and, noticing that the dog was barking his fool head off, growled an ugly remark along the lines of him wishing someone would throttle that little mucker, though mucker wasn’t the word he used.

When it came to defending Eamonn, Cool Slopp warn’t in the least bit afeared of Smash Conklin, as scarred and terrifying as he could be. While I quickly hid behind a handy piece of clock furniture, the two of them went hammer and tongs for what seemed in my quaking anxiety to be long hours.

Shut your Gob, Conklin. If ye weren’t such a Doney, ye’d ken that thisyer dog is the finest heart that ever walked on four legs.

Listen, Slopp. That brute is a common nuisance and I hope the dirty little egg-sucker chokes on his own black tongue.

Sure and it’s not Eamonn as has a black tongue and a black heart–and even if he did he is as true as no man ever was. Unlike some Yellofs I could spiel of, the little Boliver only makes his presence known when he has summat to say. He is nae a dorc ner ary a twerp.

I could see from where I was roosted behind the grandfather clock that Conklin took that last comment with ill grace, considering how Slopp had just implied that he was both a dwarf and a spineless worm. But Conklin surely knew that any display of violent temper would mean he  had lost the argument, and so he continued to criticize the little dog, who by now was standing–nine pounds he was, soaking wet, and not much bigger than Conklin’s beefy palm–and staring at Conklin with his lively black eyes and slowly growling in a sort of groaning crescendo and one time letting loose with a little yip when Slopp fondly tugged on his black and bristly little chin just a trifle too hard.

Listen, Slopp. That ‘ar dog drives away yer business. Many’s a stewbum there be as don’t take none too kindly to being badgered by a dirty little mungrul. If I had my bruthers, I’d lick the sturdy little beggar ’til he learned how to behave in the company of white folks.

You touch a hair on ‘at dog at your own peril, Conklin. He’s worth ten of ye.

Why you old thief, said Conklin, well ye might admire a filthy little beastie when you yourself make your livin off’n the slum and muck of the poor.

At this sally, Eamonn, who was standing on the counter of the pawn shop, at about chest-level, let out a bark and bared his teeth at Conklin.
Well, Conklin, sure and even the dog knows better than to associate with the likes of you, and isn’t it time p’haps I should follow his fine example?

Small wonder ye should admire the little beggar when ye live on the slops of beggars yer own self.

Ye Lallygag, look at ye, ye fancy yerself a fine swell with your roistering and your shindigs and your low finagling, but it’s a sorry end ye’ll becoming to, and soon enow.

You with your greedy puss as would be enough to gag a maggot–small wonder then that yer only friend on the green earth is a sorry little yapper.

And you, with your scamming tongue and your fine flummery, or so ye think, when all about ye ken ye be as dumb as an ox and as stubborn as an ass and ye smell not half so good.

I’ll not be taking lessons on how to comport myself from a mingy faker such as yourself, Slopp. If ye ever had a decent thought in your bald noggin it was druve out by the clink of yaller boys wrung from the sweat and blood of the working man.

Ho! You’re a Yekkman yer own self and a fine one to talk of work, you who never stood in one place except as a lag for the county for thirty dollars or thirty days in stir. It’s well known that ye gedder up yer traps the first of every month and every flophouse in town has given ye the eighty-six. I hear ye live as do the lilies of the field, or otherwise ye make shift in the back room of the Seven Stars with the pissbums and all the other misbegotten wretches. They might call ye Slugger as ye got a Sunday Punch with a lot of Giniker, but when ye bruise yer liver and yer hair turns white ye’ll nae mair be a rabbit–ye’ll be nought but a poor cull, and it will be the workhouse for ye, me fine Loogin.

Sure and if it takes a heap of phony palaver to swindle a sucker out of his dyin’ mammy’s wedding ring and other knick-knacks then you be boss con, but if them is brains then I’ll take vanilla.

At that point, little Eamonn, who had been glowering and softly growling the whole while, leapt from the counter onto Cool Slopp’s stool and from there to a nearby box and onto the floor. He skittered around the counter and ran at Conklin, furiously barking. Conklin squatted on his haunches, prior to swatting the beastie, and it was then that Cool Slopp delivered unto the back of the noggin of Smash Conklin a brawny swat with a handy fireplace poker.

Smash was out cold. I helped Slopp drag his meaty near-corpse out back to a nearby alley, then sprinted for home as fast as my trenbling legs would carry me as Slopp calmly locked and shuttered his establishment. Later I heard that Slopp kept his pawnshop closed for a few days until the heat died down. My guess is that Conklin never really knew what hit him, but I noticed that he kept himself scarce from Slopp’s establishment in the weeks that followed.

Guess you can call this the story of a b’hoy and his dorg, and such a dorg as never was–and never will be again as long as grass grows and squirrels gather nuts in the golden October! 
http://www.thenoiseboard.com/index.php?showtopic=218311&st=50

1*SALUTATION 

UP WITH PEOPLE!

http://vimeo.com/54686246

2*REFERENCE 

OF MICE AND MOOD: ANIMATION’S HISTORY THROUGH A SOCIONOMIC LENS

http://www.npr.org/2013/10/28/240822565/botched-investigation-fuels-kennedy-conspiracy-theories?utm_content=socialflow&utm_campaign=nprfacebook&utm_source=npr&utm_medium=facebook

3*HUMOR

COMPOSER INSULTS

http://www.classicfm.com/discover/music/composer-insults/

4*NOVELTY

NIGHT OF THE BLOOD MONSTER

http://horror.about.com/od/horrortoppicklists/ig/Worst-Horror-Posters/NightBloodMonster.htm

ALSO SEE:

WORST HORROR MOVIE POSTERS

http://horror.about.com/od/horrortoppicklists/ig/Worst-Horror-Posters/

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST

Top Reviewers On Amazon Get Tons Of Free Stuff

http://www.npr.org/blogs/money/2013/10/29/241372607/top-reviewers-on-amazon-get-tons-of-free-stuff?utm_content=socialflow&utm_campaign=nprfacebook&utm_source=npr&utm_medium=facebook

6* DAILY UTILITY

BAKED MACARONI & CHEESE WITH SAUSAGE & TOMATO
http://www.yankeemagazine.com/new-england-traditions/baked-macaroni-and-cheese-with-sausage-and-tomato

7*CARTOON

HAROLD TEEN

http://www.barnaclepress.com/comics/Harold%20Teen/

8*PRESCRIPTION

FOR LOVERS OF MYSTERIES

http://www.stopyourekillingme.com/

 9*RUMOR PATROL

KENNEDY ASSASSINATION ROUNDUP

http://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/a-roundup-of-new-books-on-john-f-kennedy/2013/10/25/c40875f0-1a32-11e3-82ef-a059e54c49d0_story.html

ALSO SEE:

http://www.npr.org/2013/10/28/240822565/botched-investigation-fuels-kennedy-conspiracy-theories?utm_content=socialflow&utm_campaign=nprfacebook&utm_source=npr&utm_medium=facebook

10* LAGNIAPPE

STATCOUNTER

http://statcounter.com/

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

THE INTERNET
Caution: I do not have prophetic insight for I rely solely on received opinion.

But it sure seems to me as though what we mostly have here on the internet is a squalid procession of vain fools and apocalyptic dipsomaniacs.

All standing on a spinning nut-ball soapbox.

With thoughts channeled through lard.

And a stupefied enthusiasm for bogus pulp ephemera.

And with all of them promoting their own brand of principled, ideological vulgarity–which one might liken to reaching out to one’s fellow man, but using a 30-ought-six for reaching out.

I apologize in advance for any incoherence in attempting to describe this beast, but the fantastical narratives of internet message boards are many, and on any given day one might find falsified stories told by the online equivalent of police characters, wretched tramps, gurning bag ladies, and wonderful gargoyles, and all amid a network of ideological cadres and necrotizing fascismus.

Furthermore, one will also find people who see God in an eggplant, tragic tales of hapless Whiteys growing up hard on Cannibal Island, and stories about bars where the booze is spiked with ether before your eyes. Above all it is a land in which the totemic worship of virility symbols and commodity-based oligarchy is practiced…incessantly.

The internet is a saturnalia of free speech. It is a place for frenzied advocates of odd ideas, excruciatingly tedious restatement of the obvious, prophets looking backwards, depressing girl talk, self-aggrandizing guy talk, solipsistic pronouncements, and, on very rare occasions only, highly idiosyncratic excellences.

But on the whole: to know everything is to do nothing. To know nothing is to be capable of anything. We now have the means to say whatever we want, to whomever we want, whenever we want. Only we have no assurance whatsoever that anyone at all is listening.

*11A BOOKS READ AND REVIEWED

ALL THE SONGS. MARGOTIN & GUESDON. ***1/2

BUTTER MY BUTT & CALL ME A BISCUIT. ZULLO & CHEEK. ***

THE CASTLE. KAFKA & JAROMIR 99. ****

CIA ROGUES AND THE KILLING OF THE KENNEDYS. NOLAN. ***1/2

DALLAS 1963. MINUTAGLIO & DAVIS. ****

FRAN. WOODRING. ****

FURIOUS COOL. HENRY & HENRY. ****

THE GODFATHER. PUZO. ***

GREAT AMERICAN BILLBOARDS. BOSTEN. ****

INSIDE MAD. ***1/2

THE JOLLITY BUILDING. LIEBLING. ****

THE MAN WHO KILLED KENNEDY. STONE. ***

THE MAYOR OF MCDOUGALL STREET. VAN RONK. ****

PROFOUNDLY DISTURBING. BRIGGS. ****

A RAGE TO LIVE. O’HARA. ****

SILENCE OF THE LAMBS. HARRIS. ***

TEN BILLION. EMMOTT. ****1/2

THEY KILLED OUR PRESIDENT. VENTURA. ***

WEIRD THINGS CUSTOMERS SAY IN BOOKSTORES. CAMPBELL. ****

WHAT’S YOUR POISON? BLOUNT. ***

YOU’RE THE BUTTER ON MY BISCUIT. ***

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE. 715.

THE VELVET UNDERGROUND: A COLLOQUIUM
LWM: It only took forty years, but finally the Velvet Underground is getting some attention. Who better than media juggernaut WMBR to help high-profile rock scribe Richie Unterberger put this unfairly-neglected band on the map?

FSAD: I hear ya. Lou Reed has toiled in obscurity for too long. His is the most tragic story in all of Rock and Roll. It’s high time “the man” finally got some recognition.
http://www.ta-psychotherapy.co.uk/strokes.htm

LWM: Indeed. Self-effacing to a fault, Reed has never sought recognition for his efforts. The honest love of making music with like-minded musicians has always been his stated goal.

FSAD: This honorable man, who challenged the hypocrisy of the “fun-fun-fun” Beach Boys generation with his brutally honest and candid and frank songs about the seamy “underside” of the New York “scene”, was a brave pioneer who ALWAYS told THE TRUTH with never a thought of monetary gain. Never slow to give credit to his sidemen, he was a type of Jewish “Saint”.

LWM: Reed sang about the harsh realities of hopeless poverty in late-60’s New York, about having to scrape by on guts and dreams before running back to your dad’s accounting firm.

Then twenty years later he sang about the harsh realities of New York as seen from a cushy penthouse.

But an honest cushy penthouse.

FSAD: A penthouse with integrity, damnit!

Listen, fuckers–Lou Reed didn’t take any “shit” from “The Man”.

He walked it like he talked it!

Ask Delmore Schwartz!

That’s right–DELMORE SCHWARTZ!!!!!!!!!!!

WHAT CAN YOU SAY ABOUT THIS MAN FUCKERS HE IS THE FRANK SINATRA OF PUNK I THINK HE IS A GENIUS BECAUSE HE IS BOTH A POET AND A MAN OF THE STREETS AND ANY MAN WHO WANTS TO GET TO LOU WILL HAVE TO GO THROUGH ME FUCKER AND THAT MEANS YOU, CHRISTGAU, YOU TOEFUCKER. SHUT UP SHUT UP CONEY ISLAND BABY IS A MASTERPIECE– “I WANT TO PLAY FOOTBALL FOR THE COACH”–BRILLIANT!

They are towering legends.

The Beatles of their day.

Never mind that they and the Beatles shared the same time period.

Shut Up.

The Beatles aren’t fit to lick their Cuban boots.

Lou Reed’s first album is a masterpiece.

So what if he recorded with Yes.

And even his demo recordings like Do the Ostrich are far better than anything on Revolver.

And I must also use Heroin because Lou said to.

And I will wear black leather jackerts and be down with the people.

Berlin is a masterpiece I tell you.

Never mind what people say, how it’s depressing.

What do “Norms” like them know?

And nobody has ever recoded a better album than The Bells.

Don Cherry isn’t fit to breathe his air.

And I will tell you even though some people say his voice sounds like a dusthead’s dying croak do tyou know what I hear?

I hear nothing but street cred.

I tell you the man is a towering legend.

And anyone who says different knows NOTHING.

Hey, hey, hey
Give it to us, baby, now, yeah
There goes my chest, groovy on my
best, baby, hey, yeah

BRILLIANT!!!!!

JTP: I approached Lou Reed on the street in NYC and asked about that song and he gave me a twinkly grin and slapped me on the shoulder as he told me the very amusing story of how he came to write it and then offered to buy me a coffee but I had to go to work and when I got home that night I found a bouquet of roses with a nice note from Lou telling me how much he appreciates getting critical feedback from his fans.

Super approachable down-to-earth guy.

LWM: I’ve heard this heartwarming story told by a hundred different Lou Reed fans (or “Lounatics” as he good-naturedly refers to them on his blog). What a sweetheart of a guy.

JTP: You betcha. Each year, his Christmas card encapsulates the season’s good cheer in a manner that’s brave enough to face unblinking the brutal urban landscape while employing delectable ironic distancing that shows us what it really means to be human, plus Laurie Anderson sends a muffin basket.

And that’s just one of the many, many things that makes Lou a cuddlebear beyond compare.

[By the way], Much like the Grateful Dead, the Velvet Underground was steeped in the American country folk tradition.

FSAD: There are a lot of eerie parallels between the Velvet Underground and the Grateful Dead.

Uncanny coincidences abound!

Lou pretended to use Heroin but he was actually a speedfreak.

Jerry pretended to be Captain Trips but was actually into Duji.

Also:

Doug Yule was burned by Lou Reed.

The Yule log is burned every Christmas.

Also:

Logos is Greek for “word”.

Lou Reed wrote words for The Velvet Underground.

Incidentally, Jerry Garcia pointed all this out to me.

While nodding off.

By the way, The Dead considered recording “Sister Ray” but Pigpen objected to the the lyrics “suckin’ on mah ding-dong”.

JTP: He was far too proud ever to hit it sideways.

???: Seriously though–even though the so-called “sophistos” make the mock Lou because he his managed to “kick the monkey” and knows he what it’s like to be “hard and out” and he went to the college of the knocks and he will always give hundred dollar bill to hungry moocher and is poor man’s friend–he is my biggest admire. If you believe me not, shut the up. Pardon my Englsih, she is not so good.

THE INFORMATION #756 NOVEMBER 1, 2013

THE INFORMATION
#756 NOVEMBER 1, 2013
Copyright 2013 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com

https://dimenno.wordpress.com

I believe in a kind of fidelity to your own early ideas; it’s a kind of antagonism in me to prevailing fads.–Grace Paley

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER EIGHT: PART SIXTEEN: THE FALL

As I got to know the fencing business that Cool Slopp kept running as smooth as a spinning top I also noticed how he treated the Yekkmen as came into his shop different from the others—he’d lock the door and summon them into his back parlor—like a spider with a delicious treat—he had his own peculiar lingo he used on the Yekkmen, like a private language—stolen goods were allus “stuff” and “stuff” was allus Red or White (as in Red or White Hot) and I also noticed that he allus talked hard numbers to the men of means–I’ll give you thirty-three on this, no more–I got to make my profit–running a risk here–precinct captain must be paid–he never said every word out loud for he also somehow made his intentions clear with knowing looks and soft gestures–palm out, pleading look to the eyes, whispered benisons in praise of big-time chisellers and benedictions lauding loud the proper authorities–he was a businessman first and foremost, and he never cheated a powerful man and he never lied to a man in a uniform. Sure, Cap’n, the dropsy is snyde, or I’ll sell you the lot at a third above what I paid, or that yellof is a bad actor as needs to be clobbered and he hangs his hat at a snuggery called The Seven Stars or ‘Look ye to the Sergeant; he’s been in here asking a lot of questions about swag that I know nought about.’ Even, ‘Sure, I’ll sell you the rings at a buck apiece above cost; they ain’t hot; they’re just cheap slum I bought from a Jew Pedlar, but you could never tell the diff without a jeweler’s loupe; you can use ’em as good will presents to pay off the shady ladies; they’re a dumb as coots; always have their mouths hanging open for glitter and flash.”  

Of most womenfolk Cool Slopp had a low opinion indeed. They is weak, they is subservient and rightly so, they think with their quims, they know nought about the ways of powerful men, they is needy, they threaten to kill themselves if they ruin their crummy blouses; they is vain with their foolish powderings and their silly paints and they way the pluck and tweeze and they talk like fools and they dress like popinjays and they dance like savages; they have screwy theories; nothing is more ridiculous than a broad who acts tough; they love you and they hate you and they try to beat you down and you beat them down and they love you and they hate you all the same. They hate you if you’re manly and they hate you if you’re not manly enough. They either bring down a great man with their whining or they tell a man to be great who hasn’t got it in him and nag him to death. You can’t fight it; that’s just the way it is. Bad ‘cess to ’em all, a man is well quit of ’em if and when he makes it to the age of reason.

He spoke for all the world like a man who once was sorely disappointed in love, but if this were the case, he remained tight-lipped about the moll who was the cause. ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ he’d jest, ‘I dinna hate women.’ Oh, do tell, someone would say. “Nay, I don’t hate women; It’s people in gen’ral I despises, and womens is more in the way of being people than most men are.’ In all seriousness he would also say ‘All praise to our sainted mothers and the hand that rocks the cradle, but I got no use for a mama’s boy; the apple never falls far from the tree.’ All the while he maintained his own venerable mother in a top-flight mansion in the good part of town. The only time he seemed to leave his shop was Sunday at six, when he would take his dinner with her at their home. Otherwise, he seemed to live in the shop, and for all I know, he did. Getting older, getting meaner, getting lonelier, and surrounded on all sides by more and more rubbish bought from dyin’ pissants for pennies on the dollar and raking in moolah from hot swag and stolen loot. It was not the life for me, though I suppose it was all right for them as likes it.

Anyway, before long he began I think to take a shine to me and to share some of his worldly wisdom, and it warn’t all of it a bum steer. ‘Never pay for nothing if you can get someone to pay you for taking it off their hands. Stuff is a burden to some; you’d be surprised at what gets thrown out well before it’s all used up. Always look in the gutter to find a glittering prize; when it’s on a pedestal it is gone before you can say jack robinson but down in a sewer the treasures of the world seek their own level. No man jack can ever tell me different. You can’t take it with you; but who would want to? Stupid pharaohs, that’s who. Their loss is our gain. Superstitious savages sometimes have the finest gold. Don’t ever look down on a man on account of how he looks; the swellest yellofs hide beneath rags when they ride about sub rosa. But nor should you trust a man who doesn’t follow the reasonable conventions. If he can’t bother to dress and show consideration for the opinions of the world, then he can’t be trusted to treat you with any due consideration. That’s why crooks dress up fancy; they’re all front. That’s why cops wear uniforms; the uniform demands respect–especially when the man does not. That’s why the poor go about in rags–one nice suit of clothes is the last thing a man gives up and once that is gone, you know he’s in a bad way. Trust the clothes–not the man!”

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

1*SALUTATION 

VOLCANO SUNS 1991 (FULL SHOW)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L9k0kvkxZpU

2*REFERENCE

FIRST SNOWFALL

http://www.wunderground.com/news/seasons-first-snow-average-dates-northeast-midwest-south-west-20131002

3*HUMOR

A QUICK GUIDE TO THE WORLD SERIES

http://www.theguardian.com/sport/2013/oct/23/boston-red-sox-st-louis-cardinals-world-series-guide

4*NOVELTY

SOUNDS OF NYC CIRCA 1920

http://www.npr.org/blogs/thetwo-way/2013/10/22/239870539/the-sounds-of-new-york-city-circa-1920

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST

IS WIKIPEDIA GETTING WORSE?

http://www.slate.com/blogs/future_tense/2013/10/23/wikipedia_sockpuppet_investigation_is_paid_editing_the_problem_or_the_answer.html

6* DAILY UTILITY

THE WRITER AS MEME MACHINE

http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/books/2013/10/the-writer-as-meme-machine-how-has-the-internet-altered-poetry.html?utm_source=tny&utm_campaign=generalsocial&utm_medium=facebook

7*CARTOON

FANTASMAGORIE (1908)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aEAObel8yIE

ALSO SEE:

FRANKENSTEIN (1910)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TcLxsOJK9bs&feature=player_detailpage

8*PRESCRIPTION

AMAZING ANIMAL SWARMS

http://newswatch.nationalgeographic.com/2013/10/16/strength-in-numbers-5-amazing-animal-swarms/?utm_source=Facebook&utm_medium=Social&utm_content=link_fb20131022ngnw-swarms&utm_campaign=Content

9*RUMOR PATROL

WHY PEOPLE MISTAKE GOOD DEALS FOR RIP-OFFS

http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/currency/2013/10/why-people-mistake-good-deals-for-rip-offs.html?utm_source=tny&utm_campaign=generalsocial&utm_medium=facebook

10* LAGNIAPPE

THREE ILLUSIONS THAT WILL MELT YOUR BRAIN

http://www.slate.com/blogs/bad_astronomy/2013/10/21/three_illusions_that_will_destroy_your_brain.html

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

A POLITICAL CARTOON
If our current situation were to be depicted in a political cartoon, Toxic Militarism would be the stay-at-home wife with multiple dependents, and the electorate would be the beleaguered husband with holes in the soles of his shoes, patches on his jacket, and his empty pockets turned inside out.

The Tea Party, for its part, could be a ravening Tiger ala Thomas Nast while the Nanny State could be a cute Nanny Goat ala Gillray. Wearing a diaper. And a red white and blue top hat.

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE. 714.

THE RAILWAY JOURNEY
Concepts such as fatigue only first came in during the machine age, with the interface of man and metal. The alarm clock replaced the church bell, and it has all been downhill ever since.

ALSO SEE:

Geschichte der Eisenbahnreise : Zur Industrialisierung von Raum und Zeit im 19. Jahrhundert by Wolfgang Schivelbusch http://www.amazon.com/…/dp/0520059298

THE INFORMATION #755 OCTOBER 25, 2013

THE INFORMATION
#755 OCTOBER 25, 2013
Copyright 2013 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com

https://dimenno.wordpress.com

Literature is made upon any occasion that a challenge is put to the legal apparatus by conscience in touch with humanity.—Nelson Algren

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER EIGHT: PART FIFTEEN: THE FALL

Cool Slopp–nobody knew his real name, he was a yellof as kept such gen close to his sleeve–was the boss fence and ace pawnbroker in all of Noxtown as specialized his trade in the old neighborhood of Stone’s Throw. It was an old name as grew up with the country; so called because once upon a time it was at the far limits of the city boundaries and was the rubble strewn quarry where cons built the city penitentiary. It was also a stone’s throw from the police barracks, the old brewery, and the potter’s field. The city grew up all around it and just sorta swallered it up sometime in the early 1800s, so I’m told, when the grand panjandrums still wore tricorn hats and buckles on their shoes and still sported powdered wigs, if I ain’t mistaken. Flea havens, those wigs. Hence the saying, you cannot crush a flea with one finger. Best way to get ’em is to use the fingernails. Just as the best way to cotch a dopey fly a crawlin’ on your face a feastin’ on morsels near your lips is to reach out with your hand and grab ’em and crush em–not waste energy tryin’ to chase ’em around…wait your turn and Mister Busy Busy Buzzer will fly right into your trap…but I ramble. Folks as ramble, them’s the ones the butchers cut down. Society is a ramble. Society ain’t restful. You could live a long and happy life without people, but you’d go stir-nutty. It’s a long way to be happy. People need people, but people and their associated troubles kin be the death of you. Close, but not too close–that’s the watchword.

I know I ain’t talking sense, Yob, but maybe there’s a sense that lies beyond our senses in such rambling talk, I don’t know. The pain is awful. Palaver is sometimes the best medicine. Only look at my own worn-out rags. Have you ever seen such a terrible sight? That’s what becomes as those who scorn to lay a treasure trove aside.

Nobody ever accused Cool Slopp of failing to be a prudent man. He was in long-ago youth a blond and laughing giant, but had grown careworn with years of greed and treasuring up other people’s plunder. He was quite a drinker back in the olden days and had his nose broke in barroom brawls on more than one occasion. He had been a sailor at one time–a man of the world–knew every low trick in the book–a nat’cherl born skunk–shipped out on the merchant marine–lost his papers in a drunken brawl–took his tiny grubstake and set himself up as a pawnbroker. All the features of his leathery face seemed to come to a peak at his nose. His brow was high and wrinkled and he looked as if he had almost no chin. With his beaky snout and his bald head with feathery patches of dead-white hair he looked like a vengeful eagle. He grew smaller and smaller over the years as he hunched over his loot. You might say the richer he got, the more he shrivelled up. But he was always a companionable man, full of talk if you struck him the right way, not like your greedy miser of yore. He always had money, and he spent it when he felt like it, but his vices were few. He didn’t drink no more, ner ever gamble, ner chase after women. But he drank about fifty cups of coffee per day, and he smoked rollies from the time he woke up from the time he went to sleep. Those hours were few, as though to sleep would be to leave his gelt unguarded, and so he would wake in the middle of the night and roll himself a fag and sit there gloating over his pelf–or so I imagined.

He kept a little pawnshop called Slopp Brokers with the sign of the three golden balls. It was on a muddied street with worn cobblestones as never smelt a whiff of asphalt, off in one of the neglected by-streets of the main drag. It was the corner shop of a big warehouse where, known to but a few, he stored his vast holdings. Mostly what you saw in his shop was the junk–the threadbare coats of starving ar-teests, the shabby duds of filthy tramps, and here and there in a display case some rubbishy jewelry–a gold ring prised from off’n the clawed finger of a croaked beldame, a gold-plated bracelet with a worn inscription, a thingumybob silver necklace and crucifix with a broken clasp torn off from the fat neck of an superstitious old Mammy so her thug grandson could buy some wonderful asthma powders.

I would run errands for the old rogue; fetch his coffee and ‘baccy because he was a hunched and suspicious man who seems as though he never wanted to leave his shop. When poor freezing Yellofs staggered in during a gale breeze and stomped the remnants of a blizzard off their poor rotten shoes to pawn or even sell outright their poor torn greatcoat for pennies–and precious few at that–he would stare at them suspicious like, as though they had a mind to rob him, rather than the other way around. Not him for the social ramble–the poor stiffs as came in to beg his favors was received with all the munificent scorn of a crookback nobleman addressing a peasant–the pennies left his claws and were dropped into a shivering starveling hand with the slow patience of the hands of time–drip, drip, drop–but when some big time crook came looching in with fingers all a- drip with swag, then Cool Slopp would straighten up to his full height and talk turkey, man to man. It’s the way of men the world over—them as has will be treated as though they got to have more, and them as is unlucky enow to have not will be given the old bum’s rush.

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

1*SALUTATION 

MISSION OF BURMA WERS 21 SEPT 1980

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9M8rAH1qBEk

2*REFERENCE

BANK OF AMERICA CUSTOMER ABUSE SECRETS

3*HUMOR

TIJUANA BIBLES

http://tijuanabibles.org/cgi-bin/hazel.cgi?action=home&bigindex=1

4*NOVELTY

THE OMNISCIENT COUNCIL OF VAGUENESS

https://www.facebook.com/groups/118398138182138/

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST

SIGN-SPINNERS

http://www.npr.org/2013/10/16/232105767/there-s-a-new-kind-of-sign-spinner-in-town?utm_content=socialflow&utm_campaign=nprfacebook&utm_source=npr&utm_medium=facebook

6* DAILY UTILITY

WHO LOSES IN A GOVERNMENT SHUTDOWN?

http://www.bankrate.com/finance/personal-finance/who-loses-in-a-government-shutdown-1.aspx

7*CARTOON

THE PUBS

https://scontent-b-iad.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-frc3/p480x480/1378767_10152024262866019_939456669_n.jpg

8*PRESCRIPTION

ESSA Environmental Stimulation Sensitivity Assessment

http://www.pdq4.com/stimtest.html

9*RUMOR PATROL

FACEBOOK OUTS INVISIBLE USERS

http://www.slate.com/blogs/the_slatest/2013/10/10/facebook_eliminates_the_option_to_have_your_profile_be_unsearchable.html

10* LAGNIAPPE

TOWNIE NAMES
Mugsy
Sully
Murph
Oakie
T.J.
Dookie
Markie
Les
Johnny Boy
Matty
Tone
Chillie
~Dawg
Fast Eddy
Lefty
Porka
Lennie
Dirt
Hippie
~Zo
Stinky
Donut
Nee-zo
Obie
Lynchie
Chippa
Jackie
Woody
Whitey
Macca
Randy
Ricky
Brandy
Shane )
JT
Josh
Woody
Mort
Jocko
Kevin
Fitzy
Moose
Bubba
Earl
Wade
Dix
Roundsie
Bones
Becks
Joey
Tiger
Bubba
Nicks
Jimbo
Petey
Freddy
Buddy
Earl
Guy
Rocco
Mahk
Necker
Whity
Quink
Mayor
Munka
Dodo
Bobo
Touchie
Beepo
Edso
Mully
Sugar
Romo
Striggy
Gusta
Wacko
Eddie
Bobby
Munchies
Swilly
Vinnie
Nick
Tony
Putcho
Scutch
Richie
Noodles
Stick
Donna
Chief
Ski
Stosh
Smitty
Jonesy
Rocky
Meat
Stiggs
Jeebs
Magoo
Breezy
Junebug
Skids
Trigger
Jimbo
Butchy
Mickey
Red
Mac
Dudso
Whacko
Mad Dog
Wildman
Googie
Bluto
Danny Boss
Ziggy
MORE TOWNIE NAMES
Ace
Bandit
Babe
Bear
Boots
Bubba
Buster
Buzzy
Chief
Cookie
Dixie
Doc
The Duchess
Duke
Dusty
Frenchy
Frosty
Gigi
Ginger
Goofy
Gyp
Igor
Jinx
Joker
Junior
Kelly
Kerry
Killer
King
Kitty
Lulu
Mac
Missy
Nabby
Ninja
Ozzie
Pearlie
Ponce
Rambo
Ricky Retardo
Rizzo
Rocky
Rusty
Shamu
Skippy
Tiger
Tiny
Uncle Candy
Whitey
Wolf
Yancy
Zasu
Zummo
Gee
Horseface
Juggy
Mindy
Ross
Jiggs
Smuggy
Ape-Head
Cheech
Vigo
Apples
Doggy
Spongie
Locust
Brains
Meatjaw
Meathead
Teeth Mancini
Harry the Spoon
Breathless Andriano
Choker DiStefani
Boneyard Carbieri
Mr. Boo
Stretch
Dizzy
Ray-Ray
Monkey Man
Stubby
Rusty
Russ
Meatball
Skinny
Chubs
Lucky 13
Shim
Croney
Cobb
Marky
Ricky
Danny
Terry
Mikey
Davey
Timmy
Tommy
Joey
Robby
Johnny
Brian
Will
Squinty
Crazy Mark
Toughy
BooBoo
Tawmee
Debbie
Sue
Beth
Chrissie
Patty
Ann Maree
Darline
Charline
Cooch
Chooch
Cheech
Mooch
Pooch(ie)
Geek
Hondo
Tonto
Peaches
Stinky
Swank
Sinbad
Chubb
Dee Dee
Ree Ree
Janice
Moss
Stella
Donna
Linda
Lisa
Michelle
Terry
Mo
Flabbo
Dan-The-Man.
Spuckie Buns
Ziggy
Tansy
Nig
Moo-Moo
Chickie
Zook
Carmooch
Buzz
Honey
Baker
Foxy
Mosey
Hut
Fee
Flash
Chassie
Curley
Razzy
Tweet
River
Cockroach
Peanuts
Babe
Stoney
Sonny
Frazy
Nudie
Kelly
Jack the Bunker
Fuzza (slept in the village ice house)
Buzzy
Handsome the Barber
The Count Village Barber
Swede Lanni
Crack Branca
Ro-Ro
Frank ‘Stubby’ Scungio
Anthony ‘Buffy’ Ferri
Chilly Willy
Shady
Pop Album

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

SWAHILI EXERCISES

You will hurt the old man’s eye. I have found the drunkard’s paddle. We have passed the European’s grave. I see the white ashes of a great fire. They are burning the deaf man’s pine-apples. The chief’s slaves took the fisherman’s paddles. The slave’s knee struck the stranger’s eye. They have hidden the canoe’s sail. The mangouste has bitten the child’s armpit.

Our chief has destroyed your plantation. The Europeans have cut their cocoanut leaves. His arrow struck my neck. Your slave girls took my frying pan. The old man wants my amulet. Your boil [is] large. You will take our perfumes. I shall leave your carriage. You [pi.] will hate our flies.Our agreement is not yet ended. My blister is not your boil.

http://www.archive.org/stream/swahiliexercises00steeiala/swahiliexercises00steeiala_djvu.txt

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE. 713.

THE FRIENDS OF EXTINCTION
The Friends of Extinction, and our Children’s Auxiliary, The Sunshine and Lollipops Guild, is a Rainbow Tribal Gathering where People Who Need People Are the Luckiest People In the World. (Crabs, Grouches, Gloomy Gusses, Pesssimists, Naysayers, Channel-Turners and Lardasses need not apply.)

Madport may be just a picture-postcard Hamlet blown up to poster-size; a pint-sized burg with a big-league attitude, but that don’t mean the Jukes and the Kallikaks can’t all sit down at the same table and maul the flatware and gum their inedible vittles and drink themselves into a slack-jawed stupor as they stare vacantly at the hole in infinity and attempt in vain to twiddle their non-opposable thumbs.

What I mean to say, Pard, is Come On Down, Pilgrim, and Join the Party–We Got a Lot of Friendly People and We Hope You’ll Like Every One.

Just because some of us are Negroes and some of us are Oafs and some of us are fourth-generation Greasers with a mad on against the world, don’t mean we can’t all get together and grope at each other’s fundaments and make real-friendly-like with that freckle-faced redheaded Pixie Sprite who’s, like, really “into” the Ecology and wants all of us to like, stop killin’ the whales.

Likety-like, herez what we believe:

Destroy Ugly!

Play Well With Others!

Food, Not Bums!

Can’t We All Get Along?

Listen: the FOE is all about integrity. Once you can market that, you’ve got it made, Chief.

The temporarily permanent, non-spatial, everywhere-is-noplace HQ of the Friends of Extinction is located in the deepest part of the woods on the edge of Holly Park, where the flowers are in bloom. Take the Indian trail to the cardboard box, bear right at the old mattress, follow the blue blazes until you reach the burned-out wooden shack right upside of Hobo’s Ridge, and You Are There. (Nota bene: Though this be our special hidey-place where we used to go to drink Dad’s Bourbon, that don’t mean we ain’t willing to meet at your house, when YOUR Dad is away, and drink HIS bourbon!)

The Friends of Extinction is a zoovie non-juried space wherein brothaz and sistaz and all our udder peeps can meet and and greet and be supportive of one another and get baked and play drums on old coffee cans and recite way-out poems and tell non-offensive earth-friendly jokes and all like that. Like, get this:

Q: Why did the chicken cross the road?
A: International Bankers!

Haw Haw Haw! The Friends of Extinction is fixin’ to build us a network of like-minded original thinkers whose home away from home is everywhere and nowhere. For the Present will someday be the Past and the Future Now is truly merely the past of the Eternal WOW.

On the lam of God? Running away from your obligattos? Shake the stones from your shoes and set a spell. Summertimes we like to meet by the old stone windmill down by the breakwater in Smug harbor; in the Fall our HQ is the sub-basement of the deserted Pumping Station in Cruikshank; in the Winter we meet at the Peaceful Coexistence Coffee Shop just over the border from Nob Hill, and in the Spring is when we observe the mystikal rite of St. Patrick & Beltane, which is why we meet in the thickets of Holly Park like our patron forebears who believed in gnomes, kobalds, and outdoor fucking–not necessarily in that order.

We join together with udder Peeps from all over the world, whenever they want to come and mooch off our one-world hospitality because a smile is just a turned-on frown. Also, it’s always good for a High Plains Drifter to have friends in High places, if you get my drift, and et cetera.

Hey–listen–you can have your own club! We don’t care! Everything is Everything! All we ask is that you use our symbol, FOE, in all your posters and stuff that you wheat-paste around town to promote your concert or party or event or just to cause trouble. Here are some of musical groups who are our affliates:

PAINLORE
THE HAUNTED DRUNKS
TALLULAH CRACKHEAD
EKSTATICK YOD
SISTERZ OF SAPPHO
THEE KORNHOLE WRANGLERS
DEPOT PROVERA
HOW BRAHMACHARYA?
DAUGHTERZ OV ROXALENA
THE CHAIWALLAHS
THE DSM IV
THE NEURASTHENIC NOMADZ
EPPUR SI MUOVE
THE THIRD ZIMBARDO
THEE IMMORTAL JELLYFISH
CHILDREN OF THE BROKEN SKYLINE
THE SQUARECROWS OF TIANANMEN SQUARE
THEE OKKULT REVOLVERZ
THEE NOSTAGIC PROPHETS
THE HONEY PEEPERS

If you’re in a band or even if you just like to pretend like you’ve got your own “band” then why not send us your flyers and we will send you our flyers and we can post them around town until THE MAN is forced to acknowledge us!?

Therefore, send us your flyers!

Become part of the FOE!

The FOE is your FRIEND!

And someday–SOON!– the whole world will be surrounded by FOEs!

COMING THIS BELTANE!
THEE ICE CREAM SOLDIERS
THE TAO OF RUNNING IN PLACE
THE PSYCHOPHRENIC GODS
BIG MISTER SUNSHINE

TIME AND PLACE TO BE ANNOUNCED!!!!

THE INFORMATION #754 OCTOBER 18, 2013

THE INFORMATION
#754 OCTOBER 18, 2013
Copyright 2013 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

To live at all is miracle enough.The doom of nations is another thing.–Mervyn Peake

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER EIGHT: PART FOURTEEN: THE FALL

Like I said before, I got in slowly with The Bad Crowd. Like I had done for the carny freaks I’d run errands for clients of Cool Slopp the pawnbroker and fence, and he’d toss me a buffalo from time to time, the cheap bastid, and folks among the demimonde most likely figured I knew how to keep my mouth shut–because Cool Slopp trusted nobody–least of all the people who worked for him–ner the people he paid off to stay in business.

Cool Slopp didn’t even trust his own family. Most folks of the criminal ilk had good reason not to trust their own kin. Look at the way even straight Johnnies treat their own family members if you want to know the reason why. Everyone says love your family, enjoy your family, appreciate your family, not everyone has a family, so be grateful for what you have.

But the family ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. Take it from an old grifter. Every family, I don’t care who, ner how righteous, but every family has skeletons in their closets. That’s the way the old saying goes. What they don’t bother to tell you is what exactly that’s supposed to mean.

Not just the crazy Uncle in the loony bin, or the big brother who’s a jailbird because he killed a man in a barroom brawl, or the bitter old auntie who’s sitting on a fortune while her kinfolk starve. I’m talking about brass tacks. How did the family make its fortune? Hard work, and plenty of it—that’s what the old blowhards will say. But look into the details—make it your practice to look into the details–at old newspapers—then you will learn that such and such a man made his pile by pimping out his own sister—by cheating his dimwitted cousin—by deceiving his dying uncle—it goes all the way back to the Bible—Jacob and Esau—Joseph’s own family selling him into slavery—sure, it’s rough to make your way in the world without kinfolk, but in a sense it’s liberatin’, because often-times it’s your own blood as will let you down—call on them to do you a favor and even though your life may depend on it here is what you will hear—in response no doubt to some imagined slight—I don’t have the time—or, I’m too busy right now—or, I’ll get around to it when I can—or, I’ll be there at such and such a time, only that time comes and he’s a no-show—Christ, Yob, if I but had a dirty buffalo for every broken promise from one Yellof to another, I’d live in a great big penthouse– in the sky– and feast on lemon merengee pie– and lemonade– and have a butler and a cook– and a maid and a manicurist–to cater to me every need.

The trouble with the Bad Crowd is that they don’t have no sympathy or mercy for nobody or nothing, not even their own family–and if you do them favors they might pay you back or they might not, but the more useful you was to them, the better your chances would be of getting them to help you out when you needed a lift, in anticipation of more favors you could do ‘em if you was on the outside breathin’ free air rather than languishin’ in a jail cell or penitentiary dungeon where you can’t do nobody no good in the way of generating revenue. ‘Tis the way of the world over, when you really stop to think about it, though I was only thirteen years old and I thought about very little outside of my own pleasure and the fuzzy, half-formed notion of getting revenge on Smash Conklin.

You’d think the sting of his original insults to me—where he said I was a bastard—would of faded in the years since I first crossed his path, but you would be wrong. Don’t never crack wise or do dirt to a child is the moral here; a kid has little enough to remember and he will keep the knowledge of your rotten deed deep inside his cranium, where it will bounce around in his mostly empty skull, and most likely it’ll creak around in there until the day he croaks. If you could get inside their heads and talk to their thoughts, you would see that they remember that shitty stunt you pulled back in 1904 and you will say “Surprised to see you here” and their child self will reply “Surprised to see YOU here”. I think that what people call ghosts is just the memories of dead people and long-gone deedsd that refuse to go away. The mind plays funny tricks, but what is even funnier is the tricks the mind don’t play, and that mostly consists of the things that the mind forgets to remember–and refuses to forget.

1*SALUTATION
MARC BOLAN
DEBORAH (LIVE 1971)

2*REFERENCE
BERNIE SANDERS ON THE KOCH BROTHERS

ALSO SEE:
THE NEWEST RIGHT
http://www.salon.com/2013/10/06/tea_party_radicalism_is_misunderstood_meet_the_newest_right/

3*HUMOR
50 WORST ALBUM COVERS EVER
http://thefw.com/worst-album-covers/

4*NOVELTY
THE LAST BLOOD LIBEL TRIAL
http://www.slate.com/articles/news_and_politics/history/2013/10/mendel_beilis_and_blood_libel_the_1913_trial_in_kiev_russia.html

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
WHY THE SHUTDOWN IS HURTING ALL OF US
http://www.theatlantic.com/politics/archive/2013/10/why-the-shutdown-is-hurting-all-of-us-and-why-that-doesnt-matter/280311/

ALSO SEE:
http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/newsdesk/2013/10/shutdown-the-hysterical-style-in-american-politics.html?utm_source=tny&utm_campaign=generalsocial&utm_medium=facebook

http://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/wonkblog/wp/2013/09/30/absolutely-everything-you-need-to-know-about-how-the-government-shutdown-will-work/

http://www.nytimes.com/2013/10/06/us/a-federal-budget-crisis-months-in-the-planning.html?_r=1&

6* DAILY UTILITY
WHAT’S IN CHICKEN NUGGETS
http://www.theatlanticwire.com/entertainment/2013/10/three-grossest-sentences-youll-read-about-chicken-nuggets-today/70195/

7*CARTOON
STATE SPORTS
http://www.slate.com/articles/sports/slate_labs/2013/10/united_sports_of_america_map_if_each_state_could_have_only_one_sport_what.html

8*PRESCRIPTION
THE DUNNING-KRUGER EFFECT

http://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/evolved-primate/201006/when-ignorance-begets-confidence-the-classic-dunning-kruger-effect
http://www.sfgate.com/news/article/Incompetent-People-Really-Have-No-Clue-Studies-2783375.php

9*RUMOR PATROL
FIVE POPULAR BELIEFS THAT ARE TOTALLY HOLDING HUMANITY BACK
http://www.cracked.com/blog/5-popular-beliefs-that-are-holding-humanity-back/

10* LAGNIAPPE
POLICE STOP LEADS TO BIZARRE ARREST
http://thedailycricket.net/2008/06/23/bizzare-arrest-on-rt-95/

11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
18 BEATLES SONGS THAT JOHN LENNON TOTALLY HATED
http://www.buzzfeed.com/perpetua/18-beatles-songs-that-john-lennon-totally-hated

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE. 712.
THE KILLING OF PRESIDENT KITTY
What we really need to put the icing on the cake is a feature-length cartoon about the Kennedy Assassination. President Kitty riding in an open-top Flintstone car as an assortment of nemeses led by Oswald the Lucky Rabbit (in a brief cameo) take aim with slingshots loaded with ripe tomatoes, et al., which would tie in nicely with the notion that it’s mostly some bad Italian Rats led by Don Marscapone who have it in for President Kitty–although there could also be sewer rats aiming pebbles from down below, as well as French mice, wealthy industrialist alley cats, rogue CIA and FBI dogs, Cuban goats, and an assorted menagerie of right-wingers also taking aim from about 20 different spots. In the cartoon version, President Kitty would be too humiliated to do his job, and Vice-President Cornpone Hound-Dog would take over. This idea is, of course, copyright me, 2013. Any suggestions regarding further details would be most welcome.

Aside

THE INFORMATION
#753 OCTOBER 11, 2013
Copyright 2013 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com

https://dimenno.wordpress.com

 The vastest things are those we may not learn.

We are not taught to die, nor to be born,
Nor how to burn
With love.
How pitiful is our enforced return
To those small things we are the masters of.
–Mervyn Peake

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE

BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER EIGHT: PART THIRTEEN: THE FALL

The carny folk was crazy because the carny was where all the crazy folks would go. Do ye ken? It goes all the way back to the clowns, or so I was told. The reason clowns is so scary is because they was outcasts and people who couldn’t shift for themselves in no other way would put on the makeup and stumble around and act as though they was pixillated for want of knowing how else to make people have pity on them. It was like a higher class of beggar only they didn’t have to mutilate themselves to draw on people’s sympathy–and before too long old Klowny, why, he took on airs and claimed to be an artiste, but mostly he was still just a madman of a larger growth—one that had just enough on the ball to be able to make a profession out of his foolishness. Maybe that’s why the priesthood is deadly enemies to the carny—after all—priests and clowns—mostly amount to the same thing—only one of ‘em is God mad—both wave their arms around a lot—both wear special costumes—both have certain things they say and do and only at certain times—both use magic and perform miracles—both specialize in mumbo jumbo—both are beggin’ after money in the name of a higher good–both are very fond of little boys—no, Yob, they are much more alike than they are different, though I will admit  that most priests don’t wear makeup and very few clowns give blessings to the sick and dyin’.

The Carny folks was also crazy because they was wonderful and very enthusiastic consumers of all sorts of pills and powders and ointments, and many is the time they would send me to the Pharmacy—Moon Drugs, on the corner of Salt River Avenue and Saw Mill Run Boulevard—to fetch them some sort of restorative compound or another.

Elsie The Beautiful Fat Girl—weigh’t about 500 pounds and was none too bright– liked her regular spoonful of Old Doctor Washington’s Permanent Fever and Ague Cure. She said it helped her with “the joint fever.” It was mostly a tincture of cannabis that she’d put under her tongue and she always had a far-away look in her eyes after her stupefying dose. She’s be in dreamland for two or three hours and she’d notice nothin’. I could see how that sort of condition might be dangerous to a likely lad such as myself who needed to stay alert at all times–and so I was never tempted to monkey with it none. And I would also absent myself whenever the Swami broke out the hookah and piled it with hasheesh—the sickly aroma always made me want to gag and I never wanted no part of it, though nearly everybody in the carny was crazy about the stuff. Nor was they ever shy about turning down a dose of some patent remedy; back in them days you never knew what was in ‘em and so unless it was alcohol and I fed some to the dog and it didn’t drop dead at twenty paces I wouldn’t touch it.

Stromboli, The Calabrian Strong Boy—rumor had it he was jazzing the Fat Girl– would take drops of strychnine in an egg yolk, to give his the pep to do his tricks, which was mostly confined to bending steel bars and snapping chains acrost his chest–although more than once he lost track of how many drops he had taken and nearly keeled over on the performing platform. First time I met him I asked, “Are you the Strong Man?” And he tipped me the wink and said “Someone’s got to be.”

Words to ponder! 

India The India Rubber Girl—who would contort her body into all kinds of queer and unnatural ways—was always busy snapping at the asthma medicine, which was pure 100 per cent cocaine and would make her eyes shine unnaturally bright, but which also gave her what she called the inside meemies so that after her show she would need a swig or two from a bottle of bonded whiskey in order to “get right with her insides,” as she like to say.

Carl The Caul Man—a fellow with the unlikely name of Elmer T. English—he had a transparent membrane over his forehead as gave him the looks of a human blob—he favored Mrs. Winslow’s Soothing Syrup, which was a tincture of opium, and he would sometimes take a drop too many and fall asleep on his oversized rocking chair.

As you might of guessed, the Freaks was mostly drug fiends and was hardly fit companions for a fine broth of a boy, but they did learn me one salutary lesson, which was to stick to good old alkie and not to monkey none with pills and potions.

I was fascinated by one blackface performer in particular. He billed himself as Dan Rice Junior, though his real name was Roger Hopewell, and behind his back everyone called him Hoppy. He dressed as a happy, toothless slave with a grizzled white beard, wearing a slouch hat and shabby overhauls and he sang the following song, all the while swaying back and forth, slapping his knees and cackling:

Oh me and my wife can pick a bale of cotton
Oh me and my wife can pick a bale a day

Oh! Mandy! Pick a bale of cotton! Oh! Mandy pick a bale a day!

That song haunted me for weeks and finally, as though to break the spell, I set out to talk to this wondrous performer and maybe even shake his hand.

All he said to me was this: “Do you know how hard it is being coked up and likkered up and looking at all them faces out there and trying to make them sober people laugh?” And then he took a big drink from a bottle of Vin Mariani—rumor had it he kept a case of it on the lot at all times and that he’d glug down two full bottles a day–and he sat down on his trunk with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands—looking for all the world like a tragic clown in a three ring circus–and he wouldn’t speak a mumblin’ word more. Foozled as I was my own self on the fumes of intoxicating liquors, I knew even then when to hold my peace and so slid slowly out of his tent to leave him to his sad private thoughts.

So you see, there was nothing glamorous about the Carny, though I still hung about hoping in vain for some pearls of wisdom to fall from those lips. But mostly it was full of hypes and con men as never did do much more than take up space and valuable air.

I thought that if I could be trusted with the Carny crowd on Mistake Island that this would mean I could make my entrée with the criminal classes in Noxtown. As it turned out, I was right, though not in the way I expected, and I little knew that my meddling with the bad men of the day was to have consequences I never thought of at the time.

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

 

1*SALUTATION

THUNDERCLAP NEWMAN

SOMETHING IN THE AIR

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k8zmkzshUvE

 
2*REFERENCE

Three letter word list

http://www.yak.net/kablooey/scrabble/3letterwords.html

3*HUMOR

DRUMMER NEEDED

http://dangerousminds.net/comments/drummer_needed_flyer_is_absolutely_hilarious_and_very_specific

4*NOVELTY

LAKE OF STONE

http://gizmodo.com/any-animal-that-touches-this-lethal-lake-turns-to-stone-1436606506

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST

HOW HUMANS ARE CHANGING WORLD CLIMATE

http://www.npr.org/blogs/thetwo-way/2013/09/27/226746611/its-clear-humans-are-changing-worlds-climate-panel-says?utm_content=socialflow&utm_campaign=nprfacebook&utm_source=npr&utm_medium=facebook

6* DAILY UTILITY

ALL THE FINANCIAL ADVICE YOU’LL EVER NEED

http://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/wonkblog/wp/2013/09/16/this-4×6-index-card-has-all-the-financial-advice-youll-ever-need/

7*CARTOON

VINTAGE ANATOMICAL CHARTS

http://www.brainpickings.org/index.php/2013/03/06/vintage-human-body-gifs/?utm_content=buffer5beb8&utm_source=buffer&utm_medium=twitter&utm_campaign=Buffer

8*PRESCRIPTION

FIVE THINGS I WILL NOT EAT

http://civileats.com/2013/10/01/five-things-i-will-not-eat/

9*RUMOR PATROL

YOUR DIGITAL TRAIL AND HOW IT CAN BE USED AGAINST YOU

http://www.npr.org/blogs/alltechconsidered/2013/09/30/226835934/your-digital-trail-and-how-it-can-be-used-against-you?ft=1&f&utm_content=socialflow&utm_campaign=nprfacebook&utm_source=npr&utm_medium=facebook

10* LAGNIAPPE

“THEY LIVE” WAS A DOCUMENTARY

http://twitchy.com/2013/09/27/rowdy-roddy-piper-confesses-they-live-was-a-documentary/

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

RADIO FREE BOSTON: THE RISE AND FALL OF WBCN. By Carter Alan.
Northeastern University Press; paperback. 334 pages.

Once upon a time and a very groovy time it was, back on March 15th of
1968 when a lot of the little kiddies were gorging themselves on
Strawberry Pop Tarts and worshiping the Herculoids, it happened that
their beautiful older brothers and sisters were marching on the
Pentagon to protest Uglyface Johnson’s Asian land war. And from Day
One these hip Disc Jockey “kats” over at this Boston radio station
were saying ixnay to all the longhair Robert J. Lurtsema Classical Gas
and laying hip platters on the people by the likes of John Coltrane
and Jethro Tull… and giving the FBI the what-for. You heard me–the
FBI!

Talk about “Sticking It to the Man!”

These “kats” were at ground zero! Teaching the kids how to dodge the
draft, and one of their disc jockeys who worked there for four days
was even in the SDS!

It was the REAL revolution!

And all through the 1970s this here radio station still did all KINDS
of righteous and Down With The People kind of stuff–like, they had
this listener line with people answering weird reference questions
about, for example, Costa Rica–can you dig it? And they would also
talk people down from bad trips and refer them to a suicide hotline
and do astrology reports and lay down some righteous raps about the
stinking war in Vietnam and Uglyface Nixon and the whole boodle of bad
jive down in Washington D.C. with the politician Daddies and the piggie
corporations.

Get this–they wouldn’t accept no advertising from Dow Chemical, which
meant they lost a lot of ad revenue–or would have, if Dow Chemical
advertised on a hippie radio station.

They even had a Union! In 1979! Talk about solid working-class CRED,
man! And when the Boss Man tried to fire ’em, they went ON STRIKE!
And–get this–they WON!

Can you DIG IT?

Hey–and listen–these righteous DJ dudes got to meet all kinds of
world famous celebrities like Ian Anderson–a douchebag–and Jesse
Colin Young–an asshole–and David Bowie–a righteous dude–they
smoked his cigarette butt on the air–a TRUE STORY! And they were the
ones who gave The Clash and Aerosmith and U2 and Bruce Springsteen and
The Probers their big breaks, otherwise they might still be playing
half-empty VFW Halls off in some dying mill town where drunken
lumberjacks shiver out their lives in pickup trucks with busted
heaters. And Hey–these DJs also hob-nobbed with famous celebrities
like Little Richard and Robert Goulet and–get this–John Belushi!

What a stone GROOVE!

Now I’m not saying that some of these here “kats” weren’t heavily into
certain, ahh, heh heh heh, illegal substances, because there’s no
secret that, way back when, they were really into the kind bud and the
herbal remedy, and also the marching powder later on, though how any
of them could afford it on a disc jockey’s salary is a mystery to me,
or maybe I’m just naive, because I guess they also were in touch with
all kinds of heavy-duty cats from the music industry, but they don’t
talk about that much. In the book I mean.

No, instead, they talk about how they knew all these famous sports
people who gave their checks to sick kids with Cancer and how they
licked South Africa and Apartheid single handed –which meant they
lost a lot of ad revenue–or would have, if South Africa advertised on
a hippie radio station.

Maybe it must of been the drugs that made these righteous “Kats” so
doggone capital-F Funny because they were always pulling clever pranks
like mailing bags of shit to Arbitron and dropping things from high
places.

By the early 1980s they were also into this stuff called Punk Rock.
That’s how cutting-edge they were! And by 1993 they were heavy into
all the alternative sounds–no more Thick as a Brick and stuff like
that.

Now, you might say to yourself, who cares about an old beatnik
explaining to his grandchildren about this wondrous book. What’s a
book? I’ll explain later. A book about this groovy radio station,
What’s a radio station? Quit interrupting! I’ll explain all that to
you later.

OK, so you might say to yourself, Well, who cares about a book about a
DJ talking about the olden days at a hippie radio station? Well,
that’s easy for you kids to say but I would say that you’re probably
just jealous because you weren’t a part of this wonderful time when
jobs were plentiful, wages were high, food tasted good, and love was
free. And you can put THAT in your hash pipe and smoke it, Daddio!

It was a good station, for a while there, and then Howard Stern came
in and had to ruin it, because we all know that people like Howard
Stern and Opie and Anthony and Toucher and Rich are cheap vulgarians,
and bringers of bad vibes. And so after they came in, what was the
point anymore? And so the radio station finally went out of business
back in 2009.

Oh–and the name of this radio station these magical DJs worked for
was WBCN. Maybe you heard of it.

*11A BOOKS AND FILMS REVIEWED

APPOINTMENT IN SAMARRA. O’HARA. ****

BLUE JASMINE [FILM] ****

BUTTERFIELD 8. O’HARA. ***1/2

THE CABBIE BOOK ONE. MARTI. ****1/2

EVERYBODY IS STUPID EXCEPT ME. BAGGE. ****

THE GRAPES OF WRATH. STEINBECK. ****

HOPE OF HEAVEN. O’HARA. ***1/2

HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES. HAWTHORNE. ****

THE INIMITABLE JEEVES. WODEHOUSE. ****

JEEVES AND THE MATING SEASON. WODEHOUSE. ****

LIFE AND MONEY TURNS MAN UP AND DOWN. OLISAH. ***

LOSERS V. 1&2. DIGGLE. ***1/2

LOSERS BOOK 2. ***1/2

LOST CAUSE. JACKSON. ****

MARVEL YEAR BY YEAR. ***1/2

THE NOVEL: 1600-1800. MOORE. *****

RADIO FREE BOSTON. ALAN. ***1/2

RAY AND JOE. RODRIGUES. ***1/2

TALES DESIGNED TO THRIZZLE V. 2. ***1/2

THANK YOU JEEVES. WODEHOUSE. ****

THINGS WE FORGET. PENN. ****

WATERGATE: THE HIDDEN HISTORY. WALDRON. ****

THE WIT AND WISDOM OF MARK TWAIN. ****

YOU MIGHT BE A ZOMBIE…***

YOU’RE NEXT. [FILM] *1/2

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE. 711. 

KYAH!

A yipping laugh is shorthand for “I acknowledge your attempt to be humorous without actually being amused.” Ideally, it should sound like this: “Kyah!” (And then, ideally, you should fold up your tents and steal away into the night.)