THE INFORMATION #761 DECEMBER 6, 2013

THE INFORMATION
#761 DECEMBER 6, 2013
Copyright 2013 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER EIGHT: PART TWENTY-ONE: THE FALL
I think I told you earlier how Smash Conklin was a errand boy and bruiser for the criminal class, and about how they used him for a variety of jobs; to keep guntzels in line and on the straight and narrow; to put the strong arm on petty criminals who worked a territory without permission; to stand straight and tall and look menacing inside the beer gardens and poolrooms where they conducted most of their business.

It was at about that time that I began to get all kinds of peculiar notions in my head about what I might be able to do if I had Smash Conklin in my clutches. Aside from smashing him on the conk with a rock, I couldn’t puzzle out how to get him out of my way. I knew that if I played the beefer and got back at him on the snyde and spread ugly rumors about some of his doings, word would get back to him that I was the source, and he would pay me back manifold. But it was worth thinking about all the same, and it was then that Conkllin began getting into my head and I began thinking about him morning, noon and night. T’was not a consummation devoutly to be wished. Conklin was already half a bakehead. But Tipsy Smith wouldn’t work the Mickey. The Soiled Doves at Red Mary’s were scared silly of him. But I had an in with the hoboes who lived in the jungle not far from the Central Switchyard hard by the Cannery. They all knew him as a one-eyed Connolly; the terror of tramps the country over, from Stew Junction to the Sow Belly Hack Line, from Lousy Anna to Bridgeport, and points East: he would ride the blind baggage and rob them blind on the Broken & Maimed, the Apple Butter Route; and The Whiskey Railroad; he’d frisk a drag and harry them from the Cough and Snort to To Hell and Back; The Bum’s Own; and the John Brown Division. “What Are You Going To Do About It?” roared he when some old Stewbum would plead for a break. As a result, bindlestiffs hated him with a blind passion; even worse than the most poisonous yard bull. He warn’t back’ard; if an appleknocker didn’t have any Pretty Polly or case dough, Uglyface would maul him something fierce and and steal his shoes and hat. Many a barefoot and bareheaded tramp or bundle tosser was known to have gotten the Conklin Treatment. He’d even steal the crum roll from the lowest sort of grease ball or ding bat if he had a mind to, and leave him without’n so much as a dace. He had no mercy for a moocher or a moper and would often give such as he found a kick in the rump just on gen’ral principle.

Nor did this high jacket confine his tender ministrations to heisers or tramps on the road; loochers on the stem knew him for a lush roller and a dead picker.  They had all kinds names which were ways of describing him; they called him the fat Bluto; the blubber-belly; the bellerin’ fool; the slubdegullion; the young fool-killer; the black-hearted behemoth; Mr. Strange; The Servant-Girl Annihilator; The Werdlyng. They themselves spread all sorts of strange rumors and legends about him; that he started as a lamb and became a guntsel his own self; that he killed a man in a brawl in Cincy and was on the lam; that he murdered small children in the shape of a wolf; that he iced a few dozen Prostys down in old Mex–but not one of these stories was true, far as I knew. I heerd from a most reliable source that he was in fact the son of a fat and prosperous butcher and a corn-fed milkmaid; grew up on a ranch the first twenty years of his life but fell in with the bad city crowd and became a rounder.

It was there in Noxtown that Conklin fell into the respective clutches of Adam Tyler, the Alderman; Tom Aston, the Police Captain; Beauregard “Beau Nasty” Nash, the vice lord; and Coach Crump, the real-estate man. For Alderman Tyler he would act as a shadow for the toff; also, Conklin would stand out in front at the polling stations at election time to discourage the wrong sort of voter–meaning anyone who didn’t cast their ballot for the machine candidate; he would stand by and listen for any loose talk from the menfolk who frequented the cigar shops which were mostly fronts for gambling hells; he would stand by silently while Tyler got his daily shave at the Hotel Commodore. For Captain Aston he would squelch the play of any outside gangs who was planning a job or would play along and look chickee if the operation was sanctioned. Aston deputized him so as, as the joke went, he could arrest himself for drunk and disorderly, check himself in for the night at the crowbar hotel, then let himself loose in the mornings after sleeping it off. For Beau Nasty the pimp and Coach Crump he worked as a strongarm man and general sort of enforcer and was known far and wide as the terror of Jivetown. You ever hear that song “I’m going back to Jivetown?”
Well, rumor has it that the blues men on the street corners was singin’ that song about Coach Crump, the real estate man, and his general factotum, none other than Smash Conklin.

Picture it, Yob: The cold but not bitter night–the setting sun–the rain-slicked sidewalk–the indifferent crowd–tired adults with their sleepy children–smell of brewing snow—looming chill–clack and shuffle of weary shoes.

I’m going back to Jivetown
I’m going back to Jivetown
Lookin for the bully hound
Lookin for that bully hound
He better stop kickin my old dog down
The people will come from miles around
To see that great ship go aground
Give up the ghost without a sound

And the Yellofs in Jivetown knowed him by many names. They called him The Bad Man; Beelzeblubber; Mr. Bad Jive; Mr. Jive Boodle; The Home Guard; Sir Dog Leg. It wasn’t often that any but the most green Yob would wander weaponless in Jivetown, but such was the reputation of Uglyface Smash Conklin that he could do it and get away with it; no man dast challenge him, left he get on the wrong side of Tyler or Aston or Nash or Crump. They were like an Olympus of bad actors; Aston could call down the thunder and lightning; Tyler could make the deep sea moan; Crump could make the grass grow in the streets and Nash had the power to make men fight each other over women. And Conklin was like their Mercury, spreading pretty little seeds of hate and war. How do you get back at a man like that? One who works for the men who are under the protection of The Big Man? Let me tell you, Yob–you don’t. Even a gay cat such as myself knew that you don’t monkey around in the skunk works and you don’t step on the elephant’s toes or otherwise that’s the last elephant whose toes you’ll ever step on. Remember, Yob: The human heart is never completely free for darkness is greedy. Darkness drags down the soul. Darkness likes prison bars. The passionate heart never ceases to rage. But solitude makes for madness.  Silence is the sister of death. And Hate is a reckoning of an ancient evil.

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

1*SALUTATION
THE ONE WAY STREETS
JACK THE RIPPER
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vb3JiG_0DNI

2*REFERENCE
THE HARVARD CLASSICS ONLINE
http://www.openculture.com/2011/07/the_harvard_classics_a_free_digital_collection.html

3*HUMOR
TOM GAULD
AN ALPHABET OF BOOKS
http://myjetpack.tumblr.com/post/66273564290/an-alphabet-of-books-a-drawing-i-have-in-this

4*NOVELTY
WALMARTIANS
http://beartales.me/2013/01/14/the-latest-crop-of-walmartians/

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
J.P. MORGAN TWITTER Q&A
http://happyplace.someecards.com/27567/jp-morgan-twitter-qa-session-was-terrible-mistake

6* DAILY UTILITY
SPIN TOP 100 ALTERNATIVE ALBUMS OF THE 1960S
http://www.discogs.com/lists/SPIN-Top-100-Alternative-Albums-of-the-1960s/165266

7*CARTOON
DC VS. MARVEL
Not that I completely agree…but an interesting theory all the same.
http://comicsalliance.com/dc-comics-marvel-golden-age-silver-age-comics-history/

8*PRESCRIPTION
16 People On Things They Couldn’t Believe About America Until They Moved Here
http://thoughtcatalog.com/michael-koh/2013/11/16-people-on-things-they-couldnt-believe-about-america-until-they-moved-here/

9*RUMOR PATROL
JFK: CIA & NYT ARE STILL LYING TO US
http://www.salon.com/2013/11/06/the_jfk_assassination_we_still_dont_know_what_happened/

ALSO SEE
Fiction, Propaganda and the Media : The JFK Assassination
http://22november1963.org.uk/jfk-fiction-propaganda-media

JFK ASSASSINATION FAQ
http://22november1963.org.uk/jfk-assassination-faqs

A WORD IN FAVOR OF JFK CONSPIRACY THEORIES
http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/johncassidy/2013/11/a-word-in-favor-of-jfk-conspiracy-theories.html?utm_source=tny&utm_campaign=generalsocial&utm_medium=facebook

10* LAGNIAPPE
THE BEACH BOYS
COTTON FIELDS
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d9CQPQOhWy4

11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
THANKSGIVING DAY PARADE
All hail the Thanksgiving Day Parade, in which the totemic animals are merely three-dimensional representations of the figures etched upon the walls of the Caves at Lascaux. What is the celebrated Thanksgiving Day Parade, in fact, if not an array of totemic arcana, mostly honoring long-forgotten cartoon characters– many of which originated as childish versions of adult fare, designed to habituate children to accept the conventions of mass entertainment? This grotesque spectacle is, God help us, the closest thing America has to a national carnival, in which figures of great insignificance are promoted to an outsized status befitting legendary figures. In just this way we see that the past century has been primarily devoted to the debasement and commodification of every myth which ever dared us to be great.

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE. 719.
THE LAST WORD ON THE JFK CONSPIRACY
OK, OK. I confess. I did it. But I was only six, and Oswald had to help me out with the bolt action. As for the shots fired from the grassy knoll, I had nothing to do with that. You can’t pin that on me!

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THE INFORMATION #760 NOVEMBER 29, 2013

THE INFORMATION
#760 NOVEMBER 29, 2013
Copyright 2013 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

The ant’s a centaur in his dragon world.–Ezra Pound

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER EIGHT: PART TWENTY: THE FALL
What first queered my pitch with hanging around Cool Slopp’s den was when Jim Whitey started looching around the pawnshop. Whitey had a queer-shapen head the size and shape of an abnormally large turnip, with a red beet nose and blustery pink cheeks all scaly like a salmon’s belly. He was a certified gooney-bird, sure–a fine broth of an Irish Lushman; a slop-over bell swagger with his fat alderman full of coffin varnish and breath that would peel the paint off of a concrete birdbath. At one time he’d worked as a  vampo clown at the Red and Black Carnival and Circus, until one day the crushers come and had him run out of town for unspeakable acts, and let me tell you that when a Carny is shunned among his own kind for deeds too dark to mention, those deeds are very dark indeed. Anyway, seems as though he owned and lived with a cigar-smoking pig named Bella and I don’t like to think about him and that pig but nobody saw anything odd about how he doted on the critter so I kept my trap well and truly shut.

Back when he was with the circus he was a whiteface joey–a clown–and though them days was long gone, he still wore a white top had and his wispy red hair was still goosed out of the side of his fuzzy skull all Bozo-like. He was a snapperhead as also walked around the neighborhood with a big black Doberman dog with a spiked collar. Thought he was a big man on the basis of how he kept the snapping brute constantly straining against a leather halter. The brute would pull him along almost as though he was on roller skates. Little Eomonn, Cool Slopp’s Pomeranian dog, was the only critter as warn’t scared to death of the beast, and that was to his infinite credit because even the most battle-scarred cur would sidle off with tail between legs when that ill-omened devil dog came strutting and grunting down the old plank road.

In that long-ago Noxtown, three story buildings made of wood were tenements; five story buildings of stone were warehouses; one story shacks and bunkers housed bar-rooms and sometimes fine houses built for the wealthy were converted into clandestine cathouses. The ice man and the old clothes man would be screaming down the street and the hosses beshit themselves everywhere. It was like in the middle ages. Sausages and fish sold from fly-ridden carts right out in the open; ripe cheeses handled by grocers with filthy hands, flour and pickles sold from dusty barrels. All highly insanitary, yet even the dirtiest of the chop vendors and greasy spoon jockeys were a model of cleanliness next to the average suds-puller who plied his trade at a dive like the Seven Stars. An old tramp might come in after a hard day begging on the stem or selling bits of pilfered scrap to the junkyards and be handed for his penny a mug full of skullpop, which was what they called the dregs left over from the drinks of the night before. For another penny, he might earn the right to curl up in the corner and snooze for a few hours amid the intolerable din of shouts of drunks and barking mad winos, and the screeching laughter of soiled doves and ladies of the night, who were let into the establishment through a side entrance.

You could lurk there in the Seven Stars as I would do and see many a sight you wouldn’t soon forget. An ex-con–a bitter lag–melting all over the bar and drowning himself in bad redeye. A bitter man in rags, his face a picturesque ruin of angry red blotches and black scabs, shaking his fist at the Gods. An old grouch with a hangdog face burping and pounding his fists on the table top for more raw hooch. The bottom shelf man who longs to join the top shelf aristocracy; the top shelf man who doesn’t know the swill whiskey sold at the Seven Stars all came from the same defective still.

A commonplace sight at the Seven Stars was that of lushed-up Ladies of Easy Virtue sitting bleary-eyed on the sawdust floor completely stupefied by bar whiskey in which a plug of chewing tobacco had been soaked. Some lively whores with hollow eyes and white noses would dance on table tops and retreat frequently into the darker parts of the saloon to snort their asthma powders until, at the end of a long night, they would collapse twitching and whimpering into a secluded corner, scratching at the cokey bugs

Every Friday night in fall and into winter Jim Whitey could be seen at his usual stool at the groggery, cuttin’ his drunken capers.

He was mostly broke down by then; no longer the young athlete who took stupendous pratfalls in the sawdust ring. But he had a mean tongue and would run a nasty routine on anyone who had the nerve to sidle up to him and attempt some gentle conversation.

“Can your gas,” he’d say; “you talk too much.” Or “Close your stinking trap; I can’t stand to hear your blowin’.” Or “Lubbers like you have no right to take up the air. If I had my way I’d clobber you on the head with a shovel so you’d be getting lashed by worms in a moldy graveyard or else you’d be tied to a bag of rocks nibbled to death by catfish at the bottom of the river or maybe I would like to take old sawtooth here,” and he would produce a wicked-looking Bowie knife, “and cut your throat from ear to ear and maybe that would wipe the silly grin from off your stupid pan.”

He had an insult for every man who walked into the joint, be they an old crony or a complete newcomer.

“Ye ball-headed rogue,” he’d yell out when a customer came in without taking off his hat, “Doff yer chapeau–you’re in the presence of gentlemen!”
If an old drunk started into some off-key singing in the hopes of earning a penny for another drink of skullpop, Whitey would screech at him to Cut That Shit Out.

But you didn’t have to talk to him to get on his bad side; for instance. whenever a well-dressed stranger would venture into the Seven Stars, “Ho,” said he, “Here’s a crusher. A real Pansy. Your highness, Roy Al.”

And then he would jump off the stool and do a swish act. Nobody dast cut him off; later on he’d sic the Devil Dog on ye if ye gave him the breeze.

“To what do we owe the honor of your puissance, Yob? Is you pwesent and accounted for to show we lackeys our pwoper pwaces? Can I offer you the use of the royal cuspidor?” And then he would, as if by magic, produce the spittoon from where he had concealed it behind his back.

Folks in the bar-room all laughed–they all knew the routine–Whitey would pretend to take a drink from the vile spittoon and then offer it to the stranger and urge him to do the same–stranger would like as not run from the room gagging and retching and this was considered great fun by the barroom loochers and loafers and duffers.
But one New Years Eve a big white-bearded stranger came into the room and Jim Whitey roared that he was stronger than any man there and could drink anybody under the table. “Hey there, Uncle Sam, you old billy goat–what in HELL are you looking at?” When the stranger didn’t answer, Whitey screamed, “Don’t beat me, Santy Claus!”  Whitey unwisely tried his cute stunt with the spittoon and the stranger forced him to actually drink from it, and that was the last time Jim Whitey ever pulled that stunt.

“Hey Whitey,” the duffers would holler when a new stranger came into the bar, “Show him the spittoon,” but Whitey would only mumble something in reply.

And when folks would holler “Speak Up,” Whitey would only smooth his hands over his balding pate and mutter, “It ain’t fun no more. It ain’t fun no more.”
http://www.thenoiseboard.com/index.php?showtopic=218311&st=50

1*SALUTATION
RIC CARTEY
SCRATCHING ON MY SCREEN
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fjy3jkJMzzA

2*REFERENCE
MCDONALDS ADVICE TO UNDERPAID WORKERS
http://thinkprogress.org/economy/2013/11/19/2970651/mcdonalds-advice-underpaid-employees-sell-christmas-presents-cash/

ALSO SEE:
WALMART CANNED FOOD DRIVE FOR ITS OWN EMPLOYEES
http://thinkprogress.org/economy/2013/11/18/2960371/walmart-food-drive/

3*HUMOR
MOTHER-DAUGHTER ART
http://distractify.com/fun/illustrator-draws-faces-lets-4-year-old-draw-bodies-ends-up-with-adorably-weird-art/

4*NOVELTY
14 HABITS OF HIGHLY MISERABLE PEOPLE
http://www.alternet.org/personal-health/14-habits-highly-miserable-people

ALSO SEE:
THE 9 LEAST INCREDIBLE ADVENTURES THE HULK EVER HAD
http://io9.com/the-8-least-incredible-adventures-the-incredible-hulk-e-1458197622

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
USA: 11 NATIONS
http://www.npr.org/2013/11/11/244527860/forget-the-50-states-u-s-is-really-11-nations-says-author

6* DAILY UTILITY
GOOGLE HELP FOR WHEN YOUR ACCOUNT GETS WIPED OUT
https://support.google.com/mail/contact/bugs?ctx=bugflow_receive31

7*CARTOON
BLUTO VS. BRUTUS
http://www.searchmytrash.com/cgi-bin/articlecreditsb.pl?brutus%283-13%29

8*PRESCRIPTION
A COMPLETE CURMUDGEON’S GUIDE TO “THE SOUND OF MUSIC”
http://www.npr.org/blogs/monkeysee/2013/11/08/243922063/a-complete-curmudgeons-guide-to-the-sound-of-music

9*RUMOR PATROL
JFK: WE STILL DON’T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED
http://www.salon.com/2013/11/06/the_jfk_assassination_we_still_dont_know_what_happened/

ALSO SEE:
THE FASCINATING PSYCHOLOGY OF CONSPIRACY THEORIES
http://www.slate.com/articles/health_and_science/science/2013/11/conspiracy_theory_psychology_people_who_claim_to_know_the_truth_about_jfk.html

10* LAGNIAPPE
BEST HOLIDAY CRAFT FAIRS IN NEW ENGLAND
http://www.yankeemagazine.com/article/diy-home-3/craft-fair-gifts/craft-fairs-new-england

11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
JOYCE GOES OUT FOR JAVA (FINNEGAN’S HALF-AWAKE)
coffeerun, past Dunk’s and Starbuck’s, from server slow to blend of bane…

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE. 718.
OVERLOADED: THE STORY OF WHITE LIGHT/WHITE HEAT
http://bigread.mojo4music.com/2013/11/velvet-underground/

THE INFORMATION #759 NOVEMBER 22,2013

THE INFORMATION
#759 NOVEMBER 22, 2013
Copyright 2013 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER EIGHT: PART NINETEEN: THE FALL
After the row with Conklin, I would perform various chores, like running small errands for Cool Slopp and performing sundry small services such as walking his little dog Eomonn up and down the main street of Noxtown–which itself presented a challenge–since the very sight of the little Pomeranian dog excited derisive snorts from the bhoys and yekkmen who lounged in front of vacant boarded up buildings–not to mention the endless endless bar-rooms, taverns, rookeries, beer halls, beer gardens, knock-out joints, groggeries, flophouses, and all such other other iniquitous dens of low vice as lined the street on either side. Picture if you will a run-down fleahaven district times three and you might have some idea of sounds of Noxtown in those long-ago days of the rumble of horse-drawn carts and the roar of trucks and the cries of tireless pushcart vendors yelling FRUIT FRUIT FRESH FRUIT and PIE PIE PIE-NAPPLES and ICE ICE ICE-Y ICE. The bricks of houses were worn pink with age; the numbers identifying the house had their golden surfaces rubbed off and were black and red with rust and wear. Even the white cobblestones were worn grey and brown with the hooves and dung of a million horses; the window-panes of every grimy house were grey with filth. In secluded places, you could see worn out tramps and bindlestiffs sleeping off a drunk while lying in their own filth as well as in the garbage which had been swept from off the main sidewalks and into the alleys where they would go to find shelter and in some cases would make their home–or at least, their resting-place, since they had no home.

In that long-ago Noxtown, massive warehouses on all sides are flanked by mean boarding-houses, cathouses, dry goods stores, filthy chop-houses, old-clothes vendors, pawnshops, dirty half-boarded tenements, and other metropolitan eyesores. Very little natural light makes its way to the level of the street, and any vegetation growing in the vacant lots tend to be ferns and weeds of the wildest and heartiest sort. What you do see plenty of are horses and carriages and people streaming by and horse-drawn and some electric trolleys slowly bumping their way on steel rail-road tracks up clogged thoroughfares.

A commonplace sight on high noon of any given weekday was that of Ladies of Easy Virtue emerging sleepy-eyed from their warrens staggering in housecoats to the nearest pharmacy to buy a jolt of whatever waker-upper or knock-out drop they happened to be dependent on. Some dress up in colorful silks of pink or blue as the mood strikes them. Some sad whores with pinched faces and a surly mien wear the brightest and most gaudy colors, while some of the more winsome exemplars of their trade venture forth looking as drab as a rainy Monday.

The scrappy little dog, with a thin rope tied to his threadbare collar, would joyously approach and sniff any and all obstacles as hove into his path, and like as not would bark at the bleary-eyed whores, some of whom looked down upon him with a fond stare and cooed and called Eomonn their little darling, and others, more ill-tempered, and usually with faces bruised by riotous living or perhaps by the brutality of their fancy men would kick at and curse the wee mite. At which point I would yank on the rope and practically drag Eomonn away by his hind legs, even though he would continue to bark as though he were a lion attempting to harry a small mouse, instead of being a very small dog barking at human beasts twenty times his size.

The worst of these beasts were the brutal men, some of whom dressed sharp but looked for all the world like human swine, who seemed to have no occupation other than hanging out upon the street and hooting derisive insults at any stranger they might happen to see. These are men who have never had anything like a home life–they didn’t even have the luxury of being raised by a whore in a cathouse–and they took out all of the bruises and smarts inflicted upon them by the world upon any luckless stranger who passed their way. These were ugly men with low and ugly thoughts which they weren’t the least bit shy in shouting out at me as I tugged at Eomonn, sometimes with such force as to nearly sweep him off his feet, as the slackers and loochers and blodgers and lubbers howled their villainous insults and invectives:

“Nancy-boy!”

“Fruit!”

“Oh! You Kid!”

“Aww, save it for your fuckin’ mutt!”

“Come over here kid, I wanna talk to yuh!”

At which point I would walk faster, and the same shabby gent would howl after me:

“Kid! Don’t let ’em kid you! Don’t let ’em kid you, Kid!”

The worst part of this ordeal was when a Smash Conklin, leading an enormous brute of a dog struggling against his metal chain-link leash, would allow his animal to attack little Eomonn, who always stood his ground. I grew practiced at whisking him up in my arms and leaping up to get away from the snapping jaws of the larger animal who seemed to be intent upon making a snack of the tiny pomeranian in one, or, at most, two bites. Many’s the time I remember running both for my life and that of little Eomonn as the sun set low over the harbor and I would hear behind me the mocking, snarling laughter of the b’hoys and the Yekkman as Conklin would finally restrain his dog but I would care not but instead go on running and running, until I found some safe portal, knowing but not knowing that, over the course of a short life, there was no portal that can truly be said to be safe.

And to this day I can still hear a phlegmy voice shouting after me:

“Kid! Don’t let ’em kid you! Don’t let ’em kid you, Kid!”
Previous: http://www.thenoiseboard.com/index.php?showtopic=218311&st=50

1*SALUTATION
CAPTAIN FUTURE BLOCK THAT KICK
S.J. Perelman’s “Captain Future, Block That Kick!” is still a very funny feuilleton.
http://nebushumor.wordpress.com/2013/03/06/s-j-perelman-captain-future-block-that-kick/

2*REFERENCE
14 KINDS OF FACEBOOK PEOPLE YOU WANT TO BLOCK
http://usvsth3m.com/post/52219683239/14-kinds-of-facebook-people-you-want-to-block-but-you

3*HUMOR
JERRY LEWIS HOSTS BOB HOPE ON THE TONIGHT SHOW, 1970
https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=Ifa0jXLLMug

4*NOVELTY
TERRIFYING VINTAGE ADS
http://usvsth3m.com/post/66372953934/11-terrifying-kids-from-vintage-adverts-who-will-freeze

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
BLOCKBUSTER COMMERCIALS
http://www.slate.com/blogs/browbeat/2013/11/08/blockbuster_video_closes_store_made_awful_commercials_promos_and_ads_video.html

6* DAILY UTILITY
OBNOXIOUS BAR PATRONS
http://usvsth3m.com/post/63087392700/the-16-customers-that-bar-staff-should-be-legally

7*CARTOON
MISTRANSLATED CHINESE SIGNS
http://deadstate.org/look-these-28-chinese-mistranslated-signs-will-make-you-laugh-and-cry/

8*PRESCRIPTION
HOMEMADE FISH STICKS
http://www.yankeemagazine.com/new-england-traditions/homemade-fish-sticks

9*RUMOR PATROL
LIBRARIAN SHAMING
http://librarian-shaming.tumblr.com/

10* LAGNIAPPE
HOW TO TURN YOURSELF INTO A FACEBOOK BOT
http://www.slate.com/blogs/future_tense/2013/11/12/what_would_i_say_app_turns_you_into_a_facebook_bot.html

11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
WE ARE ALL FACEBOOK NEOPHYTES
Why are people so inappropriately forthcoming on Facebook? Because they are what I will coin a phrase and call ‘primitive’ users of the medium, who use it in an archaic way as though it were an older medium rather than adapting their behavior to the use of the medium utilizing its full capabilities. Like the greenhorn who divulges personal information in a business letter. Like the stale old stage convention of having the audience applaud whenever a special guest star makes a stage entrance. It takes time to adapt to a new mode of communication. Some people never do. For some folks, the half-life of Not Getting It is forever. Ultimately, Facebook is an advertising platform. Those who use it as such profit from it; those who do not do so are providing free content for the marketplace of free-floating ideas which the internet has become.

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE. 717.
DATING MY TEENAGE DAUGHTER
Every teenage boy is Frankenstein, and every father of a teenage girl is the angry villagers.

THE INFORMATION #758 NOVEMBER 15, 2013

THE INFORMATION
#758 NOVEMBER 15, 2013
Copyright 2013 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

KNOWLEDGE
What is meant by a “knowledge of the world” is simply, an acquaintance with the infirmities of men. –Charles Dickens

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

I don’t know why, just one time, Slopp decided to let somebody see the contents of his warehouse. Maybe it was my role in helping him to cover up after what the Frenchies would call the contretemps with Uglyface Smash Conklin. Maybe it was because after Cool Slopp give old Uglyface a conk on the noggin, me and little Eamonn the circus dog grew to be great pals, and old Cool Slopp even entrusted me to give the little mutt a haircut, albeit with a pair of blunt scissors. Little Eamonn got in a few little nips when I tried to snip him around the ears and his bunghole, but I devised a means to grab him by the scruff of the neck to restrain him while he snarled and thrashed. It would just about of broke your heart to see the wee mite tremble when he saw the scissors looming close by his vital parts, but I was extra careful and even contrived to give the shivering mongrel a bath, in which he looked perfectly mournful the way dogs do when you rob them of their distinctive scent which helps identify them to the other dogs in the neighborhood and which also ensures their place in the social hierarchy. I had the rather fanciful notion that Eamonn was the feisty mascot of a gang of roving curs which would doubtless include a cigar-smoking bulldog with a spiked collar, a bloodhound with a deerstalker hat and curved pipe, and a tobacco-chewing terrier wearing a shapeless red-checked cap draped carelessly over one eye.

Cool Slopp seemed to be appreciate and even touched by the ministrations I paid to the little dog, even if my debut grooming job left the little black Pomeranian looking a bit patchy in spots. As my reward, if reward it was, I got to spend an unseasonably warm day in early November touring in his dour company a building which everybody in the neighborhood called “The Dirty Warehouse.”

Nobody knew where it got that name, though you could easily guess. From the outside the warehouse was a five story red-brick monstrosity mostly grey with the accumulated grime of decades of belching factory smoke. The warehouse was attached to the pawn brokerage in what was later to be known as the Cannery District, where back then myriad railroad lines converged to load and off-load produce and meat which were converted in the canneries to canned goods and other finished products and shipped out again by rail to the docks and the nearby Salt River. On the side of the building was painted a mysterious and ghastly visage of what looked to be a southern gentleman wearing a monocle and a top hat, but years of grime had eaten away portions of his four-story painted face so that he looked more like a grinning skull.

Nowhere was the warehouse identified as being part of Slopp Brokers. Five of the six stories I saw that one time were crammed full of goods of a dubious provenance. We started with the basement. That was mostly caged rooms packed with items from various landlords and landladies who hired the space to pack the stored goods of defaulting tenants prior to tossing the mostly worthless worn steamer trunks and wooden crates stuffed with the rubbish of mean existences and flawed and broken lives. Other than the caged rooms the remainder of the basement was empty, but was also reserved as a sort of run for little Eamonn, so that amid dust and detritus there were also some brown monuments to Eamonn’s considerable appetite in the form of small towers of his scat, which made walking through the basement something of an obstacle course. If stepping in dog shit were truly good luck then gamblers would have probably gladly paid through the nose to walk that boulevard of droppings.

I remember on my tour of the floors of the warehouse seeing, amid the usual array of pawnable but unclaimed items which included full sets of clothing; every musical instrument you could imagine with a large smattering of cornets and raggedy-looking violins, and a forest of black umbrellas and black opera capes lined in red velvet. On the first floor there were boxes filled with false teeth; trays of wedding rings; brooches, lockets, necklaces and earrings; rings of keys; silver cigarette and cigar cases; rows upon rows of combs, brushes, wigs, toupees, and false beards and mustaches; and books with odd covers written in strange languages.

Also: crates of canned salmon which were at least several years old; twenty-four boxes of powdered tapioca pudding; crutches; luggage; rifles and pistols; childrens’ toys; lawnmowers; complete sets of vintage silverware and antique China.

On the third floor there were also various weird items which were some of the strangest things I had ever seen outside of the ten-in-one at the carnival. These included: a transparent glass bottle packed to the top with pickled duck embryos; a human skeleton; a stuffed goat dressed like Uncle Sam; several shrunken heads; a monkey’s paw clutching a shiny object, and a cardboard box filled nearly to the top with what looked to be marbles but which, on further inspection, turned out to be glass eyeballs.

On the fourth floor, Cool Slopp opened a special locked safe and showed me various strange artifacts, including:

A diploma to practice medicine issued to a “Dr. Jeckyll,”
A book titled “Lincoln’s Doctor’s Dog,”
A file folder labeled “Photographs–Drunken Teddy Roosevelt,”
An envelope labeled “Mary Todd–Traitor,”
A film canister labeled “The Great Train Robbery–Part Two,”
A folder labeled “Photographs—confidential—
McKinley assassination,”
An envelope labeled “Declaration of Independence–First Draft,”
And a vaguely ape-like human skull in a box labelled “Missing Link”.

It was then that I turned to Cool Slopp, who was looking sly as he led me to the stairs back down to the exit.
“Can I ask you some questions?”
“You can ask.”
“Aren’t you ever going to sell these things?”
“Not if I don’t have to.”
“What good are they?”
“I like ’em.”
“Aren’t you EVER going to sell SOME of these things?”
“If someone wants to buy them, maybe.”
“Don’t you have a problem with knowing you’ve got all this stuff?”
“Don’t keep me awake at night.”
“How long have you had this stuff?”
“Some of it? Thirty years.”
“How did you start in to collecting this stuff?”
“Don’t rightfully know.”
“Why do you have so many customers?”
“They come to me. I don’t care either way.”
“Is there anything you won’t buy?”
“Anything religious.”
“Aren’t you worried that you might have a fire?”
“It’s all insured.”
“What about the police?”
“They’re on my side.”
“What’s on the fifth floor?”
“That’s none of your concern.”

And with that, he ushered me out the warehouse door, little Eamonn struggling in his arms and barking at me–and Slopp, as usual, making no attempt to quiet the little brute.

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

1*SALUTATION
JAMES BROWN
I FEEL GOOD
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ETNWrulIDic

2*REFERENCE
OCEAN WARMING FASTER NOW THAN IN 10,000 YEARS
http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2013/10/131031-climate-ocean-temperatures-years/?utm_source=Facebook&utm_medium=Social&utm_content=link_fb20131102news-oceanwarm&utm_campaign=Content

3*HUMOR
LIBRARY TURNS DOWN DONATION
https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10153461808120121&set=a.164174540120.240555.666530120&type=1&relevant_count=1

4*NOVELTY
JESUS DAILY
http://www.slate.com/blogs/future_tense/2013/10/31/jesus_daily_religious_posts_are_a_dark_corner_of_facebook.html

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
Guy Fawkes Day: Why ‘V for Vendetta’ is More Important Than Ever
http://www.policymic.com/articles/71413/guy-fawkes-day-why-v-for-vendetta-is-more-important-than-ever

6* DAILY UTILITY
10 Corporations Control Almost Everything You Buy — This Chart Shows How
http://www.policymic.com/articles/71255/10-corporations-control-almost-everything-you-buy-this-chart-shows-how

7*CARTOON
LSD PAMPHLETS
http://www.lysergia.com/FeedYourHead/lsdPamphlets.htm

8*PRESCRIPTION
MAKE YOUR OWN YOGURT
http://www.npr.org/2013/11/06/243014945/yes-it-s-worth-it-to-make-your-own-yogurt?utm_content=socialflow&utm_campaign=nprfacebook&utm_source=npr&utm_medium=facebook

ALSO SEE:
SRIRACHA FACTORY UNDER FIRE
http://www.npr.org/blogs/thetwo-way/2013/10/29/241587163/sriracha-factory-under-fire-for-fumes-city-sues?utm_content=socialflow&utm_campaign=nprfacebook&utm_source=npr&utm_medium=facebook

9*RUMOR PATROL
10 THINGS YOU MIGHT NOT KNOW ABOUT CONSPIRACY THEORIES
http://articles.chicagotribune.com/2013-11-03/site/ct-perspec-1103-things-20131103_1_conspiracy-theories-malala-yousafzai-10-things

ALSO SEE:
CHURCH OF REAL ALE
http://www.npr.org/blogs/thesalt/2013/11/03/242301642/to-stave-off-decline-churches-attract-new-members-with-beer?utm_content=socialflow&utm_campaign=nprfacebook&utm_source=npr&utm_medium=facebook

SEE ALSO:
SHE’S A HOMEWRECKER
http://www.slate.com/blogs/xx_factor/2013/10/30/she_s_a_homewrecker_women_who_ve_been_cheated_on_expose_the_names_and_photos.html

10* LAGNIAPPE
ORNETTE COLEMAN
EUROPEAN ECHOES
https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=FZEnbOCZGIw

ALL MY LIFE
https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=3xENRi-5rOs

11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
SCOTTISH BAGPIPE MUSIC
A lot of Scottish Bagpipe music sounds like something Curly the Stooge would hum while inadvertently wrecking a house.

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE. 716.
How Ender’s Game Deals With the Ugly Politics of Orson Scott Card
https://mail.google.com/mail/u/0/?shva=1#search/conspiracy+quote/11b52cd1bf52f379?compose=1422ebb97e739510http://slate.me/1aNIVNI