MODERN WISDOM NUMBER 191 SEPTEMBER 2014

MODERN WISDOM: AMERICA’S ONLY HUMOR MAGAZINE
NUMBER 191
SEPTEMBER 2014

Copyright 2014 Francis DiMenno
http://dimenno.gather.com
dimenno@gmail.com
http://www.dimenno.wordpress.com

And now…Modern Wisdom Presents:

1. ADJUNCT PLEASURE
2. THE STERN WOLF
3. SOME WORTHLESS SONG
4. THE WIDE WORLD DREAMING
5. MY ADDER’S SENSE
6. MONARCH’S PLAGUE
7. UNKNOWN MINDS
8. PITIFUL THRIVERS
9.. PRETTY RUTH
10. THE WORLD’S FALSE SUBTLETIES

11. DYSLEXICON PART FOUR

Nota bene: Selected definitions were first published in Oracle numbers
1, 2, 3 and 6 and are copyright 1992 and 1993 by the author. Others
are here published for the first time and all are copyrighted 2014.

DYSLEXICON: HIDDEN MEANINGS OF NEW AND COMMONPLACE AMERICAN WORDS AND
EXPRESSIONS
PART FOUR

RADAR: Wartime detection and surveillance device ca. 1940S (Archaic);
peacetime detection and surveillance device.

RADICALS: The only thing more tiresome than the purblind slanders of
reactionaries are the self-styled verities of radicals.

RADIO: Bland, euphoria-inducing medium devised to advertise bland,
euphoria-inducing commodities; the EDUCATOR of desire. See THE
INTERNET, MOVIES, TELEVISION.

RATIONAL SYSTEMS: Now synonymous with decline.

RATIONALIZATION: A seductive mistress, but a bad wife.

REAGAN: The One-Minute-To-Midnight COWBOY.

REALISM: Any system of preconceived notions. See FATALISM; BELIEFS.

REALITY TELEVISION: Supplants the former occupation of throwing cow
shit at the village idiot.

REBELLION: Struggle against the dominant paradigm (Archaic); that
which sells products for the dominant paradigm. See ADVERTISING.

REFEREES: Elitists.

REFORMERS: People who tilt against already well-established perversions.

RELIGION: The Stalinization of material and/or spiritual commodities. See
RELIGION: Worship of remote celebrities.

RELIGIOUS REVIVALS: Circuses for people who are baffled by clowns.

RELIQUARIES: See DISNEYLAND.

REPUBLICANS: Boring fat-cats; premature grandparents.
REPUBLICANS: The party of whiskey, golf, and selfishness.

RESTAURANTS: The church of the middle class.

RHETORIC: System of devices used in the art of persuasive speech
(Archaic); device always used to perpetuate falsehoods.

RHODE ISLAND: Nepotistic utopia.

RHODES SCHOLARSHIP: Antique madman’s blood money; BRIBE paid to future
EXPERTS or members of the MANAGERIAL ELITE.

RHYME: System of precise assonantal correspondence and consonantal
similarity (Archaic); words which sound vaguely alike.

RICHARD NIXON: A paranoid drunk embarrassed by his brother; courage-impaired
political wheeler-dealer whose 1974 abdication saved him from
humiliating disgrace.
RICHARD NIXON: The American Ahab.

RITUAL: Any compulsion. See ADVERTISING.

ROCK AND ROLL: Never so unforgiving as when an Adonis turns into Porky Pig.

ROCK AND ROLLERS: Participate in elaborate rituals, drink to excess,
wear funny costumes, and share a secret arcane knowledge. See MASONS.

RODNEY KING: Some PIPEHEAD in LOS ANGELES who got beat up by cops for
being a lousy driver.

ROMANCE: An exercise in fertility.

ROME: Capitol of imperial empire ca. 200 B.C.-600 A.D. whose decline
is constantly likened to that of America.

ROYALTY: Priest-king of sovereign state (Archaic); any celebrity.

SAFFLOWER OIL: Wondrous fat believed to have magical properties.

SALES TAXES: See USURY.

SAN FRANCISCO: West Coast capital of narcissism.

SARCASM: The default mode of the second rate. And self-referential
irony, of the third-rate.

SATIETY: Mythical state of well-being.

SATIRE: A form of travesty which seeks social reform via humor
(Archaic); a form of artistic expression which attempts poetry where
none exists.

SATURN: ROMAN GOD who devoured his own children (Archaic); formerly popular
Make of automobile.

SCHIZOPHRENICS: Always demand your divided attention.

SCIENCE FICTION: Baseball for people who throw like girls.

SEDITION: Any contradiction of or questioning of the sovereign rights
of MULTINATIONAL CORPORATIONS. See RELIGION.

SELF-AWARENESS: Means always having to say you’re sorry.

SEMANTICS: Study of the structure of language (Archaic); nit-picking.

SENATOR: Politician who will do anything for $50,000.

SEPTEMBER. Commonly the month during which people gather the flashy
tools needed to present to the world an industrious façade; the better
to conceal their secret inanition.

SERVICE SECTOR ECONOMY: Serfdom. See INJURIOUS SECTOR ECONOMY.

SEVEN WONDERS OF THE WORLD: Donald Trump; air-conditioning; Madonna;
the electoral college; Woody Allen; Greek Yogurt; Sylvester Stallone.

SEX APPEAL: Late TWENTIETH CENTURY ADVERTISING mantra.

SHAVING: Daily procedure of symbolic RITUAL self-abasement.

SILVERFISH: Harmless invertebrate more feared by men than women.

SINGING. Sexual display. SEE ART, DANCING.

SIR: (Euphemism.) Fatso.

SITCOMS: Churchgoing for the homebound.Comforting rituals, soothing
verities, and immersion in stories we already know the end of and have
always known the end of.
SITCOMS: Recipes for narcissism.

SLOGANS: Rhetorical substitutes for evidence.

SMART. Dull.

SMITH OF COLOR: Blacksmith (archaic).

SOAP OPERA: Surrogate TELEVISION FAMILY.

SOCIAL SECURITY: TWENTIETH CENTURY Ponzi scheme; system providing a
guaranteed monthly post-retirement income (Archaic). See OLD AGE
PENSION.

SOCIALIST: A HOBO with a PhD.

SOCIALISTS: Wish to redistribute what ANARCHISTS want to occupy.

SOLDIERS: An apologetic killer elite. See MERCENARIES.

SOMALIA: Fount of all human misery (Archaic). See ETHIOPIA.

SONGS: The earliest form of neurolinguistic programming.

SOUTHERNERS: Famous for their hospitality. They have some the
friendliest lynch mobs you’ll ever see.
SOUTHERNERS: Friendly fanatics.

SPORTING EVENTS: Working class fanaticism in its socially approved form.

SPORTS FIGURES: Athletes (Archaic); genetically inbred warrior noblemen.

SPY: A policeman with a PhD.

STABILITY: Euphemism used by the AVERAGE CITIZEN for incipient collapse.

STAND-UP COMEDY: The rattling of a shtick inside a shithouse.

STAR TREK: Ritualistic program ceremonially watched as a type of SOAP
OPERA for DWEEBS and NERDS.

STARBUCKS: Coffee ritual for people who wish they still used illicit drugs.
STARBUCKS: The opiate of spendthrifts.

STARS: Hot incandescent spheres of gas residing in outer space and HOLLYWOOD.

STEEL: A plot by iron and coal to enslave humans.

STEPHEN KING: Dickens for imbeciles.

STILL LIFE: A genre of painting in which a grouping of objects are
captured in a moment frozen in time (Archaic); see PHOTOGRAPHY.

STREAM OF CONCIOUSNESS: A raging torrent.

STUPID HEMORRHAGES: For people not smart enough to have the cerebral variety.

STUPID: See AVERAGE.

SUCKERS: People who believed a GOOD JOB with BENEFITS assured their
FINANCIAL SECURITY.

SUFFERING: Dysphemism for EXPERIENCE; a cure for innocence.

SUGAR BEAR: Sweetened breakfast cereal mascot; cartoon version of DEAN MARTIN.

SUPERMARKET: Watering hole for misfits.

SUPERSONIC JETS: Destroy the OZONE layer so fat-cats don’t get jet lag.

SURVIVOR: Any person capable of overcoming or abiding a minor obstacle
or setback.

SUVS: Training wheels for tyrants.

SWASTIKA: The pattern of the interplanetary magnetic field in the
ecliptic plain. See FYLFOT.

SYZYGY: Something which hippies think is magic because it’s hard to spell.

TABOOS: Tomorrow’s norms.

TALK RADIO: bedtime stories for paranoiacs.

TAOISM: Gave us alchemy which, of course, we all use daily.

TEA: A plot by tea bushes to ensure their continued propagation. See COFFEE.

TELEVISION COMMERCIAL:Replaces the art of carrying on a conversation
(Archaic) with one’s neighbors (Archaic).

TELEVISION:  A lobotomy on the installment plan.
TELEVISION:  Recapitulates the aesthetics of Moloch.
TELEVISION:  a velvet sewer.
TELEVISION:  a voracious mirror.
TELEVISION:  beautiful stereotypes.
TELEVISION:  a smoke screen for vested interests.
TELEVISION:  manna for dull minds.

TELEVISION: AUTISM in a box; bland, euphoria-inducing medium devised
to advertise bland, euphoria-inducing commodities; the EDUCATOR of
desire. See MOVIES; RADIO; THE INTERNET.

TELEVISON: A soft surrealism for brains hooked on artificial sunlight.

TERRORISM:  The marijuana of the Generals. It makes them feel good
even as their thinking becomes hazy, and they end up hanging around
with some pretty unsavory characters and spending a hell of a lot of
money on it.

TEXTING: Compulsive grooming behavior of the amphetamine monkey.

THANKSGIVING: A symbolic orgy of consumption in which humans
hard-wired to hoard fats mourn the rapidly nearing approach of the
dark and cold of the Winter Solstice.

THE ALPS: Overgrown rocks worshipped by rich people.

THE BIBLE: a dreary masterpiece of ignorance.

THE BLUES: Music for depressed alcoholics.

THE CRUCIFIXION: A friendly dice game that went terribly, terribly wrong.

THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY: Era in which gunpowder, leeches and
cantharides were first widely utilized.

THE EIGHTIES: The 1950s with FAX MACHINES.

THE FIFTIES: The 1920S with TELEVISON.

THE FORTIES: The 1920s with a wartime economy and casual sex.

THE FUTURE: Will be a digital camera catching you in the act forever.

THE GOVERNMENT. Has too much power. Citizens demand that the
government do something about it.

THE INTERNET: A potted history of instantaneity.

THE INTERNET: Abandon Hope All Ye Who Hit ‘Enter’ Here.

THE INTERNET: Meme warfare.

THE INTERNET: Narcissism in a box; bland, dysphoria-inducing medium
devised to advertise bland, dysphoria-inducing information. See
TELEVISION.

THE MEDIA: A narcissism machine.

THE MIDWEST: Partially abandoned area of American empire superseded by
the SOUTH, EAST and WEST.

THE MOB: Anyone who isn’t us.

THE NINETEENTH CENTURY: Era in which ether, chloroform and morphine
were first widely utilized.

THE NINETIES: The 1970s with DIGITAL MEDIA.

THE NORTH: Where SOUTHERNERS go to prove they’re smart.

THE PENIS: Strong enough for a man…but women like it too.

THE POOR: See THE UNDERCLASS.

THE RICH: Another country.
THE RICH: Different from you and me; they mooch more money.

THE SERVICE: College for drunks.

THE SEVENTIES: The 1920s with DRUGS and casual sex.

THE SIXTIES: The 1920S with PHOTOCOPIERS and casual sex.

THE SOUTH: Where NORTHERNERS go to die.

THE SUN: Ain’t so hot.

THE TEENS: The 1910s. See ARCADIA.

THE THIRTIES: The 1920s with unemployment.

THE TWENTIES: The 1910s with RADIO and casual sex.

THE TWENTIETH CENTURY: Era in which styrofoam, chloroflorocarbons and
plutonium were first widely utilized.
THE TWENTIETH CENTURY: The era responsible for destroying and
displacing every myth which ever dared us to aspire to true greatness.

THE TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY: Era in which ADVERTISING and its creation of
CONSUMERS and of a system of CONSUMERISM finished the process of

THE UNDERCLASS: See THE POOR.

THE UNEMPLOYED: The Great Unlashed. See THE UNDERCLASS.

THE WEST: Sparsely populated area of American empire subsidized, taxed
and regulated by the SOUTH, MIDWEST and especially THE EAST; area
defined by its inhabitants’ hatred of the SOUTH, MIDWEST and
especially THE EAST.

THE WORKPLACE: A slaughterhouse of moral integrity.

THEATRE: CHURCH for the upwardly mobile BOHEMIAN.

THEY: Always want to make you think there’s nothing wrong.

THOUGHT: Unscientific term used to describe the residual belief that
one person possessed unique IDEAS before it became widely known that
individual conciousness is merely a self-generated illusion (Archaic).
See INDIVIDUAL.

TIME MAGAZINE: Moloch’s House Organ.

TIME: Creates the mosaic of reality.

TISSUE PAPER: Something squeezably soft that you blow your snots in.

TOM CLANCY: John LeCarre for drunks.

TOMORROW: The new now.

TRADITION: Whatever gets in the way.

TRICKLE-DOWN ECONOMICS: A Golden Shower.

TRUTH: Is stranger than faction.

UKELELE: See ULCER.

ULCER: See UKELELE; XYLOPHONE.

UNEXPECTED MENACE, THE: Nature’s oldest joke.

UNEXPLAINED PHENOMENA:  Made-up stories contrived essentially to keep
ordinary people in line. SEE CELEBRITIES.

UNIQUE POINT OF VIEW: Unscientific term used to describe the residual
belief that one person possessed unique IDEAS, before it became widely
known that individual conciousness is merely a self-generated illusion
(Archaic). See INDIVIDUAL; THOUGHT; FREE WILL..

UNITED STATES CONGRESS: Assemblage of drunken, squabbling Lairds.

UNITED STATES CONSTITUTION (Archaic).

UNIVERSITIES: See COLLEGE.

USURY: See SALES TAXES.

VERITIES: Socially acceptable nonsense.

VERITIES: Tomorrow’s cant.

VICE PRESIDENT: Widely despised placeholder.

VIDEO GAMES: Training wheels for epilepsy. See COMPUTER GAMES.

VIETNAM: Bloody battlegound whose principal export was strategic rice.

VOLCANOES: GOD’S global AIR CONDITIONING.

VOLUNTEERS: Busybodies.

WAHH: Translation: “Stop having fun and look at my screaming face.”

WALNUT: A sunflower seed who made the Fortune 500.

WALT DISNEY: A man, now allegedly cryogenically frozen, currently
worshipped for having invented and successfully marketed a six-foot
rat, followed by an assortment of other anthropomorphic mutants; see
DISNEYLAND; DISNEYWORLD.

WEBSITES: The lingua franca of junk.

WEDDINGS: Festivals of ostentation.

WEEKEND: By POPULAR convention that time period set aside for
spontaneous activities. See HOLIDAY WEEKEND; LONG WEEKEND.

WEEKLY TABLOIDS: Remedial stupidity update.

WESTERNERS: Suspicious would-be isolationists.

WHALES: Stinking blubbery ingrates who vomit ambergris on the world’s
oceans and whose bloated fetid corpses litter our nation’s beaches.

WHITE CLOUD TOILET PAPER: Softer than the other leading brand–leaves and dirt.

WIFE: A mystery like no mother.

WILLIAM FAULKNER: Proof positive that nobody can bullshit you better
than a Southerner.

WILLIAM TELL: A Swiss William Burroughs with better aim.

WOODSTOCK: Mythic HIPPIE Eden.

WORK: Pointless exercise which prizes the ability to bear pain and
inflict it on others.

X: The unknown (Archaic); stand-in for a slave name.

X-RAY: Former Manta.

XYLOPHONE: See ULCER.

YALE: A think-tank surrounded by a ghetto; a brainy slum.

YAM: An unpretentious sweet potato.

ZAFTIG: Fat.

ZODIAC KILLER, THE: You can say what you will about the Zodiac Killer,
Mister, but at least he brought astrology into the mainstream.

ZOOKEEPERS: People who steal animals and put them in cages.

SOURCES:
https://web.archive.org/web/20040430174938/http://dreamwater.org/fsad/mw32.htm
https://web.archive.org/web/20040430174938/http://dreamwater.org/fsad/mw33.htm
https://web.archive.org/web/20040430174938/http://dreamwater.org/fsad/mw34.htm
https://web.archive.org/web/20040430174938/http://dreamwater.org/fsad/mw35.htm
https://web.archive.org/web/20040430174938/http://dreamwater.org/fsad/mw36.htm

http://www.gather.com/viewArticle.action?articleId=281474980950364
http://www.gather.com/viewArticle.action?articleId=281474978851374
http://www.gather.com/viewArticle.action?articleId=281474977969402
http://www.gather.com/viewArticle.action?articleId=281474977565421
http://www.gather.com/viewArticle.action?articleId=281474977221496
http://www.gather.com/viewArticle.action?articleId=281474977004227

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would be remiss if I failed to acknowledge some of the groundbreaking
works in this field, including but not limited to:
Gustave Flaubert’s  LE DICTIONNAIRE DES IDEES RECUES (Dictionary of
Received Ideas)
Mark Twain’s Pudd’nhead Wilson’s Calendar
Ambrose Bierce’s Devil’s Dictionary,
George Jean Nathan and H.L. Mencken’s The American Credo: A
Contribution toward the Interpretation of the National Mind,
Leon Bloy’s L’Exegese des Lieux Communs
Marshall McLuhan’s The Mechanical Bride: Folklore of Industrial Man
Jacques Ellul’s A Critique of the New Commonplaces

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THE INFORMATION #800

THE INFORMATION #800
SEPTEMBER 5, 2014
Copyright 2014 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

The best way out is always through. ― Robert Frost

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER NINE: PART TWENTY-SIX: THE MAYOR OF HELL

Tipsy Smith, the proprietor of the Seven Stars Saloon, also gave me
the low-down about Smash Conklin, which he didn’t exactly need to do,
since I was actually at the Saloon on the night he stumbled in there,
and actually witnessed a good deal of what transpired there.

Now, as I think I told you before, the Seven Stars Saloon was a
basement room, paneled all in wood, with ornate carvings from what
must have once been a rich man’s fancy but was now the lowest flop dive in
Noxtown, and tht’s going some, because there was any number of Blind
Pigs and Blind Tigers and Knock-out Joints and Shanghai Dumps and
Holes in the Wall and Low Dives hard by the Salt River where the air
is damp and the tugboats make their infernal tooting all night
long–not so any of the patrons noticed–so stupefied were they by
Coffin Varnish and  Stagger Soup and Pop Skull and Bug Juice. You
could of exploded a stick of Dynamite in that joint and it wouldn’t
have come out looking one whit different. The oaken chairs all had
cracks in them and the  the varnish on the oaken tables was scarred yellow with years of booze slop and the barstools were shiny with the wear and tear of a thousand asses and the sawdust on the floor was most likely yesterday’s furniture–as Tipsy Smith never tired of claiming.

And with all the cracks in the thick glass windows that faced the
street, why, in the wintertime the joint was cold as hell on the
stoker’s day off. And in the summer it was hot as hell with the hinges
off. The Seven Stars drew the riverboat trade. Sailors, merchant marines, and
dock- wallopers. It was also full of lushermen and common tramps and
yekkmen. Of circus troupers, carnies and roustabouts, especially in
the cold and rainy off-season. Of boodlers, boozers, kickers, knockers,
and would-be managers.  Of dips, molls, punks, gunsels, catamites, and
other perverts. Plenty of stray Tups on the loose, too, along with
demis and lallygags and ladies of joy. And every one of them drank, and shouted
in an argle-bargle of different accents, lingos, and several languages
too, none of which I knowed. It’s how I imagine hell might have
sounded, in one of its more sentimental moments.  What with the
brawling and the bawling and the singing of chanties and drunken
Barber Shop favorites and the shouting and the blubbering and the
babbling, if you was any kind off respectable lady you would be well
advised to stuff some cotton in your ears and sport a pair of hoss
blinders because “discreet women have neither eyes nor ears ; that
would be wooed and not unsought be won.”

Of course, no respectable lady would be found within one red mile of
the joint. Not even the ladies from the Sally–the Salvation Army–or
the settlement house cared to venture there. Any preachers who set
foot in the joint would be chawed up and spat out, tout suite.
Policemen hardly fared much better, and besides, the patch fee was
paid to the patch man to square any beef in advance, and no jolly
copper ever stopped by except maybe early in the morning for a bracer, gratis, courtesy of the house. That’s because the money went all the way up to Police
Captain Tom Aston. The world may be round but it hangs on crooked
hinges all the same–and for all three-hundred and sixty degrees.
Everybody has an agenda. Ev-ry-bo-dy. Like a squirrel who gathers
nuts. People store up their grudges and petty revenges, and life long.

Anyway, because there warn’t never no bulls there were fights at the
Seven Stars that lasted from can’t see till daylight.  So when Smash
Conklin walks in and  looks as if he’s going to start something, the
whole place goes quiet.

But Conklin–old Uglyface–warn’t his usual brash self. Instead, he
started babbling about the crazy experience he had.  He was down at
the carnival midway, drawn in by the hurly-burly, with electric lights
and grinning clowns. He took a mallet in the test of strength and rang
the bell and got a free cigar.  Then he entered the Red and Black
Carnival.  “A hall of horrors, it was!” Where a twisty-mouthed midget
chased him around a mulberry bush. Where a man with three eyes pointed
three pistols at him and while firing them all at once, shouted
“You’ll never get me!”  Where a drooling half-wit mumbled,
“Hurr hurr hurr…Going to cut his head off and give it to my girl!”

And there was more.

Conklin ventured into a heavily curtained room where a fly copper with a
green skull was lurking behind the arras, truncheon at the ready.  As
he twirled it, it transformed into a sleek brown rattlesnake. The curtained room
led to the middle of the vast hallway, where a skeleton was rising
from a gunny sack. In another part of the hall, a man was seated on a
trash can, praying for Lucifer not to take his soul.  Over by the
stained glass windows, a Sky Pilot was giving an oration over Smash
Conklins’s earthly remains. “But I wasn’t dead yet!”

So Smash ran outside, past the cemetary, where, just over the ridge, a
battle raged amid the tall grass. A pig-faced man on two fat legs wearing
a soldier’s uniform jabbed a bayonet into his shoulder. Behind him, a
man wielding a monkeywrench was threatening to conk him in the noggin.
Off in the far corner of the meadow, the village blacksmith was vowing
to use his head as an anvil. Suddenly, he was surrounded by Red
Indians on all sides. They were all ready to scalp him “for heap big
wampum.”  He fled to a nearby stream. A Romanian river nymph–a
grinning fat lady covered with seaweed who said her name was Sase
Duca–rose from the
stream and threatened to drown him. Instead, he was carried off by an
eight-foot giant who hefted him under his arms like a sack of meal.
Smash squirmed free. “I said ‘Gangway! I want out!”

So then he fled to the Seven Stars.

Suddenly, a full platoon of Russian Hussars mounted on horses burst in
through the windows and threatened to run him through with their
flashing scimitars. Smash screamed in terror.

“And I woke up.”

It sounded to Tipsy Smith as though someone had dosed him with
Laudanum or opium. As it was, Smash’s mouth was dry and his face was
gurning in a most unpleasant way and if my guess was correct I would
suspect he had just shoved his nose into some of the asthma powders
which were so popular with the cocaine fiends who prowled around the
joint–the Good Lordie Himself knows there were plenty of suppliers of
same.

Smash started running low on talk and with his sad scarred face he
looked and actually seemed contrite. I–almost–felt sorry for him.
But then he spied Jimmy Ragmop–a harmless old eccentric vagabond who
cleaned up the place. And he started lashing into him. “YOU!” he
shrieked. “I’ll trim your sails for you, Ragmop. I don’t care who
you’re with. You’re a lopsided mistake of nature.  Ragmop, Ragmap,
what ARE we going to DO with you?” he sneered.  And he made as if to
strike poor old Jimmy.

It was a big mistake.

For Ragmop, having patiently tried to appease Smash Conklin in the
past, suddenly turned around and you could see he was holding in both fists a
wicked-looking Bowie knife of the kind they called a Arkansas
Toothpick. It was at least eight inches long. “Uglyface–I swear to
God–if you so much as touch me, I’ll cut you from ear to ear so your
own Mammy won’t recognize you!” Conklin began slowly backing up to
reach the door. The bar was, for once, deathly silent. “I allus
knew–allus knew you was a menace, Ragmop,” Smash feebly said.

“And you druve me to it,” said Ragmop. “I tried to make nice with you,
Brutus, but you are an infamous miscreant! The lowest dog that ever
crawled from the whelping den! A big, fat, liver-lipped,
blubber-nosed, black-eyed recreant! I live to see the day when you are
reduced to plucking pennies from out’n the gutter. There you’ll
be–your filthy ulster covered with snot and puke–and there I’ll
be–rolling by in my horseless carriage–lightin’ big ceegars with
hundred dollar bills–a boofur lady on each arm–laffin’–laffin’!”
Jimmy Ragmop then stepped forward and made a one-handed threatening gesture with
the knife, and Smash Conklin, as white as a sheet of parchment, turned
tail and scrambled up the flight of wooden stairs as quickly as though
he were a scalded pup.

I knew there would be trouble to come of this. And soon. Because Smash
was also connected, in a big way, and was in with some pretty
desperate characters, including he who must not be named–namely (to
name him), The Big Man. Cokey Stolas.

1*SALUTATION
JACKIE DESHANNON
PUT A LITTLE LOVE IN YOUR HEART
https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=CMj7UcjPZ0U

2*REFERENCE
2014-15 WINTER OUTLOOK
http://www.almanac.com/weather/longrange/OH

3*HUMOR
THE VISUAL PRIMER OF ADVERTISING CLICHES
http://advertisingcliche.blogspot.com/2013/09/the-girl-who-was-ambitious-horlicks.html

4*NOVELTY
ANIMATED PILOTS THAT NEVER MADE IT
http://cartoonresearch.com/index.php/animated-pilots-that-never-made-it/

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
PARAPHILIA MAGAZINE
http://www.paraphiliamagazine.com/

6* DAILY UTILITY
BAD SUSHI COMMERCIAL
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S-lCa5zNDP0

ALSO SEE:
WORST SCI FI/FANTASY BOOK COVERS
http://www.goodshowsir.co.uk/

7*CARTOON
CLIMAX YOUR MIND
CRIME COMICS
https://climaxyourmind.wordpress.com/tag/crime-comics/

8*PRESCRIPTION
WHAT DO YOU LOOK LIKE IN ULTRAVIOLET?
http://www.slate.com/blogs/bad_astronomy/2014/08/14/portraits_in_uv_thomas_leveritt_video_of_faces_in_ultraviolet.html?wpsrc=fol_fb

9*RUMOR PATROL
PCP: DRUG THAT TURNS TEENS CRAZY
http://www.thedailybeast.com/articles/2011/04/22/pcp-the-new-rise-of-a-drug-that-turns-teens-crazy.html

10* LAGNIAPPE
21-645
BABBLE
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xUJ8YWvffx4

11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
UGLY COVERS FROM THE AGE OF VINYL REISSUES
http://www.richieunterberger.com/wordpress/ugly-covers-from-the-golden-age-of-vinyl-reissues/

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.
758. REVIVE–WITH VIVARIN!
REVIVE…WITH VIVARIN!
Back in the drug ­suffused sixties I was but a lad of tender years,
and the kaleidoscopic array of substances on offer were of little
interest to me, although I was quite taken with a frantic ­­if not, in
fact, frighteningly manic little broadcast ditty which went thus:

Get a little lift, take Vivarin
That’s V­I­V­A­R­I­N
Get a little lift, take Vivarin!

Not since reading Upton Sinclair’s “The Jungle,” in which Jurgis
Rudkis serenaded his Lithuanian family with his maddeningly repetitive
rendition of “In the Good Old Summertime,” had I been so entranced by
the stupefying potential of cheap music.

But the ghouls at the Vivarin ad agency weren’t quite through with me
yet. Witness the following, highly sentimental 1985 scenario, which I
have taken the liberty of dubbing, “If You Don’t Graduate, We’re
Through!”

For those of you without the benefit of advanced computer technology
such as youtube, I will summarize this poignant playlet.

A young woman has, judging from her sweater and
high­ prole-­cum-­bargain ­basement­ bourgeoise feathered hairdo,
haphazardly hunkered down at the local institution of higher
education. Let’s assume she lives in the Jan Miner Dormitory at
Palmolive Dish Liquid Community College. This busty but slightly drab
midinette is apparently hell­bent on landing a spoiled and rather
dimwitted young scion of the middling to lower-­upper mercantile
class. (I am assuming that the stolid hunk’s
pappy made his bundle with some dumb­ass minor­-league scam, such as
selling slightly used popsicle sticks to second graders, or hawking
off­-brand auto parts to purblind septuagenarians, or palming diluted
Penicillin off onto impoverished bohunks, or some such.)

Unfortunately for the young lady, her big plans for matrimony­­ and a
life filled with screaming brats and her future husband’s alcoholic
shenanigans ­­threaten to be derailed by the Big Stupe’s inability to
pass his final exams.

This, so far, is the backstory.

Into his den she strides, happy as a daft moggy with a catnip collar,
when she espies Lunko fast asleep with his head on his desk, with
presumably only hours to go until the big test.

She then delivers the following deathless line of monologue with all
the ferociousness of the power­crazed Barbara Stanwyck in “The Violent
Men”: “Wake UP! If you don’t graduate, we’re THROUGH!”

Thoroughly duped and cowed by this display of feminine animus, he
lethargically croaks, “I’m bushed!”

It is here that the sweater girl lashes into her dozey Romeo with the
forceful avidity of a god-intoxicated Maenad preparing to give suck to
a wolf cub. “Heah,” she crows, “Revive with Vivarin…helps wake yew
UP.” And then the shameless hussy literally wraps her sinister pink
coils around the half­wakened dumbbell’s hapless neck while proffering
what might as well be labeled, in boldface letters, “THE FORBIDDEN
FRUIT.”

At which point the hearty voice of Zeus from out of the clouds booms
out the information that “Government­ appointed experts” have approved
the stuff as safe. (Presumably this omnipotent voice is referring to
the omniscient Food and Drug Administration, which has, in fact,
grudgingly allowed that the principal stimulating ingredient in
coffee, tea, cocoa, aspirin, soda pop, and even ice cream is, in fact,
generally recognized as safe.)

Goaded by the shrieking caffeine Harpy, the young fellow, still in the
throes, it seems, of having been wakened from a badly­ needed
restorative dream, rather groggily endorses the rather sinister pills
with the dubious encomium, “Revive…with Vivarin!”

Alas, the master playwrights writing circa long-­ago October 1985 have
tragically left us with only a fifteen­ second fragment. Here’s the
suspenseful part. What happens next? Some of the greatest literary
minds have grappled with this conundrum, but nobody yet has emerged
with a definitive answer. The dramatic question needing to be resolved
is as follows: Does Diploma Boy actually marry the Vivarin whore–­­or
do they break up three days before he gets the sheepskin?

I’m guessing the former. I’m hoping the latter.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=27ThcuP_FmM&p=3F2DF0790484B546&playnext=1&index=52

THE INFORMATION #800 SEPTEMBER 5, 2014

THE INFORMATION #800
SEPTEMBER 5, 2014
Copyright 2014 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

The best way out is always through. ― Robert Frost

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER NINE: PART TWENTY-SIX: THE MAYOR OF HELL

Tipsy Smith, the proprietor of the Seven Stars Saloon, also gave me
the low-down about Smash Coughlin, which he didn’t exactly need to do,
since I was actually at the Saloon on the night he stumbled in there,
and actually witnessed a good deal of what transpired there.

Now, as I think I told you before, the Seven Stars Saloon was a
basement room, paneled all in wood, with ornate carvings from what
must have once been a rich man’s fancy but was now the lowest flop dive in
Noxtown, and tht’s going some, because there was any number of Blind
Pigs and Blind Tigers and Knock-out Joints and Shanghai Dumps and
Holes in the Wall and Low Dives hard by the Salt River where the air
is damp and the tugboats make their infernal tooting all night
long–not so any of the patrons noticed–so stupefied were they by
Coffin Varnish and  Stagger Soup and Pop Skull and Bug Juice. You
could of exploded a stick of Dynamite in that joint and it wouldn’t
have come out looking one whit different. The oaken chairs all had
cracks in them and the oaken tables were scarred yellow with years of
booze slop and the barstools were shiny with the wear and tear of
a thousand asses and the sawdust on the floor was most likely
yesterday’s furniture–as Tipsy Smith never tired of claiming.

And with all the cracks in the thick glass windows that faced the
street, why, in the wintertime the joint was cold as hell on the
stoker’s day off. And in the summer it was hot as hell with the hinges
off. The Seven Stars drew the riverboat trade. Sailors, merchant marines, and
dock- wallopers. It was also full of lushermen and common tramps and
yekkmen. Of circus troupers, carnies and roustabouts, especially in
the cold and rainy off-season. Of boodlers, boozers, kickers, knockers,
and would-be managers.  Of dips, molls, punks, gunsels, catamites, and
other perverts. Plenty of stray Tups on the loose, too, along with
demis and lallygags and ladies of joy. And every one of them drank, and shouted
in an argle-bargle of different accents, lingos, and several languages
too, none of which I knowed. It’s how I imagine hell might have
sounded, in one of its more sentimental moments.  What with the
brawling and the bawling and the singing of chanties and drunken
Barber Shop favorites and the shouting and the blubbering and the
babbling, if you was any kind off respectable lady you would be well
advised to stuff some cotton in your ears and sport a pair of hoss
blinders because “discreet women have neither eyes nor ears ; that
would be wooed and not unsought be won.”

Of course, no respectable lady would be found within one red mile of
the joint. Not even the ladies from the Sally–the Salvation Army–or
the settlement house cared to venture there. Any preachers who set
foot in the joint would be chawed up and spat out, tout suite.
Policemen hardly fared much better, and besides, the patch fee was
paid to the patch man to square any beef in advance, and no jolly
copper ever stopped by except maybe early in the morning for a bracer, gratis, courtesy of
the house. That’s because the money went all the way up to Police
Captain Tom Aston. The world may be round but it hangs on crooked
hinges all the same–and for all three-hundred and sixty degrees.
Everybody has an agenda. Ev-ry-bo-dy. Like a squirrel who gathers
nuts. People store up their grudges and petty revenges, and life long.

Anyway, because there warn’t never no bulls there were fights at the
Seven Stars that lasted from can’t see till daylight.  So when Smash
Conklin walks in and  looks as if he’s going to start something, the
whole place goes quiet.

But Conklin–old Uglyface–warn’t his usual brash self. Instead, he
started babbling about the crazy experience he had.  He was down at
the carnival midway, drawn in by the hurly-burly, with electric lights
and grinning clowns. He took a mallet in the test of strength and rang
the bell and got a free cigar.  Then he entered the Red and Black
Carnival.  “A hall of horrors, it was!” Where a twisty-mouthed midget
chased him around a mulberry bush. Where a man with three eyes pointed
three pistols at him and while firing them all at once, shouted
“You’ll never get me!”  Where a drooling half-wit mumbled,
“Hurr hurr hurr…Going to cut his head off and give it to my girl!”

And there was more.

Conklin ventured into a heavily curtained room where a fly copper with a
green skull was lurking behind the arras, truncheon at the ready.  As
he twirled it, it transformed into a sleek brown rattlesnake. The curtained room
led to the middle of the vast hallway, where a skeleton was rising
from a gunny sack. In another part of the hall, a man was seated on a
trash can, praying for Lucifer not to take his soul.  Over by the
stained glass windows, a Sky Pilot was giving an oration over Smash
Conklins’s earthly remains. “But I wasn’t dead yet!”

So Smash ran outside, past the cemetary, where, just over the ridge, a
battle raged amid the tall grass. A pig-faced man on two fat legs wearing
a soldier’s uniform jabbed a bayonet into his shoulder. Behind him, a
man wielding a monkeywrench was threatening to conk him in the noggin.
Off in the far corner of the meadow, the village blacksmith was vowing
to use his head as an anvil. Suddenly, he was surrounded by Red
Indians on all sides. They were all ready to scalp him “for heap big
wampum.”  He fled to a nearby stream. A Romanian river nymph–a
grinning fat lady covered with seaweed who said her name was Sase
Duca–rose from the
stream and threatened to drown him. Instead, he was carried off by an
eight-foot giant who hefted him under his arms like a sack of meal.
Smash squirmed free. “I said ‘Gangway! I want out!”

So then he fled to the Seven Stars.

Suddenly, a full platoon of Russian Hussars mounted on horses burst in
through the windows and threatened to run him through with their
flashing scimitars. Smash screamed in terror.

“And I woke up.”

It sounded to Tipsy Smith as though someone had dosed him with
Laudanum or opium. As it was, Smash’s mouth was dry and his face was
gurning in a most unpleasant way and if my guess was correct I would
suspect he had just shoved his nose into some of the asthma powders
which were so popular with the cocaine fiends who prowled around the
joint–the Good Lordie Himself knows there were plenty of suppliers of
same.

Smash started running low on talk and with his sad scarred face he
looked and actually seemed contrite. I–almost–felt sorry for him.
But then he spied Jimmy Ragmop–a harmless old eccentric vagabond who
cleaned up the place. And he started lashing into him. “YOU!” he
shrieked. “I’ll trim your sails for you, Ragmop. I don’t care who
you’re with. You’re a lopsided mistake of nature.  Ragmop, Ragmap,
what ARE we going to DO with you?” he sneered.  And he made as if to
strike poor old Jimmy.

It was a big mistake.

For Ragmop, having patiently tried to appease Smash Conklin in the
past, suddenly turned around and you could see he was holding in both fists a
wicked-looking Bowie knife of the kind they called a Arkansas
Toothpick. It was at least eight inches long. “Uglyface–I swear to
God–if you so much as touch me, I’ll cut you from ear to ear so your
own Mammy won’t recognize you!” Conklin began slowly backing up to
reach the door. The bar was, for once, deathly silent. “I allus
knew–allus knew you was a menace, Ragmop,” Smash feebly said.

“And you druve me to it,” said Ragmop. “I tried to make nice with you,
Brutus, but you are an infamous miscreant! The lowest dog that ever
crawled from the whelping den! A big, fat, liver-lipped,
blubber-nosed, black-eyed recreant! I live to see the day when you are
reduced to plucking pennies from out’n the gutter. There you’ll
be–your filthy ulster covered with snot and puke–and there I’ll
be–rolling by in my horseless carriage–lightin’ big ceegars with
hundred dollar bills–a boofur lady on each arm–laffin’–laffin’!”
Jimmy Ragmop then stepped forward and made a one-handed threatening gesture with
the knife, and Smash Conklin, as white as a sheet of parchment, turned
tail and scrambled up the flight of wooden stairs as quickly as though
he were a scalded pup.

I knew there would be trouble to come of this. And soon. Because Smash
was also connected, in a big way, and was in with some pretty
desperate characters, including he who must not be named–namely (to
name him), The Big Man. Cokey Stolas.

1*SALUTATION
JACKIE DESHANNON
PUT A LITTLE LOVE IN YOUR HEART
https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=CMj7UcjPZ0U

2*REFERENCE
2014-15 WINTER OUTLOOK
http://www.almanac.com/weather/longrange/OH

3*HUMOR
THE VISUAL PRIMER OF ADVERTISING CLICHES
http://advertisingcliche.blogspot.com/2013/09/the-girl-who-was-ambitious-horlicks.html

4*NOVELTY
ANIMATED PILOTS THAT NEVER MADE IT
http://cartoonresearch.com/index.php/animated-pilots-that-never-made-it/

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
PARAPHILIA MAGAZINE
http://www.paraphiliamagazine.com/

6* DAILY UTILITY
BAD SUSHI COMMERCIAL
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S-lCa5zNDP0

ALSO SEE:
WORST SCI FI/FANTASY BOOK COVERS
http://www.goodshowsir.co.uk/

7*CARTOON
CLIMAX YOUR MIND
CRIME COMICS
https://climaxyourmind.wordpress.com/tag/crime-comics/

8*PRESCRIPTION
WHAT DO YOU LOOK LIKE IN ULTRAVIOLET?
http://www.slate.com/blogs/bad_astronomy/2014/08/14/portraits_in_uv_thomas_leveritt_video_of_faces_in_ultraviolet.html?wpsrc=fol_fb

9*RUMOR PATROL
PCP: DRUG THAT TURNS TEENS CRAZY
http://www.thedailybeast.com/articles/2011/04/22/pcp-the-new-rise-of-a-drug-that-turns-teens-crazy.html

10* LAGNIAPPE
21-645
BABBLE
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xUJ8YWvffx4

11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
UGLY COVERS FROM THE AGE OF VINYL REISSUES
http://www.richieunterberger.com/wordpress/ugly-covers-from-the-golden-age-of-vinyl-reissues/

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.
758. REVIVE–WITH VIVARIN!
REVIVE…WITH VIVARIN!
Back in the drug ­suffused sixties I was but a lad of tender years,
and the kaleidoscopic array of substances on offer were of little
interest to me, although I was quite taken with a frantic ­­if not, in
fact, frighteningly manic little broadcast ditty which went thus:

Get a little lift, take Vivarin
That’s V­I­V­A­R­I­N
Get a little lift, take Vivarin!

Not since reading Upton Sinclair’s “The Jungle,” in which Jurgis
Rudkis serenaded his Lithuanian family with his maddeningly repetitive
rendition of “In the Good Old Summertime,” had I been so entranced by
the stupefying potential of cheap music.

But the ghouls at the Vivarin ad agency weren’t quite through with me
yet. Witness the following, highly sentimental 1985 scenario, which I
have taken the liberty of dubbing, “If You Don’t Graduate, We’re
Through!”

For those of you without the benefit of advanced computer technology
such as youtube, I will summarize this poignant playlet.

A young woman has, judging from her sweater and
high­ prole-­cum-­bargain ­basement­ bourgeoise feathered hairdo,
haphazardly hunkered down at the local institution of higher
education. Let’s assume she lives in the Jan Miner Dormitory at
Palmolive Dish Liquid Community College. This busty but slightly drab
midinette is apparently hell­bent on landing a spoiled and rather
dimwitted young scion of the middling to lower-­upper mercantile
class. (I am assuming that the stolid hunk’s
pappy made his bundle with some dumb­ass minor­-league scam, such as
selling slightly used popsicle sticks to second graders, or hawking
off­-brand auto parts to purblind septuagenarians, or palming diluted
Penicillin off onto impoverished bohunks, or some such.)

Unfortunately for the young lady, her big plans for matrimony­­ and a
life filled with screaming brats and her future husband’s alcoholic
shenanigans ­­threaten to be derailed by the Big Stupe’s inability to
pass his final exams.

This, so far, is the backstory.

Into his den she strides, happy as a daft moggy with a catnip collar,
when she espies Lunko fast asleep with his head on his desk, with
presumably only hours to go until the big test.

She then delivers the following deathless line of monologue with all
the ferociousness of the power­crazed Barbara Stanwyck in “The Violent
Men”: “Wake UP! If you don’t graduate, we’re THROUGH!”

Thoroughly duped and cowed by this display of feminine animus, he
lethargically croaks, “I’m bushed!”

It is here that the sweater girl lashes into her dozey Romeo with the
forceful avidity of a god-intoxicated Maenad preparing to give suck to
a wolf cub. “Heah,” she crows, “Revive with Vivarin…helps wake yew
UP.” And then the shameless hussy literally wraps her sinister pink
coils around the half­wakened dumbbell’s hapless neck while proffering
what might as well be labeled, in boldface letters, “THE FORBIDDEN
FRUIT.”

At which point the hearty voice of Zeus from out of the clouds booms
out the information that “Government­ appointed experts” have approved
the stuff as safe. (Presumably this omnipotent voice is referring to
the omniscient Food and Drug Administration, which has, in fact,
grudgingly allowed that the principal stimulating ingredient in
coffee, tea, cocoa, aspirin, soda pop, and even ice cream is, in fact,
generally recognized as safe.)

Goaded by the shrieking caffeine Harpy, the young fellow, still in the
throes, it seems, of having been wakened from a badly­ needed
restorative dream, rather groggily endorses the rather sinister pills
with the dubious encomium, “Revive…with Vivarin!”

Alas, the master playwrights writing circa long-­ago October 1985 have
tragically left us with only a fifteen­ second fragment. Here’s the
suspenseful part. What happens next? Some of the greatest literary
minds have grappled with this conundrum, but nobody yet has emerged
with a definitive answer. The dramatic question needing to be resolved
is as follows: Does Diploma Boy actually marry the Vivarin whore–­­or
do they break up three days before he gets the sheepskin?

I’m guessing the former. I’m hoping the latter.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=27ThcuP_FmM&p=3F2DF0790484B546&playnext=1&index=52

THE INFORMATION #800 SEPTEMBER 5, 2014

THE INFORMATION #800
SEPTEMBER 5, 2014
Copyright 2014 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

The best way out is always through. ― Robert Frost

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER NINE: PART TWENTY-SIX: THE MAYOR OF HELL

Tipsy Smith, the proprietor of the Seven Stars Saloon, also gave me
the low-down about Smash Coughlin, which he didn’t exactly need to do,
since I was actually at the Saloon on the night he stumbled in there,
and actually witnessed a good deal of what transpired there.

Now, as I think I told you before, the Seven Stars Saloon was a
basement room, paneled all in wood, with ornate carvings from what
must have once been a rich man’s fancy but was now the lowest flop dive in
Noxtown, and tht’s going some, because there was any number of Blind
Pigs and Blind Tigers and Knock-out Joints and Shanghai Dumps and
Holes in the Wall and Low Dives hard by the Salt River where the air
is damp and the tugboats make their infernal tooting all night
long–not so any of the patrons noticed–so stupefied were they by
Coffin Varnish and  Stagger Soup and Pop Skull and Bug Juice. You
could of exploded a stick of Dynamite in that joint and it wouldn’t
have come out looking one whit different. The oaken chairs all had
cracks in them and the oaken tables were scarred yellow with years of
booze slop and the barstools were shiny with the wear and tear of
a thousand asses and the sawdust on the floor was most likely
yesterday’s furniture–as Tipsy Smith never tired of claiming.

And with all the cracks in the thick glass windows that faced the
street, why, in the wintertime the joint was cold as hell on the
stoker’s day off. And in the summer it was hot as hell with the hinges
off. The Seven Stars drew the riverboat trade. Sailors, merchant marines, and
dock- wallopers. It was also full of lushermen and common tramps and
yekkmen. Of circus troupers, carnies and roustabouts, especially in
the cold and rainy off-season. Of boodlers, boozers, kickers, knockers,
and would-be managers.  Of dips, molls, punks, gunsels, catamites, and
other perverts. Plenty of stray Tups on the loose, too, along with
demis and lallygags and ladies of joy. And every one of them drank, and shouted
in an argle-bargle of different accents, lingos, and several languages
too, none of which I knowed. It’s how I imagine hell might have
sounded, in one of its more sentimental moments.  What with the
brawling and the bawling and the singing of chanties and drunken
Barber Shop favorites and the shouting and the blubbering and the
babbling, if you was any kind off respectable lady you would be well
advised to stuff some cotton in your ears and sport a pair of hoss
blinders because “discreet women have neither eyes nor ears ; that
would be wooed and not unsought be won.”

Of course, no respectable lady would be found within one red mile of
the joint. Not even the ladies from the Sally–the Salvation Army–or
the settlement house cared to venture there. Any preachers who set
foot in the joint would be chawed up and spat out, tout suite.
Policemen hardly fared much better, and besides, the patch fee was
paid to the patch man to square any beef in advance, and no jolly
copper ever stopped by except maybe early in the morning for a bracer, gratis, courtesy of
the house. That’s because the money went all the way up to Police
Captain Tom Aston. The world may be round but it hangs on crooked
hinges all the same–and for all three-hundred and sixty degrees.
Everybody has an agenda. Ev-ry-bo-dy. Like a squirrel who gathers
nuts. People store up their grudges and petty revenges, and life long.

Anyway, because there warn’t never no bulls there were fights at the
Seven Stars that lasted from can’t see till daylight.  So when Smash
Conklin walks in and  looks as if he’s going to start something, the
whole place goes quiet.

But Conklin–old Uglyface–warn’t his usual brash self. Instead, he
started babbling about the crazy experience he had.  He was down at
the carnival midway, drawn in by the hurly-burly, with electric lights
and grinning clowns. He took a mallet in the test of strength and rang
the bell and got a free cigar.  Then he entered the Red and Black
Carnival.  “A hall of horrors, it was!” Where a twisty-mouthed midget
chased him around a mulberry bush. Where a man with three eyes pointed
three pistols at him and while firing them all at once, shouted
“You’ll never get me!”  Where a drooling half-wit mumbled,
“Hurr hurr hurr…Going to cut his head off and give it to my girl!”

And there was more.

Conklin ventured into a heavily curtained room where a fly copper with a
green skull was lurking behind the arras, truncheon at the ready.  As
he twirled it, it transformed into a sleek brown rattlesnake. The curtained room
led to the middle of the vast hallway, where a skeleton was rising
from a gunny sack. In another part of the hall, a man was seated on a
trash can, praying for Lucifer not to take his soul.  Over by the
stained glass windows, a Sky Pilot was giving an oration over Smash
Conklins’s earthly remains. “But I wasn’t dead yet!”

So Smash ran outside, past the cemetary, where, just over the ridge, a
battle raged amid the tall grass. A pig-faced man on two fat legs wearing
a soldier’s uniform jabbed a bayonet into his shoulder. Behind him, a
man wielding a monkeywrench was threatening to conk him in the noggin.
Off in the far corner of the meadow, the village blacksmith was vowing
to use his head as an anvil. Suddenly, he was surrounded by Red
Indians on all sides. They were all ready to scalp him “for heap big
wampum.”  He fled to a nearby stream. A Romanian river nymph–a
grinning fat lady covered with seaweed who said her name was Sase
Duca–rose from the
stream and threatened to drown him. Instead, he was carried off by an
eight-foot giant who hefted him under his arms like a sack of meal.
Smash squirmed free. “I said ‘Gangway! I want out!”

So then he fled to the Seven Stars.

Suddenly, a full platoon of Russian Hussars mounted on horses burst in
through the windows and threatened to run him through with their
flashing scimitars. Smash screamed in terror.

“And I woke up.”

It sounded to Tipsy Smith as though someone had dosed him with
Laudanum or opium. As it was, Smash’s mouth was dry and his face was
gurning in a most unpleasant way and if my guess was correct I would
suspect he had just shoved his nose into some of the asthma powders
which were so popular with the cocaine fiends who prowled around the
joint–the Good Lordie Himself knows there were plenty of suppliers of
same.

Smash started running low on talk and with his sad scarred face he
looked and actually seemed contrite. I–almost–felt sorry for him.
But then he spied Jimmy Ragmop–a harmless old eccentric vagabond who
cleaned up the place. And he started lashing into him. “YOU!” he
shrieked. “I’ll trim your sails for you, Ragmop. I don’t care who
you’re with. You’re a lopsided mistake of nature.  Ragmop, Ragmap,
what ARE we going to DO with you?” he sneered.  And he made as if to
strike poor old Jimmy.

It was a big mistake.

For Ragmop, having patiently tried to appease Smash Conklin in the
past, suddenly turned around and you could see he was holding in both fists a
wicked-looking Bowie knife of the kind they called a Arkansas
Toothpick. It was at least eight inches long. “Uglyface–I swear to
God–if you so much as touch me, I’ll cut you from ear to ear so your
own Mammy won’t recognize you!” Conklin began slowly backing up to
reach the door. The bar was, for once, deathly silent. “I allus
knew–allus knew you was a menace, Ragmop,” Smash feebly said.

“And you druve me to it,” said Ragmop. “I tried to make nice with you,
Brutus, but you are an infamous miscreant! The lowest dog that ever
crawled from the whelping den! A big, fat, liver-lipped,
blubber-nosed, black-eyed recreant! I live to see the day when you are
reduced to plucking pennies from out’n the gutter. There you’ll
be–your filthy ulster covered with snot and puke–and there I’ll
be–rolling by in my horseless carriage–lightin’ big ceegars with
hundred dollar bills–a boofur lady on each arm–laffin’–laffin’!”
Jimmy Ragmop then stepped forward and made a one-handed threatening gesture with
the knife, and Smash Conklin, as white as a sheet of parchment, turned
tail and scrambled up the flight of wooden stairs as quickly as though
he were a scalded pup.

I knew there would be trouble to come of this. And soon. Because Smash
was also connected, in a big way, and was in with some pretty
desperate characters, including he who must not be named–namely (to
name him), The Big Man. Cokey Stolas.

1*SALUTATION
JACKIE DESHANNON
PUT A LITTLE LOVE IN YOUR HEART
https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=CMj7UcjPZ0U

2*REFERENCE
2014-15 WINTER OUTLOOK
http://www.almanac.com/weather/longrange/OH

3*HUMOR
THE VISUAL PRIMER OF ADVERTISING CLICHES
http://advertisingcliche.blogspot.com/2013/09/the-girl-who-was-ambitious-horlicks.html

4*NOVELTY
ANIMATED PILOTS THAT NEVER MADE IT
http://cartoonresearch.com/index.php/animated-pilots-that-never-made-it/

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
PARAPHILIA MAGAZINE
http://www.paraphiliamagazine.com/

6* DAILY UTILITY
BAD SUSHI COMMERCIAL
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S-lCa5zNDP0

ALSO SEE:
WORST SCI FI/FANTASY BOOK COVERS
http://www.goodshowsir.co.uk/

7*CARTOON
CLIMAX YOUR MIND
CRIME COMICS
https://climaxyourmind.wordpress.com/tag/crime-comics/

8*PRESCRIPTION
WHAT DO YOU LOOK LIKE IN ULTRAVIOLET?
http://www.slate.com/blogs/bad_astronomy/2014/08/14/portraits_in_uv_thomas_leveritt_video_of_faces_in_ultraviolet.html?wpsrc=fol_fb

9*RUMOR PATROL
PCP: DRUG THAT TURNS TEENS CRAZY
http://www.thedailybeast.com/articles/2011/04/22/pcp-the-new-rise-of-a-drug-that-turns-teens-crazy.html

10* LAGNIAPPE
21-645
BABBLE
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xUJ8YWvffx4

11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
UGLY COVERS FROM THE AGE OF VINYL REISSUES
http://www.richieunterberger.com/wordpress/ugly-covers-from-the-golden-age-of-vinyl-reissues/

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.
758. REVIVE–WITH VIVARIN!
REVIVE…WITH VIVARIN!
Back in the drug ­suffused sixties I was but a lad of tender years,
and the kaleidoscopic array of substances on offer were of little
interest to me, although I was quite taken with a frantic ­­if not, in
fact, frighteningly manic little broadcast ditty which went thus:

Get a little lift, take Vivarin
That’s V­I­V­A­R­I­N
Get a little lift, take Vivarin!

Not since reading Upton Sinclair’s “The Jungle,” in which Jurgis
Rudkis serenaded his Lithuanian family with his maddeningly repetitive
rendition of “In the Good Old Summertime,” had I been so entranced by
the stupefying potential of cheap music.

But the ghouls at the Vivarin ad agency weren’t quite through with me
yet. Witness the following, highly sentimental 1985 scenario, which I
have taken the liberty of dubbing, “If You Don’t Graduate, We’re
Through!”

For those of you without the benefit of advanced computer technology
such as youtube, I will summarize this poignant playlet.

A young woman has, judging from her sweater and
high­ prole-­cum-­bargain ­basement­ bourgeoise feathered hairdo,
haphazardly hunkered down at the local institution of higher
education. Let’s assume she lives in the Jan Miner Dormitory at
Palmolive Dish Liquid Community College. This busty but slightly drab
midinette is apparently hell­bent on landing a spoiled and rather
dimwitted young scion of the middling to lower-­upper mercantile
class. (I am assuming that the stolid hunk’s
pappy made his bundle with some dumb­ass minor­-league scam, such as
selling slightly used popsicle sticks to second graders, or hawking
off­-brand auto parts to purblind septuagenarians, or palming diluted
Penicillin off onto impoverished bohunks, or some such.)

Unfortunately for the young lady, her big plans for matrimony­­ and a
life filled with screaming brats and her future husband’s alcoholic
shenanigans ­­threaten to be derailed by the Big Stupe’s inability to
pass his final exams.

This, so far, is the backstory.

Into his den she strides, happy as a daft moggy with a catnip collar,
when she espies Lunko fast asleep with his head on his desk, with
presumably only hours to go until the big test.

She then delivers the following deathless line of monologue with all
the ferociousness of the power­crazed Barbara Stanwyck in “The Violent
Men”: “Wake UP! If you don’t graduate, we’re THROUGH!”

Thoroughly duped and cowed by this display of feminine animus, he
lethargically croaks, “I’m bushed!”

It is here that the sweater girl lashes into her dozey Romeo with the
forceful avidity of a god-intoxicated Maenad preparing to give suck to
a wolf cub. “Heah,” she crows, “Revive with Vivarin…helps wake yew
UP.” And then the shameless hussy literally wraps her sinister pink
coils around the half­wakened dumbbell’s hapless neck while proffering
what might as well be labeled, in boldface letters, “THE FORBIDDEN
FRUIT.”

At which point the hearty voice of Zeus from out of the clouds booms
out the information that “Government­ appointed experts” have approved
the stuff as safe. (Presumably this omnipotent voice is referring to
the omniscient Food and Drug Administration, which has, in fact,
grudgingly allowed that the principal stimulating ingredient in
coffee, tea, cocoa, aspirin, soda pop, and even ice cream is, in fact,
generally recognized as safe.)

Goaded by the shrieking caffeine Harpy, the young fellow, still in the
throes, it seems, of having been wakened from a badly­ needed
restorative dream, rather groggily endorses the rather sinister pills
with the dubious encomium, “Revive…with Vivarin!”

Alas, the master playwrights writing circa long-­ago October 1985 have
tragically left us with only a fifteen­ second fragment. Here’s the
suspenseful part. What happens next? Some of the greatest literary
minds have grappled with this conundrum, but nobody yet has emerged
with a definitive answer. The dramatic question needing to be resolved
is as follows: Does Diploma Boy actually marry the Vivarin whore–­­or
do they break up three days before he gets the sheepskin?

I’m guessing the former. I’m hoping the latter.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=27ThcuP_FmM&p=3F2DF0790484B546&playnext=1&index=52

THE INFORMATION #800 SEPTEMBER 5, 2014

THE INFORMATION #800
SEPTEMBER 5, 2014
Copyright 2014 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

The best way out is always through. ― Robert Frost

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER NINE: PART TWENTY-SIX: THE MAYOR OF HELL

Tipsy Smith, the proprietor of the Seven Stars Saloon, also gave me
the low-down about Smash Coughlin, which he didn’t exactly need to do,
since I was actually at the Saloon on the night he stumbled in there,
and actually witnessed a good deal of what transpired there.

Now, as I think I told you before, the Seven Stars Saloon was a
basement room, paneled all in wood, with ornate carvings from what
must have once been a rich man’s fancy but was now the lowest flop dive in
Noxtown, and tht’s going some, because there was any number of Blind
Pigs and Blind Tigers and Knock-out Joints and Shanghai Dumps and
Holes in the Wall and Low Dives hard by the Salt River where the air
is damp and the tugboats make their infernal tooting all night
long–not so any of the patrons noticed–so stupefied were they by
Coffin Varnish and  Stagger Soup and Pop Skull and Bug Juice. You
could of exploded a stick of Dynamite in that joint and it wouldn’t
have come out looking one whit different. The oaken chairs all had
cracks in them and the oaken tables were scarred yellow with years of
booze slop and the barstools were shiny with the wear and tear of
a thousand asses and the sawdust on the floor was most likely
yesterday’s furniture–as Tipsy Smith never tired of claiming.

And with all the cracks in the thick glass windows that faced the
street, why, in the wintertime the joint was cold as hell on the
stoker’s day off. And in the summer it was hot as hell with the hinges
off. The Seven Stars drew the riverboat trade. Sailors, merchant marines, and
dock- wallopers. It was also full of lushermen and common tramps and
yekkmen. Of circus troupers, carnies and roustabouts, especially in
the cold and rainy off-season. Of boodlers, boozers, kickers, knockers,
and would-be managers.  Of dips, molls, punks, gunsels, catamites, and
other perverts. Plenty of stray Tups on the loose, too, along with
demis and lallygags and ladies of joy. And every one of them drank, and shouted
in an argle-bargle of different accents, lingos, and several languages
too, none of which I knowed. It’s how I imagine hell might have
sounded, in one of its more sentimental moments.  What with the
brawling and the bawling and the singing of chanties and drunken
Barber Shop favorites and the shouting and the blubbering and the
babbling, if you was any kind off respectable lady you would be well
advised to stuff some cotton in your ears and sport a pair of hoss
blinders because “discreet women have neither eyes nor ears ; that
would be wooed and not unsought be won.”

Of course, no respectable lady would be found within one red mile of
the joint. Not even the ladies from the Sally–the Salvation Army–or
the settlement house cared to venture there. Any preachers who set
foot in the joint would be chawed up and spat out, tout suite.
Policemen hardly fared much better, and besides, the patch fee was
paid to the patch man to square any beef in advance, and no jolly
copper ever stopped by except maybe early in the morning for a bracer, gratis, courtesy of
the house. That’s because the money went all the way up to Police
Captain Tom Aston. The world may be round but it hangs on crooked
hinges all the same–and for all three-hundred and sixty degrees.
Everybody has an agenda. Ev-ry-bo-dy. Like a squirrel who gathers
nuts. People store up their grudges and petty revenges, and life long.

Anyway, because there warn’t never no bulls there were fights at the
Seven Stars that lasted from can’t see till daylight.  So when Smash
Conklin walks in and  looks as if he’s going to start something, the
whole place goes quiet.

But Conklin–old Uglyface–warn’t his usual brash self. Instead, he
started babbling about the crazy experience he had.  He was down at
the carnival midway, drawn in by the hurly-burly, with electric lights
and grinning clowns. He took a mallet in the test of strength and rang
the bell and got a free cigar.  Then he entered the Red and Black
Carnival.  “A hall of horrors, it was!” Where a twisty-mouthed midget
chased him around a mulberry bush. Where a man with three eyes pointed
three pistols at him and while firing them all at once, shouted
“You’ll never get me!”  Where a drooling half-wit mumbled,
“Hurr hurr hurr…Going to cut his head off and give it to my girl!”

And there was more.

Conklin ventured into a heavily curtained room where a fly copper with a
green skull was lurking behind the arras, truncheon at the ready.  As
he twirled it, it transformed into a sleek brown rattlesnake. The curtained room
led to the middle of the vast hallway, where a skeleton was rising
from a gunny sack. In another part of the hall, a man was seated on a
trash can, praying for Lucifer not to take his soul.  Over by the
stained glass windows, a Sky Pilot was giving an oration over Smash
Conklins’s earthly remains. “But I wasn’t dead yet!”

So Smash ran outside, past the cemetary, where, just over the ridge, a
battle raged amid the tall grass. A pig-faced man on two fat legs wearing
a soldier’s uniform jabbed a bayonet into his shoulder. Behind him, a
man wielding a monkeywrench was threatening to conk him in the noggin.
Off in the far corner of the meadow, the village blacksmith was vowing
to use his head as an anvil. Suddenly, he was surrounded by Red
Indians on all sides. They were all ready to scalp him “for heap big
wampum.”  He fled to a nearby stream. A Romanian river nymph–a
grinning fat lady covered with seaweed who said her name was Sase
Duca–rose from the
stream and threatened to drown him. Instead, he was carried off by an
eight-foot giant who hefted him under his arms like a sack of meal.
Smash squirmed free. “I said ‘Gangway! I want out!”

So then he fled to the Seven Stars.

Suddenly, a full platoon of Russian Hussars mounted on horses burst in
through the windows and threatened to run him through with their
flashing scimitars. Smash screamed in terror.

“And I woke up.”

It sounded to Tipsy Smith as though someone had dosed him with
Laudanum or opium. As it was, Smash’s mouth was dry and his face was
gurning in a most unpleasant way and if my guess was correct I would
suspect he had just shoved his nose into some of the asthma powders
which were so popular with the cocaine fiends who prowled around the
joint–the Good Lordie Himself knows there were plenty of suppliers of
same.

Smash started running low on talk and with his sad scarred face he
looked and actually seemed contrite. I–almost–felt sorry for him.
But then he spied Jimmy Ragmop–a harmless old eccentric vagabond who
cleaned up the place. And he started lashing into him. “YOU!” he
shrieked. “I’ll trim your sails for you, Ragmop. I don’t care who
you’re with. You’re a lopsided mistake of nature.  Ragmop, Ragmap,
what ARE we going to DO with you?” he sneered.  And he made as if to
strike poor old Jimmy.

It was a big mistake.

For Ragmop, having patiently tried to appease Smash Conklin in the
past, suddenly turned around and you could see he was holding in both fists a
wicked-looking Bowie knife of the kind they called a Arkansas
Toothpick. It was at least eight inches long. “Uglyface–I swear to
God–if you so much as touch me, I’ll cut you from ear to ear so your
own Mammy won’t recognize you!” Conklin began slowly backing up to
reach the door. The bar was, for once, deathly silent. “I allus
knew–allus knew you was a menace, Ragmop,” Smash feebly said.

“And you druve me to it,” said Ragmop. “I tried to make nice with you,
Brutus, but you are an infamous miscreant! The lowest dog that ever
crawled from the whelping den! A big, fat, liver-lipped,
blubber-nosed, black-eyed recreant! I live to see the day when you are
reduced to plucking pennies from out’n the gutter. There you’ll
be–your filthy ulster covered with snot and puke–and there I’ll
be–rolling by in my horseless carriage–lightin’ big ceegars with
hundred dollar bills–a boofur lady on each arm–laffin’–laffin’!”
Jimmy Ragmop then stepped forward and made a one-handed threatening gesture with
the knife, and Smash Conklin, as white as a sheet of parchment, turned
tail and scrambled up the flight of wooden stairs as quickly as though
he were a scalded pup.

I knew there would be trouble to come of this. And soon. Because Smash
was also connected, in a big way, and was in with some pretty
desperate characters, including he who must not be named–namely (to
name him), The Big Man. Cokey Stolas.

1*SALUTATION
JACKIE DESHANNON
PUT A LITTLE LOVE IN YOUR HEART
https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=CMj7UcjPZ0U

2*REFERENCE
2014-15 WINTER OUTLOOK
http://www.almanac.com/weather/longrange/OH

3*HUMOR
THE VISUAL PRIMER OF ADVERTISING CLICHES
http://advertisingcliche.blogspot.com/2013/09/the-girl-who-was-ambitious-horlicks.html

4*NOVELTY
ANIMATED PILOTS THAT NEVER MADE IT
http://cartoonresearch.com/index.php/animated-pilots-that-never-made-it/

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
PARAPHILIA MAGAZINE
http://www.paraphiliamagazine.com/

6* DAILY UTILITY
BAD SUSHI COMMERCIAL
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S-lCa5zNDP0

ALSO SEE:
WORST SCI FI/FANTASY BOOK COVERS
http://www.goodshowsir.co.uk/

7*CARTOON
CLIMAX YOUR MIND
CRIME COMICS
https://climaxyourmind.wordpress.com/tag/crime-comics/

8*PRESCRIPTION
WHAT DO YOU LOOK LIKE IN ULTRAVIOLET?
http://www.slate.com/blogs/bad_astronomy/2014/08/14/portraits_in_uv_thomas_leveritt_video_of_faces_in_ultraviolet.html?wpsrc=fol_fb

9*RUMOR PATROL
PCP: DRUG THAT TURNS TEENS CRAZY
http://www.thedailybeast.com/articles/2011/04/22/pcp-the-new-rise-of-a-drug-that-turns-teens-crazy.html

10* LAGNIAPPE
21-645
BABBLE
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xUJ8YWvffx4

11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
UGLY COVERS FROM THE AGE OF VINYL REISSUES
http://www.richieunterberger.com/wordpress/ugly-covers-from-the-golden-age-of-vinyl-reissues/

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.
758. REVIVE–WITH VIVARIN!
REVIVE…WITH VIVARIN!
Back in the drug ­suffused sixties I was but a lad of tender years,
and the kaleidoscopic array of substances on offer were of little
interest to me, although I was quite taken with a frantic ­­if not, in
fact, frighteningly manic little broadcast ditty which went thus:

Get a little lift, take Vivarin
That’s V­I­V­A­R­I­N
Get a little lift, take Vivarin!

Not since reading Upton Sinclair’s “The Jungle,” in which Jurgis
Rudkis serenaded his Lithuanian family with his maddeningly repetitive
rendition of “In the Good Old Summertime,” had I been so entranced by
the stupefying potential of cheap music.

But the ghouls at the Vivarin ad agency weren’t quite through with me
yet. Witness the following, highly sentimental 1985 scenario, which I
have taken the liberty of dubbing, “If You Don’t Graduate, We’re
Through!”

For those of you without the benefit of advanced computer technology
such as youtube, I will summarize this poignant playlet.

A young woman has, judging from her sweater and
high­ prole-­cum-­bargain ­basement­ bourgeoise feathered hairdo,
haphazardly hunkered down at the local institution of higher
education. Let’s assume she lives in the Jan Miner Dormitory at
Palmolive Dish Liquid Community College. This busty but slightly drab
midinette is apparently hell­bent on landing a spoiled and rather
dimwitted young scion of the middling to lower-­upper mercantile
class. (I am assuming that the stolid hunk’s
pappy made his bundle with some dumb­ass minor­-league scam, such as
selling slightly used popsicle sticks to second graders, or hawking
off­-brand auto parts to purblind septuagenarians, or palming diluted
Penicillin off onto impoverished bohunks, or some such.)

Unfortunately for the young lady, her big plans for matrimony­­ and a
life filled with screaming brats and her future husband’s alcoholic
shenanigans ­­threaten to be derailed by the Big Stupe’s inability to
pass his final exams.

This, so far, is the backstory.

Into his den she strides, happy as a daft moggy with a catnip collar,
when she espies Lunko fast asleep with his head on his desk, with
presumably only hours to go until the big test.

She then delivers the following deathless line of monologue with all
the ferociousness of the power­crazed Barbara Stanwyck in “The Violent
Men”: “Wake UP! If you don’t graduate, we’re THROUGH!”

Thoroughly duped and cowed by this display of feminine animus, he
lethargically croaks, “I’m bushed!”

It is here that the sweater girl lashes into her dozey Romeo with the
forceful avidity of a god-intoxicated Maenad preparing to give suck to
a wolf cub. “Heah,” she crows, “Revive with Vivarin…helps wake yew
UP.” And then the shameless hussy literally wraps her sinister pink
coils around the half­wakened dumbbell’s hapless neck while proffering
what might as well be labeled, in boldface letters, “THE FORBIDDEN
FRUIT.”

At which point the hearty voice of Zeus from out of the clouds booms
out the information that “Government­ appointed experts” have approved
the stuff as safe. (Presumably this omnipotent voice is referring to
the omniscient Food and Drug Administration, which has, in fact,
grudgingly allowed that the principal stimulating ingredient in
coffee, tea, cocoa, aspirin, soda pop, and even ice cream is, in fact,
generally recognized as safe.)

Goaded by the shrieking caffeine Harpy, the young fellow, still in the
throes, it seems, of having been wakened from a badly­ needed
restorative dream, rather groggily endorses the rather sinister pills
with the dubious encomium, “Revive…with Vivarin!”

Alas, the master playwrights writing circa long-­ago October 1985 have
tragically left us with only a fifteen­ second fragment. Here’s the
suspenseful part. What happens next? Some of the greatest literary
minds have grappled with this conundrum, but nobody yet has emerged
with a definitive answer. The dramatic question needing to be resolved
is as follows: Does Diploma Boy actually marry the Vivarin whore–­­or
do they break up three days before he gets the sheepskin?

I’m guessing the former. I’m hoping the latter.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=27ThcuP_FmM&p=3F2DF0790484B546&playnext=1&index=52

THE INFORMATION #800 SEPTEMBER 5, 2014

THE INFORMATION #800
SEPTEMBER 5, 2014
Copyright 2014 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

The best way out is always through. ― Robert Frost

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER NINE: PART TWENTY-SIX: THE MAYOR OF HELL

Tipsy Smith, the proprietor of the Seven Stars Saloon, also gave me
the low-down about Smash Coughlin, which he didn’t exactly need to do,
since I was actually at the Saloon on the night he stumbled in there,
and actually witnessed a good deal of what transpired there.

Now, as I think I told you before, the Seven Stars Saloon was a
basement room, paneled all in wood, with ornate carvings from what
must have once been a rich man’s fancy but was now the lowest flop dive in
Noxtown, and tht’s going some, because there was any number of Blind
Pigs and Blind Tigers and Knock-out Joints and Shanghai Dumps and
Holes in the Wall and Low Dives hard by the Salt River where the air
is damp and the tugboats make their infernal tooting all night
long–not so any of the patrons noticed–so stupefied were they by
Coffin Varnish and  Stagger Soup and Pop Skull and Bug Juice. You
could of exploded a stick of Dynamite in that joint and it wouldn’t
have come out looking one whit different. The oaken chairs all had
cracks in them and the oaken tables were scarred yellow with years of
booze slop and the barstools were shiny with the wear and tear of
a thousand asses and the sawdust on the floor was most likely
yesterday’s furniture–as Tipsy Smith never tired of claiming.

And with all the cracks in the thick glass windows that faced the
street, why, in the wintertime the joint was cold as hell on the
stoker’s day off. And in the summer it was hot as hell with the hinges
off. The Seven Stars drew the riverboat trade. Sailors, merchant marines, and
dock- wallopers. It was also full of lushermen and common tramps and
yekkmen. Of circus troupers, carnies and roustabouts, especially in
the cold and rainy off-season. Of boodlers, boozers, kickers, knockers,
and would-be managers.  Of dips, molls, punks, gunsels, catamites, and
other perverts. Plenty of stray Tups on the loose, too, along with
demis and lallygags and ladies of joy. And every one of them drank, and shouted
in an argle-bargle of different accents, lingos, and several languages
too, none of which I knowed. It’s how I imagine hell might have
sounded, in one of its more sentimental moments.  What with the
brawling and the bawling and the singing of chanties and drunken
Barber Shop favorites and the shouting and the blubbering and the
babbling, if you was any kind off respectable lady you would be well
advised to stuff some cotton in your ears and sport a pair of hoss
blinders because “discreet women have neither eyes nor ears ; that
would be wooed and not unsought be won.”

Of course, no respectable lady would be found within one red mile of
the joint. Not even the ladies from the Sally–the Salvation Army–or
the settlement house cared to venture there. Any preachers who set
foot in the joint would be chawed up and spat out, tout suite.
Policemen hardly fared much better, and besides, the patch fee was
paid to the patch man to square any beef in advance, and no jolly
copper ever stopped by except maybe early in the morning for a bracer, gratis, courtesy of
the house. That’s because the money went all the way up to Police
Captain Tom Aston. The world may be round but it hangs on crooked
hinges all the same–and for all three-hundred and sixty degrees.
Everybody has an agenda. Ev-ry-bo-dy. Like a squirrel who gathers
nuts. People store up their grudges and petty revenges, and life long.

Anyway, because there warn’t never no bulls there were fights at the
Seven Stars that lasted from can’t see till daylight.  So when Smash
Conklin walks in and  looks as if he’s going to start something, the
whole place goes quiet.

But Conklin–old Uglyface–warn’t his usual brash self. Instead, he
started babbling about the crazy experience he had.  He was down at
the carnival midway, drawn in by the hurly-burly, with electric lights
and grinning clowns. He took a mallet in the test of strength and rang
the bell and got a free cigar.  Then he entered the Red and Black
Carnival.  “A hall of horrors, it was!” Where a twisty-mouthed midget
chased him around a mulberry bush. Where a man with three eyes pointed
three pistols at him and while firing them all at once, shouted
“You’ll never get me!”  Where a drooling half-wit mumbled,
“Hurr hurr hurr…Going to cut his head off and give it to my girl!”

And there was more.

Conklin ventured into a heavily curtained room where a fly copper with a
green skull was lurking behind the arras, truncheon at the ready.  As
he twirled it, it transformed into a sleek brown rattlesnake. The curtained room
led to the middle of the vast hallway, where a skeleton was rising
from a gunny sack. In another part of the hall, a man was seated on a
trash can, praying for Lucifer not to take his soul.  Over by the
stained glass windows, a Sky Pilot was giving an oration over Smash
Conklins’s earthly remains. “But I wasn’t dead yet!”

So Smash ran outside, past the cemetary, where, just over the ridge, a
battle raged amid the tall grass. A pig-faced man on two fat legs wearing
a soldier’s uniform jabbed a bayonet into his shoulder. Behind him, a
man wielding a monkeywrench was threatening to conk him in the noggin.
Off in the far corner of the meadow, the village blacksmith was vowing
to use his head as an anvil. Suddenly, he was surrounded by Red
Indians on all sides. They were all ready to scalp him “for heap big
wampum.”  He fled to a nearby stream. A Romanian river nymph–a
grinning fat lady covered with seaweed who said her name was Sase
Duca–rose from the
stream and threatened to drown him. Instead, he was carried off by an
eight-foot giant who hefted him under his arms like a sack of meal.
Smash squirmed free. “I said ‘Gangway! I want out!”

So then he fled to the Seven Stars.

Suddenly, a full platoon of Russian Hussars mounted on horses burst in
through the windows and threatened to run him through with their
flashing scimitars. Smash screamed in terror.

“And I woke up.”

It sounded to Tipsy Smith as though someone had dosed him with
Laudanum or opium. As it was, Smash’s mouth was dry and his face was
gurning in a most unpleasant way and if my guess was correct I would
suspect he had just shoved his nose into some of the asthma powders
which were so popular with the cocaine fiends who prowled around the
joint–the Good Lordie Himself knows there were plenty of suppliers of
same.

Smash started running low on talk and with his sad scarred face he
looked and actually seemed contrite. I–almost–felt sorry for him.
But then he spied Jimmy Ragmop–a harmless old eccentric vagabond who
cleaned up the place. And he started lashing into him. “YOU!” he
shrieked. “I’ll trim your sails for you, Ragmop. I don’t care who
you’re with. You’re a lopsided mistake of nature.  Ragmop, Ragmap,
what ARE we going to DO with you?” he sneered.  And he made as if to
strike poor old Jimmy.

It was a big mistake.

For Ragmop, having patiently tried to appease Smash Conklin in the
past, suddenly turned around and you could see he was holding in both fists a
wicked-looking Bowie knife of the kind they called a Arkansas
Toothpick. It was at least eight inches long. “Uglyface–I swear to
God–if you so much as touch me, I’ll cut you from ear to ear so your
own Mammy won’t recognize you!” Conklin began slowly backing up to
reach the door. The bar was, for once, deathly silent. “I allus
knew–allus knew you was a menace, Ragmop,” Smash feebly said.

“And you druve me to it,” said Ragmop. “I tried to make nice with you,
Brutus, but you are an infamous miscreant! The lowest dog that ever
crawled from the whelping den! A big, fat, liver-lipped,
blubber-nosed, black-eyed recreant! I live to see the day when you are
reduced to plucking pennies from out’n the gutter. There you’ll
be–your filthy ulster covered with snot and puke–and there I’ll
be–rolling by in my horseless carriage–lightin’ big ceegars with
hundred dollar bills–a boofur lady on each arm–laffin’–laffin’!”
Jimmy Ragmop then stepped forward and made a one-handed threatening gesture with
the knife, and Smash Conklin, as white as a sheet of parchment, turned
tail and scrambled up the flight of wooden stairs as quickly as though
he were a scalded pup.

I knew there would be trouble to come of this. And soon. Because Smash
was also connected, in a big way, and was in with some pretty
desperate characters, including he who must not be named–namely (to
name him), The Big Man. Cokey Stolas.

1*SALUTATION
JACKIE DESHANNON
PUT A LITTLE LOVE IN YOUR HEART
https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=CMj7UcjPZ0U

2*REFERENCE
2014-15 WINTER OUTLOOK
http://www.almanac.com/weather/longrange/OH

3*HUMOR
THE VISUAL PRIMER OF ADVERTISING CLICHES
http://advertisingcliche.blogspot.com/2013/09/the-girl-who-was-ambitious-horlicks.html

4*NOVELTY
ANIMATED PILOTS THAT NEVER MADE IT
http://cartoonresearch.com/index.php/animated-pilots-that-never-made-it/

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
PARAPHILIA MAGAZINE
http://www.paraphiliamagazine.com/

6* DAILY UTILITY
BAD SUSHI COMMERCIAL
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S-lCa5zNDP0

ALSO SEE:
WORST SCI FI/FANTASY BOOK COVERS
http://www.goodshowsir.co.uk/

7*CARTOON
CLIMAX YOUR MIND
CRIME COMICS
https://climaxyourmind.wordpress.com/tag/crime-comics/

8*PRESCRIPTION
WHAT DO YOU LOOK LIKE IN ULTRAVIOLET?
http://www.slate.com/blogs/bad_astronomy/2014/08/14/portraits_in_uv_thomas_leveritt_video_of_faces_in_ultraviolet.html?wpsrc=fol_fb

9*RUMOR PATROL
PCP: DRUG THAT TURNS TEENS CRAZY
http://www.thedailybeast.com/articles/2011/04/22/pcp-the-new-rise-of-a-drug-that-turns-teens-crazy.html

10* LAGNIAPPE
21-645
BABBLE
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xUJ8YWvffx4

11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
UGLY COVERS FROM THE AGE OF VINYL REISSUES
http://www.richieunterberger.com/wordpress/ugly-covers-from-the-golden-age-of-vinyl-reissues/

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.
758. REVIVE–WITH VIVARIN!
REVIVE…WITH VIVARIN!
Back in the drug ­suffused sixties I was but a lad of tender years,
and the kaleidoscopic array of substances on offer were of little
interest to me, although I was quite taken with a frantic ­­if not, in
fact, frighteningly manic little broadcast ditty which went thus:

Get a little lift, take Vivarin
That’s V­I­V­A­R­I­N
Get a little lift, take Vivarin!

Not since reading Upton Sinclair’s “The Jungle,” in which Jurgis
Rudkis serenaded his Lithuanian family with his maddeningly repetitive
rendition of “In the Good Old Summertime,” had I been so entranced by
the stupefying potential of cheap music.

But the ghouls at the Vivarin ad agency weren’t quite through with me
yet. Witness the following, highly sentimental 1985 scenario, which I
have taken the liberty of dubbing, “If You Don’t Graduate, We’re
Through!”

For those of you without the benefit of advanced computer technology
such as youtube, I will summarize this poignant playlet.

A young woman has, judging from her sweater and
high­ prole-­cum-­bargain ­basement­ bourgeoise feathered hairdo,
haphazardly hunkered down at the local institution of higher
education. Let’s assume she lives in the Jan Miner Dormitory at
Palmolive Dish Liquid Community College. This busty but slightly drab
midinette is apparently hell­bent on landing a spoiled and rather
dimwitted young scion of the middling to lower-­upper mercantile
class. (I am assuming that the stolid hunk’s
pappy made his bundle with some dumb­ass minor­-league scam, such as
selling slightly used popsicle sticks to second graders, or hawking
off­-brand auto parts to purblind septuagenarians, or palming diluted
Penicillin off onto impoverished bohunks, or some such.)

Unfortunately for the young lady, her big plans for matrimony­­ and a
life filled with screaming brats and her future husband’s alcoholic
shenanigans ­­threaten to be derailed by the Big Stupe’s inability to
pass his final exams.

This, so far, is the backstory.

Into his den she strides, happy as a daft moggy with a catnip collar,
when she espies Lunko fast asleep with his head on his desk, with
presumably only hours to go until the big test.

She then delivers the following deathless line of monologue with all
the ferociousness of the power­crazed Barbara Stanwyck in “The Violent
Men”: “Wake UP! If you don’t graduate, we’re THROUGH!”

Thoroughly duped and cowed by this display of feminine animus, he
lethargically croaks, “I’m bushed!”

It is here that the sweater girl lashes into her dozey Romeo with the
forceful avidity of a god-intoxicated Maenad preparing to give suck to
a wolf cub. “Heah,” she crows, “Revive with Vivarin…helps wake yew
UP.” And then the shameless hussy literally wraps her sinister pink
coils around the half­wakened dumbbell’s hapless neck while proffering
what might as well be labeled, in boldface letters, “THE FORBIDDEN
FRUIT.”

At which point the hearty voice of Zeus from out of the clouds booms
out the information that “Government­ appointed experts” have approved
the stuff as safe. (Presumably this omnipotent voice is referring to
the omniscient Food and Drug Administration, which has, in fact,
grudgingly allowed that the principal stimulating ingredient in
coffee, tea, cocoa, aspirin, soda pop, and even ice cream is, in fact,
generally recognized as safe.)

Goaded by the shrieking caffeine Harpy, the young fellow, still in the
throes, it seems, of having been wakened from a badly­ needed
restorative dream, rather groggily endorses the rather sinister pills
with the dubious encomium, “Revive…with Vivarin!”

Alas, the master playwrights writing circa long-­ago October 1985 have
tragically left us with only a fifteen­ second fragment. Here’s the
suspenseful part. What happens next? Some of the greatest literary
minds have grappled with this conundrum, but nobody yet has emerged
with a definitive answer. The dramatic question needing to be resolved
is as follows: Does Diploma Boy actually marry the Vivarin whore–­­or
do they break up three days before he gets the sheepskin?

I’m guessing the former. I’m hoping the latter.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=27ThcuP_FmM&p=3F2DF0790484B546&playnext=1&index=52

THE INFORMATION #800 SEPTEMBER 5, 2014

THE INFORMATION #800
SEPTEMBER 5, 2014
Copyright 2014 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

The best way out is always through. ― Robert Frost

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER NINE: PART TWENTY-SIX: THE MAYOR OF HELL

Tipsy Smith, the proprietor of the Seven Stars Saloon, also gave me
the low-down about Smash Coughlin, which he didn’t exactly need to do,
since I was actually at the Saloon on the night he stumbled in there,
and actually witnessed a good deal of what transpired there.

Now, as I think I told you before, the Seven Stars Saloon was a
basement room, paneled all in wood, with ornate carvings from what
must have once been a rich man’s fancy but was now the lowest flop dive in
Noxtown, and tht’s going some, because there was any number of Blind
Pigs and Blind Tigers and Knock-out Joints and Shanghai Dumps and
Holes in the Wall and Low Dives hard by the Salt River where the air
is damp and the tugboats make their infernal tooting all night
long–not so any of the patrons noticed–so stupefied were they by
Coffin Varnish and  Stagger Soup and Pop Skull and Bug Juice. You
could of exploded a stick of Dynamite in that joint and it wouldn’t
have come out looking one whit different. The oaken chairs all had
cracks in them and the oaken tables were scarred yellow with years of
booze slop and the barstools were shiny with the wear and tear of
a thousand asses and the sawdust on the floor was most likely
yesterday’s furniture–as Tipsy Smith never tired of claiming.

And with all the cracks in the thick glass windows that faced the
street, why, in the wintertime the joint was cold as hell on the
stoker’s day off. And in the summer it was hot as hell with the hinges
off. The Seven Stars drew the riverboat trade. Sailors, merchant marines, and
dock- wallopers. It was also full of lushermen and common tramps and
yekkmen. Of circus troupers, carnies and roustabouts, especially in
the cold and rainy off-season. Of boodlers, boozers, kickers, knockers,
and would-be managers.  Of dips, molls, punks, gunsels, catamites, and
other perverts. Plenty of stray Tups on the loose, too, along with
demis and lallygags and ladies of joy. And every one of them drank, and shouted
in an argle-bargle of different accents, lingos, and several languages
too, none of which I knowed. It’s how I imagine hell might have
sounded, in one of its more sentimental moments.  What with the
brawling and the bawling and the singing of chanties and drunken
Barber Shop favorites and the shouting and the blubbering and the
babbling, if you was any kind off respectable lady you would be well
advised to stuff some cotton in your ears and sport a pair of hoss
blinders because “discreet women have neither eyes nor ears ; that
would be wooed and not unsought be won.”

Of course, no respectable lady would be found within one red mile of
the joint. Not even the ladies from the Sally–the Salvation Army–or
the settlement house cared to venture there. Any preachers who set
foot in the joint would be chawed up and spat out, tout suite.
Policemen hardly fared much better, and besides, the patch fee was
paid to the patch man to square any beef in advance, and no jolly
copper ever stopped
by except maybe early in the morning for a bracer, gratis, courtesy of
the house. That’s because the money went all the way up to Police
Captain Tom Aston. The world may be round but it hangs on crooked
hinges all the same–and for all three-hundred and sixty degrees.
Everybody has an agenda. Ev-ry-bo-dy. Like a squirrel who gathers
nuts. People store up their grudges and petty revenges, and life long.

Anyway, because there warn’t never no bulls there were fights at the
Seven Stars that lasted from can’t see till daylight.  So when Smash
Conklin walks in and  looks as if he’s going to start something, the
whole place goes quiet.

But Conklin–old Uglyface–warn’t his usual brash self. Instead, he
started babbling about the crazy experience he had.  He was down at
the carnival midway, drawn in by the hurly-burly, with electric lights
and grinning clowns. He took a mallet in the test of strength and rang
the bell and got a free cigar.  Then he entered the Red and Black
Carnival.  “A hall of horrors, it was!” Where a twisty-mouthed midget
chased him around a mulberry bush. Where a man with three eyes pointed
three pistols at him and while firing them all at once, shouted
“You’ll never get me!”  Where a drooling half-wit mumbled,
“Hurr hurr hurr…Going to cut his head off and give it to my girl!”

And there was more.

Conklin ventured into a heavily curtained room where a fly copper with a
green skull was lurking behind the arras, truncheon at the ready.  As
he twirled it, it transformed into a sleek brown rattlesnake. The curtained room
led to the middle of the vast hallway, where a skeleton was rising
from a gunny sack. In another part of the hall, a man was seated on a
trash can, praying for Lucifer not to take his soul.  Over by the
stained glass windows, a Sky Pilot was giving an oration over Smash
Conklins’s earthly remains. “But I wasn’t dead yet!”

So Smash ran outside, past the cemetary, where, just over the ridge, a
battle raged amid the tall grass. A pig-faced man on two fat legs wearing
a soldier’s uniform jabbed a bayonet into his shoulder. Behind him, a
man wielding a monkeywrench was threatening to conk him in the noggin.
Off in the far corner of the meadow, the village blacksmith was vowing
to use his head as an anvil. Suddenly, he was surrounded by Red
Indians on all sides. They were all ready to scalp him “for heap big
wampum.”  He fled to a nearby stream. A Romanian river nymph–a
grinning fat lady covered with seaweed who said her name was Sase
Duca–rose from the
stream and threatened to drown him. Instead, he was carried off by an
eight-foot giant who hefted him under his arms like a sack of meal.
Smash squirmed free. “I said ‘Gangway! I want out!”

So then he fled to the Seven Stars.

Suddenly, a full platoon of Russian Hussars mounted on horses burst in
through the windows and threatened to run him through with their
flashing scimitars. Smash screamed in terror.

“And I woke up.”

It sounded to Tipsy Smith as though someone had dosed him with
Laudanum or opium. As it was, Smash’s mouth was dry and his face was
gurning in a most unpleasant way and if my guess was correct I would
suspect he had just shoved his nose into some of the asthma powders
which were so popular with the cocaine fiends who prowled around the
joint–the Good Lordie Himself knows there were plenty of suppliers of
same.

Smash started running low on talk and with his sad scarred face he
looked and actually seemed contrite. I–almost–felt sorry for him.
But then he spied Jimmy Ragmop–a harmless old eccentric vagabond who
cleaned up the place. And he started lashing into him. “YOU!” he
shrieked. “I’ll trim your sails for you, Ragmop. I don’t care who
you’re with. You’re a lopsided mistake of nature.  Ragmop, Ragmap,
what ARE we going to DO with you?” he sneered.  And he made as if to
strike poor old Jimmy.

It was a big mistake.

For Ragmop, having patiently tried to appease Smash Conklin in the
past, suddenly turned around and you could see he was holding in both fists a
wicked-looking Bowie knife of the kind they called a Arkansas
Toothpick. It was at least eight inches long. “Uglyface–I swear to
God–if you so much as touch me, I’ll cut you from ear to ear so your
own Mammy won’t recognize you!” Conklin began slowly backing up to
reach the door. The bar was, for once, deathly silent. “I allus
knew–allus knew you was a menace, Ragmop,” Smash feebly said.

“And you druve me to it,” said Ragmop. “I tried to make nice with you,
Brutus, but you are an infamous miscreant! The lowest dog that ever
crawled from the whelping den! A big, fat, liver-lipped,
blubber-nosed, black-eyed recreant! I live to see the day when you are
reduced to plucking pennies from out’n the gutter. There you’ll
be–your filthy ulster covered with snot and puke–and there I’ll
be–rolling by in my horseless carriage–lightin’ big ceegars with
hundred dollar bills–a boofur lady on each arm–laffin’–laffin’!”
Jimmy Ragmop then stepped forward and made a one-handed threatening gesture with
the knife, and Smash Conklin, as white as a sheet of parchment, turned
tail and scrambled up the flight of wooden stairs as quickly as though
he were a scalded pup.

I knew there would be trouble to come of this. And soon. Because Smash
was also connected, in a big way, and was in with some pretty
desperate characters, including he who must not be named–namely (to
name him), The Big Man. Cokey Stolas.

1*SALUTATION
JACKIE DESHANNON
PUT A LITTLE LOVE IN YOUR HEART
https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=CMj7UcjPZ0U

2*REFERENCE
2014-15 WINTER OUTLOOK
http://www.almanac.com/weather/longrange/OH

3*HUMOR
THE VISUAL PRIMER OF ADVERTISING CLICHES
http://advertisingcliche.blogspot.com/2013/09/the-girl-who-was-ambitious-horlicks.html

4*NOVELTY
ANIMATED PILOTS THAT NEVER MADE IT
http://cartoonresearch.com/index.php/animated-pilots-that-never-made-it/

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
PARAPHILIA MAGAZINE
http://www.paraphiliamagazine.com/

6* DAILY UTILITY
BAD SUSHI COMMERCIAL
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S-lCa5zNDP0

ALSO SEE:
WORST SCI FI/FANTASY BOOK COVERS
http://www.goodshowsir.co.uk/

7*CARTOON
CLIMAX YOUR MIND
CRIME COMICS
https://climaxyourmind.wordpress.com/tag/crime-comics/

8*PRESCRIPTION
WHAT DO YOU LOOK LIKE IN ULTRAVIOLET?
http://www.slate.com/blogs/bad_astronomy/2014/08/14/portraits_in_uv_thomas_leveritt_video_of_faces_in_ultraviolet.html?wpsrc=fol_fb

9*RUMOR PATROL
PCP: DRUG THAT TURNS TEENS CRAZY
http://www.thedailybeast.com/articles/2011/04/22/pcp-the-new-rise-of-a-drug-that-turns-teens-crazy.html

10* LAGNIAPPE
21-645
BABBLE
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xUJ8YWvffx4

11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
UGLY COVERS FROM THE AGE OF VINYL REISSUES
http://www.richieunterberger.com/wordpress/ugly-covers-from-the-golden-age-of-vinyl-reissues/

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.
758. REVIVE–WITH VIVARIN!
REVIVE…WITH VIVARIN!
Back in the drug ­suffused sixties I was but a lad of tender years,
and the kaleidoscopic array of substances on offer were of little
interest to me, although I was quite taken with a frantic ­­if not, in
fact, frighteningly manic little broadcast ditty which went thus:

Get a little lift, take Vivarin
That’s V­I­V­A­R­I­N
Get a little lift, take Vivarin!

Not since reading Upton Sinclair’s “The Jungle,” in which Jurgis
Rudkis serenaded his Lithuanian family with his maddeningly repetitive
rendition of “In the Good Old Summertime,” had I been so entranced by
the stupefying potential of cheap music.

But the ghouls at the Vivarin ad agency weren’t quite through with me
yet. Witness the following, highly sentimental 1985 scenario, which I
have taken the liberty of dubbing, “If You Don’t Graduate, We’re
Through!”

For those of you without the benefit of advanced computer technology
such as youtube, I will summarize this poignant playlet.

A young woman has, judging from her sweater and
high­ prole-­cum-­bargain ­basement­ bourgeoise feathered hairdo,
haphazardly hunkered down at the local institution of higher
education. Let’s assume she lives in the Jan Miner Dormitory at
Palmolive Dish Liquid Community College. This busty but slightly drab
midinette is apparently hell­bent on landing a spoiled and rather
dimwitted young scion of the middling to lower-­upper mercantile
class. (I am assuming that the stolid hunk’s
pappy made his bundle with some dumb­ass minor­-league scam, such as
selling slightly used popsicle sticks to second graders, or hawking
off­-brand auto parts to purblind septuagenarians, or palming diluted
Penicillin off onto impoverished bohunks, or some such.)

Unfortunately for the young lady, her big plans for matrimony­­ and a
life filled with screaming brats and her future husband’s alcoholic
shenanigans ­­threaten to be derailed by the Big Stupe’s inability to
pass his final exams.

This, so far, is the backstory.

Into his den she strides, happy as a daft moggy with a catnip collar,
when she espies Lunko fast asleep with his head on his desk, with
presumably only hours to go until the big test.

She then delivers the following deathless line of monologue with all
the ferociousness of the power­crazed Barbara Stanwyck in “The Violent
Men”: “Wake UP! If you don’t graduate, we’re THROUGH!”

Thoroughly duped and cowed by this display of feminine animus, he
lethargically croaks, “I’m bushed!”

It is here that the sweater girl lashes into her dozey Romeo with the
forceful avidity of a god-intoxicated Maenad preparing to give suck to
a wolf cub. “Heah,” she crows, “Revive with Vivarin…helps wake yew
UP.” And then the shameless hussy literally wraps her sinister pink
coils around the half­wakened dumbbell’s hapless neck while proffering
what might as well be labeled, in boldface letters, “THE FORBIDDEN
FRUIT.”

At which point the hearty voice of Zeus from out of the clouds booms
out the information that “Government­ appointed experts” have approved
the stuff as safe. (Presumably this omnipotent voice is referring to
the omniscient Food and Drug Administration, which has, in fact,
grudgingly allowed that the principal stimulating ingredient in
coffee, tea, cocoa, aspirin, soda pop, and even ice cream is, in fact,
generally recognized as safe.)

Goaded by the shrieking caffeine Harpy, the young fellow, still in the
throes, it seems, of having been wakened from a badly­ needed
restorative dream, rather groggily endorses the rather sinister pills
with the dubious encomium, “Revive…with Vivarin!”

Alas, the master playwrights writing circa long-­ago October 1985 have
tragically left us with only a fifteen­ second fragment. Here’s the
suspenseful part. What happens next? Some of the greatest literary
minds have grappled with this conundrum, but nobody yet has emerged
with a definitive answer. The dramatic question needing to be resolved
is as follows: Does Diploma Boy actually marry the Vivarin whore–­­or
do they break up three days before he gets the sheepskin?

I’m guessing the former. I’m hoping the latter.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=27ThcuP_FmM&p=3F2DF0790484B546&playnext=1&index=52