MODERN WISDOM NUMBER 193 NOVEMBER 2014

MODERN WISDOM: AMERICA’S ONLY HUMOR MAGAZINE
NUMBER 193

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

AND NOW…MODERN WISDOM PRESENTS:
EPIC BAD TASTE ISSUE

1. OSWALD ACTED ALONE Patsy Records
A FAR MEAN STREAK OF INDEPENCE 12 Songs

Although some of the rockin’ tuneage here, like “Storm
Sewer Head Shot” and “Sinister Masonic Ritual” is spot
on, and “Il Fucile Maledetto” is strangely touching, I
take exception to some of the songs, like the rather
pompously operatic “Livarsi na pietra di la scarpa!
(Take the stone from my shoe!),” the somewhat
inappropriately cheery “Three Little Tramps (Who’ve
Lost Their Way),” and the dull “Umbrella Man.” One
instrumental, the ominous “Z331/Z332 (transposed)” is
reminiscent of Varese; the other, “C2766 (Iron Sight)”
is oddly tuneful. This is a manful effort; however,
overall, I am not convinced that this disc will prove
of lasting interest to any but the most diehard fans.

2. FRANKENSTEIN SINATRA
Evil fiend (portrayed by Christopher Walken–who else?) breaks into
Hollywood mausoleum and steals celebrity body parts to create an
undead creature with the ski-slope nose of Bob Hope, the sad cow-eyes
of Carol Burnett, the hideous rictus grin of war-whore Martha Raye,
the manic laugh of Richard Widmark, the chin of Rondo Hatton, the brow
and hairline of Peter Lorre, the arms of Steve Reeves, the torso of
Johnny Weissmuller, the crazy dancin’ feet of Fred Astaire, and, of
course, the brain and voice of the sinister Frank Sinatra. The
creature wreaks havoc among the still-living celebs the vindictive
Frank believes had “done him dirt”, including former wife Mia Farrow’s
hapless former spouse Woody Allen. Directed by John Waters. B&W and
Color. 77m.

3.”Only in Arabia”
[TO THE TUNE OF “Only In America”]

Only in Arabia
Can a man without dinar
Go to sleep and wake up for sale in a slave bazaar!

4. VOX POPULI 

I’ve not been long upon the world
To know of all the wonders of the earth
But I must offer up a question
Consider it for what it’s worth.
The voice of those who rob us of our birthright
The thoughtless words of men of ill-repute;
Why do we fail to put them in their places?
Why no philosophies to offer and refute?
Why do we cheer the cant of blowhards
And thus entice the bastards on?
This question begs but one precise solution:

We have no thoughts our own to lean upon.

5. THE LATEST CONSPIRACY
I hear a crook stole a shoebox with a woman’s dead cat
inside, only, actually, the way I heard the story, it
was a bat, and the bat was Dracula, and he sucked the
blood out of the crook’s neck, but the crook was a
rummy, and so Dracula got drunk and became Drunkula
and then he met Jesus in a bar–also drunk, because
his blood is made of wine–and Drac said “Let’s step
outside” and the Messiah kicked his ass. And then I
heard that Jesus got upset and went to an AA meeting
and made the following speech: “My name is Jesus the
Nazarene and I am an alcoholic. It has been 3 months,
7 days, and 1,974 years since my last drink–a sponge
soaked in vinegar. I have apologized to the wedding
party at Cana, and admitted that I enabled them to
drink by turning water into wine. And finally, I would
like to say that after making a fearless moral
inventory of my past habits, I have decided to look to
a higher power–myself–to overcome my alcoholism.”

6. DEATH
Death,  or “Deathie” to his friends is the funniest thing going. It’s the ultimate banana peel on the road to all your foolish good intentions. Only think–you spent your whole life doing good and helping others and learning new stuff and providing warm, loving caring mentoring relationships and rescuing sick dogs from the animal rescue league and patting furry bunnies and eating a sensible diet and staying out of smoke-filled rooms and yet, no matter how good and kind you’ve been, death comes, and not only that, death is not kind…oh, no, my friend, death is not kind. Death is nothing at all. And you are nothing. And that’s all there is!

Haw! 

Every time I watch an old movie and see a dog I say to my wife, see that dog? That dog’s dead now. And then we’re both sad for a minute. And then we fuck. But it still doesn’t change the fact that THE DOG IS DEAD!!! Or perhaps we change the channel to PBS and watch a ballet. See that dancer? Pretty ballerina, right? GUESS WHAT!!!! SHE’S DEAD TOO, NOW! GAW HAW HAW!!!Death is funny. Everything about it is a barrel of laughs. I wish more people could see that. Like, what’s with the maggots that feast on your putrifying flesh when you’re supposedly “at rest” in your coffin? “At rest”, ah hah hah, that’s a good one. Yeah, I always take a quick 40 winks and wake up refreshed ONLY TO DISCOVER MAGGOTS ARE OOZING OUT OF MY JELLIED EYE SOCKETS! AAARGH! GET EM OFF! GET EM OFF!

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

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

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

Thank you. You’ve been wonderful.

7. THE PEPPERMINT TWIST

Joey Dee & the Starliters’ “Peppermint Twist” from the album “Live at the Peppermint Lounge” beats out “Twenty Flight Rock”, though just barely, because of its utterly faithful adherence to all of the tropes of rock songs of the classic era (roughly 1954-1964):
 
1) Repitition
2) Lyrical inanity
3) Topicality, and, as a bonus,
4) a link to a popular dance craze; finally
4) an utterly slavish adherence to blues conventions (as in the opening phrase, “Welllllll….”)
 
Plus, as a bonus, we are given a cheesy organ vamp and some gratuitous shouting followed by an utterly wild guitar solo. And the whole thing clocks in at well under three minutes! What more could you ask? (You can check out his scene at joeydee.com).
8. MY BEST SELLING DEPRAVED NAUSEATING SECRET DIARY RATED XXX
–SOON TO BE A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE!
Dada sure did like his LSD.

I was busy setting my cat on fire in order to dry my sheets, which I
had just wet for the 10,234th time. Mama, who is really a very good
looking woman by the way, says that at the age of 38 I should have
stopped wetting the bed by now, but I told her I didn’t want to get up
and go to the bathroom.

Besides, I ENJOY rubbing the warm spot with my–no, I won’t say it–it’s a SIN!

OK, Nursie, yes I DO read comic books but I only read kids’ comics
like Heroman so it’s OK.

Part Two

So anyway, Nursie, after putting the fish hooks in the gelatin
capsules and resealing the package, I walked to the health food store
and planted it on the shelf where I knew some old lady would buy it
and die a horrible death. This thought made me terribly excited so I
left in a hurry and walked down the street muttering “Me no sin me no
sin” as I rubbed a clove of garlic I had hanging around my neck
between my fingers.

Tomorrow I would be 39. No job, no apartment, forced to live in a
basement, and Mama (did I mention she is very good looking) about to
cut off my internet access after that call from the FBI. I couldn’t go
to the public library–I was banned for lurking too conspicuously in
the childrens’ section.

Life was tough when you were a geneyuss.

Part Three

I know I am a geneyuss because my English teacher (who I would love to
dress up in a leather cat suit and listen to her screams as I take big
bites out of her thighs no I must not think bad thoughts me no sin me
no sin me NO SIN) said I was in the “bright normal” range.

But the world does not appreciate my talents. That stupid community
college had the nerve to throw me out, and that job as a security
guard took time away from my model trains so I wasn’t fired but I
actually quit and just because I’m almost 40 and work part time as a
bag boy is no reason to laugh at me and say “Go out with YOU? Oh ha ha
ha!”

Dada’s been in prison ever since they found the blood on his clown
suit, but how did that make ME a likely suspect when all the
neighborhood cats began vanishing? The police all know I haven’t been
in trouble since getting out of the…quiet place at the end of the
path in the woods.

Sure, Mama likes a drink as well as, if not much more than the next
person….did I mention she’s very attractive? I love her but I hate
her because she whipped me with a coat hanger when she found the
toilet paper tube stuffed with “toilet people” and wouldn’t believe me
when I told her I was building a castle for my trains. I WAS! And I
really liked the wrestling magazines…the ones with men who have
blood streaming down their faces…but one day she found them and
burned them in the fire right in front of me and ever since that day
whenever I light a match I stare at it for awhile and thing, “Let it
burn…let it burn…eh eh eh….”

But I’ll show her. Fishhooks in her gelatin capsules is only the
beginning….And then I’ll steal a helicopter and break Dad out of
prison and we’ll go  see wrestling…and we’ll even get ringside
seats! What do women know?

Like Dada said, they’re Devils.

Dada was a geneyuss too.

Part Four

What I can’t figure out, Nursie, is why Dada keeps sending me all
those pictures of hot buttered English muffins? What’s he trying to
tell me?

I’ll never forget how he laughed when I stuck the flaming arrow up
Rover’s poop-chute. That night, when he beat me with the belt he
didn’t even use the buckle!

Dada was always a riot when he got to drinking. “Black monkey…you
fucked my circus dog! Fuckn zigaboos all belong in prison….”

Good old Dada has placed last in life’s contest. And is bitter. 

He ate Mac and Cheese from the pot, considered himself
Godlike because he let Rover lick out the remnants, prayed daily to
God that a rich sailor would smile at him. His happiest day was when
he fished half an order of french fries from a trash can. His saddest
day was when he got caught stealing groceries from the food bank box
but when they saw how raggedy-assed his trousers were and noticed that
he smelled of piss and vomit, they let him go.

I remember how he used to like to calling talk radio sports shows and
rant about “the Bilderbergers”.

But living with Dada was still better than living in the special
house……the quiet place at the end of the path in the woods. It
beat eating thorazine like gumdrops and playing pocket billiards and
hide the weiner with the guards and most of all it beat playing
handball with my own shit.

Why me? Why couldn’t I have normal parents? It it any wonder the
jailbirds call me “Martha Raye”, the soldier’s joy; master of the
caked joy-rag, chief inhabitant of the land of sly innuendo, the
poison pen, the anonymous phone call, the hustling, pushing, shoving
land of smash and grab and anything to win? Is it any wonder that to
them I’m Pogo alias Assy McGee, the devil’s spooge-rag, satan’s
felch-monkey, hell’s jackweed, often seen
nibbling the edges of tricycle seats in playgrounds, near schools, and
in the parking lot of Chuck E. Cheese; an ornery nine ball eternally
questing for the holy grail: a magical bleach that will wash clean the
black stains from my sin-black soul?

Oh, father forsaken forgive thy child!

Part Five

What would Dad think, Nursie, if he knew about my special secret place
under the bridge, my “Tool Shed”, where I keep my pictures of
wrestlers with bloody faces and Nazis marching in regalia and people
in concentration camps and old Jews being tormented by Storm Troopers
and animals devouring their prey? He’d probably just laugh and laugh,
just like he did when I made the bullfrog swallow the lit firecracker
and damn near blew my own finger off.

Dada sure did like his LSD. Also enjoyed giving it to his only
begotten son, whom he called Tool.

Dada should die.

No, ME NO SIN ME NO SIN me no sin….

Save me, Heroman!

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THE INFORMATION #809 NOVEMBER 7, 2014

THE INFORMATION #809
NOVEMBER 7, 2014
Copyright 2014 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

 If you have no confidence in self, you are twice defeated in the race of life.–Marcus Garvey

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

The final person who spoke that day in Bughouse Square was a tall but nervous-looking fellow wearing a shabby suit, with thinning blonde hair and a face like a fireplug half-covered by a thick blond mustache. He clambered up to the platform and began his speech without so much as an introductory comment. I later gathered that his name was something like Andrew King or Ling or Tang or Lang, but I heard later still that the handle he went by was “Bughouse Moe.” 

“I speak here today to warn all the true Americans against the mongrel races which threaten to overwhelm the original inhabitants like a foul sewer tide which contaminates all it touches. 

“I do not speak here of the colored man, for the colored man is so far beneath the notice of the original inhabitants that he needs not even be accounted for. The humbler members of these sons of Ham should be always treated with all the kindness we can muster, for, when aroused, when they feel in the dimness of their comprehension that they have been wronged, the thin patina of civilization drops from them like the shucking of a garment and they become hate-maddened savages whose blood-lust can only be sated by putting them down like dogs. 
“No, I speak not of the colored man, for, in his proper place he is amusing and subservient, and as long as he remains amenable to the wishes of the superior race, he remains a regrettable but all the same welcome presence in our homes and hearths. It is only when he seeks to rise too high and to abrogate the privileges of the white man that he, in turn, abrogates our tolerance. It is only when he seeks to be like the white man and acts like the white man, in his pathetic and comical way, that he becomes, not the beloved “Darkie” of yore, but a pestiferous presence. I would like you to know that all the good colored people I have spoken to on this point agree with me wholeheartedly.

“No, it is not the colored man who is the continuing menace to our fair community; it is not the man of Nordic or even Alpine inheritance who troubles us, for they have proven again and again to be the stuff of which good, wholesome Americans are made, and we welcome their presence on our shores. 
“No, my friends, it is the members of the corrupt and diabolical Mediterranean races whose presence I decry. Mobs of querulous parasites hell-bent on draining our society dry. With their dandelion wine and their onions and their furious gesticulation and their broken English and their tomato gravy poured on everything and the slurping noises they make while eating their noodles and their vile flat breads–and how they reek of sweat and greasy olives! They are, if possible, in many ways a travesty–even less desirable than the Negroids and Mongoloids they are, after all, but one step above, and with whom they have been furiously amalgamating since the days of Genghis Khan! Oh, I know my history, I do. The Mediterranean races have forfeited the right to any respect we might be tempted to show them–ever since the day they permitted the rabble and barbarians to breach the walls of their sacred city! 
“It is all a question of what I call worthwhile race types. If we were to gently eliminate those who are of swarthy hue, who can’t speak our language, who do not understand our customs, who never in a hundred years could be brought to an accomodation with respectable ways and means of getting ahead in this great land of ours–why, then we would be living in a veritable paradise. No more smelly, garlic-eating moochers to come mucking about our playgrounds and schools to infest our babies with wild ideas such as the Equality of Man. Would it not be a wondrous thing? A way by which we could funnel these undesirable races back onto the stinking holds which brought them here and ship them back to where they came from? 
“Or, if that should prove impractical–though, truly, there is nothing beyond us as a nation if we put our shoulders to it–then would it not be best to restrict them to the foul-smelling warrens and ghettos which so closely replicate their original homes? Most of all, we must keep them separate from us–mongrelization of the races caused the fall of the Roman Empire and it will cause the fall of our Great American Empire, if we are foolish and softhearted enough to permit it. Everyone knows those people breed like mindless rabbits, so why should we not sterilize them for the good of the Commonweal? 
“And why stop there? Why don’t we purge the land altogether of moochers and misfits; the weak and imbecile; the stupid and destructive enemy forces that drag down our civilization with their grasping muddy hands constantly looking out for undeserved charity from the hard-working citizens whose sweat has grown and nourished the body politic? 
“Because let me tell you something: I’ve been up and down this great land, and have gone to the Elk’s clubs, the old-time saloons, the country store, the churches, the town meeting halls; all the places where free  white men of Nordic and Alpine birth have congregated for hundreds of years, and I find in these welcome havens not one weak woman of squalling child or member of the nearly subhuman darker races and I say to myself as I wallow in those blessed precincts, “This is the way it OUGHT to be.” 
I warn you: If we do not mend our ways and keep America for Americans, I foresee a future in which the dark races will drag the enlightened white man down to their level, and all will be dyspepsia and chaos in the body politic–all disorder, and early rather than later sorrow. In order for perfect happiness to reign, the inferior races must ALWAYS be subordinated to the superior ones. It’s the law of nature, and it ought to be the law of the land. The elimination of idiots and defectives from our fair land is imperative. Put them in prison if you must; do away with them altogether if you know what’s good for you. If this is not done, then, mark my words, within seven generations this country will be overrun my morons and defectives. People with the reasoning ability of children. people who have no more sense of right and wrong than a crow strutting and preening in the gutter. It’s not a matter of IF, my friends; it’s a matter of WHEN. Worthless race types must simply be plucked out from the soil to which they tenaciously cling like so many weeds, or will will be overrun with noxious plants instead of useful nourishing crops. 
“I will strive day and night to see that this end is accomplished. So help me God. God Bless You. And God Bless America.” 
There was some mild booing among the denizens of Bughouse Square but, I noticed somewhat to my surprise, much more in the way of tentative clapping and even cheering. The cop on the beat had his arms folded complacently and was looking at the speaker in the attitude of one who has just seen the sun peek out from behind a crowd. The speaker then descended the platform to make way for the next person. 
But no one else stepped up to speak that day.

1*SALUTATION

DAVE VAN RONK
2*REFERENCE

MOST INFECTIOUS DISEASES
http://www.vox.com/xpress/2014/10/17/6993851/diseases-deadly-infectious-reproduction-information-beautiful

3*HUMOR
4*NOVELTY
5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
Douchebag: The White Racial Slur We’ve All Been Waiting For
https://medium.com/human-parts/douchebag-the-white-racial-slur-weve-all-been-waiting-for-a2323002f85d

6* DAILY UTILITY

7*CARTOON

8*PRESCRIPTION
Vote all you want. The secret government won’t change.
http://www.bostonglobe.com/ideas/2014/10/18/vote-all-you-want-the-secret-government-won-change/jVSkXrENQlu8vNcBfMn9sL/story.html

9*RUMOR PATROL

10* LAGNIAPPE

BORIS KARLOFF MAD ABOUT MEXICAN FOOD
https://twitter.com/MJMcKean/status/511872888924696576

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

LIBRARIES ARE OBSOLETE
http://quartz.syr.edu/blog/?p=1567
CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.
767.INVESTMENT OPPORTUNITIES
I just sent my life’s savings to a nice gentleman with a +44 70 number who said he could double my “investment” in 24 hours. However, it’s been three weeks. Help?

THE INFORMATION #808 OCTOBER 31, 2014

THE INFORMATION #808
OCTOBER 31, 2014
Copyright 2014 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.comWHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER NINE: PART THIRTY-FOUR: THE MAYOR OF HELL

Just as soon as Black Ike was hauled away from the Black Maria, another speaker arouse to take his place. He called himself Red Mike, and was as fine a figure of an Irishman as you’d expect to see, even though he spoke a lingo that was somewhere between the King’s English and a college perfesser. You knew straight off he was slightly loony. You ought to have heerd this speaker as he really began to lay into the Captains of Industry. For all we knew, he was speaking in tongues because he used a lot of words which most of of couldn’t even understand but you can tell from the tone of his voice that he wasn’t pitching no valentines at the movers and shakers.He spoke in one continuous breath, or so it seemed; as though if he were to stop jawing his banty-legged ginger-haired body would suddenly deflate and pucker up like a leaky balloon.

“I call down my curse upon you, you jelly-bloated monoglots sitting in your wood-paneled offices; you bleeding swine, with your golf games and your knickers and your shoes with the tassels that are enough to make an honest working man say ‘Scrooch’; you sniggering swells with your bellies full of champagne and your heads just one big lump of completely unfrozen ice; you whickering savages who look upon the hungry with a full belly and dispense a copper penny with a contented chuckle, you dickering cheapskates, with your hamfisted way of making a dollar stretch a mile; you soul-murdered and soul-murdering top-hatted diplomats who are barely elevated above the level of the protozoons, in that you encompass and devour all that is within your slimy path. 

“For what you have said to defame the innumerable innocents who have no megaphone in which to shout and jabber tinhorn filth into the ears of cretins, I call down my curse. You are truly a gang of looters, plunderers, loiterers, perjurers, and grasping degenerates with the sweated money of the poor befouling your sweaty fists. 
“You are a low race of belly-crawling, palsied degenerates whose sole motivation seems to be to be to pour hot oil upon inoffensive passerby like some fiendish Satyr. Arrogant vultures; greedy grizzly-guts, devilish spite-filled carcasses of men; addicted to sinful pleasures; willful in what you believe to be your God-given right to bloviate upon every passing exigency; God made all things–but God made the Devil, and the devil made you. A pox upon you all! 
“May your faces swell up like a monument to the plague;  may a small monkey with a big bomb set all your fields on fire and blow you all to hell;  you and your Scandinavian farm machinery companies and your filthy meat packing plants and your rancid tool and die companies and your pig farms and your paper mills and your cotton mills and your banks and brokerage offices. 
“May the Good God Almighty rain down his terrible vengeance on those of you who hath done to the least of his children, for so you have done unto him. You cannot run, for your are too big; you cannot hide, because you are too fat. 
“May you pay with the blood of your children and your children’s children and nigh unto the seventh generation for every servant you have whipped or seduced; for every patriot and veteran to whom you have paid lip-service to and concomitantly scorned; for every compatriot you have bled dry; for every one of your fellow men you have cheated and consigned to oblivion with the lash of the lawyer’s pen. 
“May the devil himself gnaw at your rotten corrupt old bones like they were a dog’s dinner, and for all eternity. May you all go to hell and not have so much as a drop of fizzy water to wet your tongue. May you be tied to the mast and lashed by the chief of demons until you roar for mercy. 
“Shadow man, where are your sneers and snorts now–now that you are condemned to do the same thing over and over like the hapless wretches you once employed for starvation wages in your satanic mills? You will surely scratch a workingman’s back one day. May you live. in your miserable dotage, in a flea-infested tenement . May you find yourself alone and forgotten like so many of those you consigned to the dungheap! 
“Just as you have used the staves and swords of sworn authority, so may they be used against you when you try to yelp for surcease! Contented meaty beefy butcher-men; may you drown in the forsworn blood of innocents! May your first born be numbered among the dead! May all the crows peck, the bats bite, the owls scratch and the bumblebees sting you, for you are an abomination upon the face of the earth and every low and loathsome creature that crawls upon it is superior by far, as an angel is to an ape, to you! 
“May all your gardens turn into valleys of despair; may your home become a hovel; may your fine rainment crumble into dust!  I curse you, fuckers. God damn you, swine. Blast you all to hell. Curse of God on you. Earth upend you; devil mend you. May you be unmanned before the eyes of the world; may your wives and other chattels be  driven from you; may that very Moloch to whom you have so assiduously sacrificed pay you generously in kind. May your name melt away from the earth like piss in a snow ditch. May ants and spiders infest your uneasy grave. 
“I have said all that I have meant to say and will say no more!” 
We later agreed that it was the most impressively delivered speech we had ever heard, even if we couldn’t understand more than a stray word or two. Even the policeman on the beat who was posted there to see that things didn’t get out of hand didn’t budge an inch from his post near the park gate–though he stirred a bit uneasily toward the end of the peroration. 

1*SALUTATION

WHY BATMAN IS STUPID
GOP’S TEN  MOST CLOWNISH CANDIDATES FOR 2016
19 UNSOLD TV PILOTS OF THE 1960S
IDENTIFYING THE WORST COLLEGES IN AMERICA
HOW WE PUNISH PEOPLE FOR BEING POOR
20TH CENTURY SPANISH PULP COVERS
CRAZY GIRLS
10* LAGNIAPPE
A PITIFUL CLOWN SINGING “HALLELUJAH”
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/10/16/puddles-pity-party-hallelujah_n_5998700.html
11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA

WHY THESE FIVE BOOKS ARE CENSORED FROM YOUR HISTORY CLASS
CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.
766. MODERN HAIR STYLING IS A PROFESSIONAL ART
 
The guy with the Butch cut looks like a slack-jawed imbecile. Just sayin’.  Like Forrest Gump on an ether binge.
The guy with The Crew is a mindless zombie who probably cooks and eats roadkill. From compulsion–not from necessity.
Flattop Boogie has tiny facial features and a suspiciously non-prognathous jaw. He is destined to be a pump-jockey in an Arizona ghost town.
Forward-Combed Boogie is an introspective sort who likes nothing better than reciting Spinoza aphorisms to his bored dates in a dreary monotone.
Don’t try to hide your face, Executive Contour! We all know it was you who palmed off the wood alcohol as the genuine stuff, and blinded all those Shriners!
Flattop is a healthy animal. I despise these hearty types. With their pointy ears and their pathetic attempts to look distinguished, they are little more than monkeys at the watering hole pounding their barrel-chests in simian fury.
 Professional Contour rents jukeboxes for a living, and there’s scarcely a barkeep between here and Teaneck New Jersey who hasn’t been pistol-whipped into submission by this notorious police character. The best you can say for Prof Cont is that he’s a haberdasher who likes to prance around his hotel room in mascara and panties. The telltale lipstick residue around his fixed smile is a dead giveaway.
Just a minute, “Hollywood”. Don’t think you’re pulling a fast one! We’ve seen your type before, on blind dates, at Dizzy’s Lounge, with someone’s unattractive spinster cousin, making your well-timed departure from the smoky groggery seconds before she spots you and loudly hails you to come over to her table.
The bare spot on College Contour’s scalp bothers me immeasurably–as though he’s already been measured as cannon fodder worthy of a metal plate which he will sport for the next 48 years. Otherwise, he looks as if there is no dire crime the committing of which he is incapable.

THE INFORMATION #807 OCTOBER 24, 2014

THE INFORMATION #807
OCTOBER 24, 2014
Copyright 2014 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

Poverty is the parent of revolution and crime. ― Aristotle
WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER NINE: PART THIRTY-THREE: THE MAYOR OF HELL

We had one time come to speak in Bughouse Square near Holly Park this big and beefy but scraggly-looking fellow. He was wearing a long black greatcoat, even though it was a sunny and only mildly breezy afternoon in early autumn. He had a long beard and looked for all the world, with them whiskers, like he just stepped out of Diabolo’s Den and he ought to have been holding a fizzing bomb in his left hand, while with his right he wildly gesticulated. He got up on the small concrete platform next to a statue of the first settler and founder of Noxtown and began to hold forth.
Ladies and yobs:
I speak to all of you, be ye high lady or zook; be ye well-fed gentleman or John Hollowlegs. 
Ye have all of yez been sold a bill of goods! 
By none other than God Almighty, the Great Businessman in the Sky. 
[Assorted hoots and cheers.]
It is he who keeps you a hopin’ and a wishin’ and a dreamin’ and a-idlin’ away your free time hoping there is pie in the sky and steak on Sundays. never mind that this is a game that all of yez–unless there is a copper or a swell hidden behind the arras, as it were–that all of yez were borned to lose. Why is that? Simple. ye are slaves, all of you, to the people who truly ride herd over this great land of ours–the Plutycrats.Who is the Plutycrat?  He is not one such as you and I. For has he ever labored with the sweat of his brow? NO! Has he ever done treed a possum in a holler log? NO? Has he ever stood in the rock quarry, making little ones out of big ones? NO! He has no callouses on his hands, and his clothes are free of so much as even a spectacle of lint. 

You look back to the times of the pyramids, and you see the same sitch-iation. There you have the pharaoh, with a birdie on his head, a-whippin’ on the task-masters with a wave of his imperial palm. For what? For to build monuments that would outlast the sands of time, and all for his, the Pharaoh’s greater glory, et cetera. The pyramids were nothing more but a glorified tombstone for these rascals, and thousands of slaves died to make ’em, and don’t you forget it. 

And what do we have today? The sitch-iation is no better. You streetcar conductors–ain’t you got to work up to 14 hours in the cold and sleet? You track-layers and gandy-dancers–ain’t you got fun? I think not! 

As long as the policeman is appointed a keeper of the peace, it his bounden business to stir up trouble so’s he can frighten the rich with all the turmoil outside their gated mansions and keep his job, which comes down to one thing only–busting heads.

It ain’t easy for me to get up here and talk. I am not an eddicated man like some few of you mought be–just a common working man like most of ye here. What’s more, I am a jailbird–went out on strike at the mills and got my head stove in for me troubles. Some few of you might say I got a cuckoo brain as a result. But I been around the block a few times. I’ve seen the gold brick, and I know what’s what. How is it fair and righteous that we have thieves who profit from the toil of the honest working man, a-whoopin’ it up in their big old mansions, while a starving old woman who steals a crust of bread gets jugged, and locked up in the workhouse? There, they’ll put her to work, never you fear, doing the work that nobody else wants; they’ll have her untangling hooks and needles with her hands like claws until she goes batty.  Think if this was your pore ole mother. What about honor thy parents? 

Oh, sure–the fat boys pay lip service to th’ ten commandments, sure ‘nough–just so long as it applies to somebody else, meaning anybody but them as gots, and intends to keep it. They build their houses on a platform of platitudes, every one of which is a lie. O, keep THOU the sabbath holy–but don’t mind ME if’n I continue to Wheel and Deal with my cronies on this most holy of days, and my mills WILL run on Sunday if there’s money to be made. Satanic Mills! Moloch! Moloch is the money power of this land! 

But what the money lords fail to take into account is one fact–they are not the real people–YOU are! Let a common man enter a mansion and inside of a day, he will adjust to the soft life of feathered pillows and uniformed servants in livery. But place the plutocrat out into the same streets we honest critters ford daily, and he will be lost in a bewildering forest of sense impressions and will likely be driven to madness and despair! WE are the superior classes; we have just been held down so long that we don’t even realize it! We even deny it when the fact is pointed out to us! How is THAT for fear and trembling? 

The poor, they are always with us, indeed.

It don’t have to be that way!

The pharaoh had his slaves, who he had fed on beer and bread. The pluty-crats have their slaves, and they are us, and we are lucky if we get even that, t’ say nothing of steak on Sunday.

Sure, I’m a radical–but I ain’t no barbarian! I don’t deprive the sucking babe of his mammy’s milk, ner take the crust from the toothless gums of the indigent! I don’t cheat the poor of their lifelong savings by promising them a home of their own, then taking it away when they can’t meet the mortgage! I do not traffic in the sweat and blood of the pore working man for the prevailing rate. Jesus wept! So I say to all of you–think for yourself. THIS IS NOT THE WAY IT HAS TO BE! 

At first he was greeted with hoots a “Go back to Russia, ye furriner,” but as he got worked up he had the crowd going along with him. It is more than likely, however, that word got out to Cokey Stolas that some troublemaker was causing a ruckus, because before too long the coppers were out in force, and, although they never bothered with disturbing prohibitionists or lady suffragists or even vegetarians, they promptly arrested and handcuffed this radical, whose name we learned was Black Ike, and led him away to the Black Maria to carry him off to the hoosegow.

1*SALUTATION

SWELL MAPS
FULL MOON IN MY POCKET
ESRI ZIP CODE LOOKUP
EVIS PRESTLEY ORIGINAL RECORD
HOT DOG
DOGVILLE SHORTS
GOOD BUDDY, BAD BUDDY
ALSO SEE:
PROVIDENCE PHOENIX, R.I.P.
12 UNBELIEVABLE THINGS PEOPLE HAVE BEEN THROWN IN JAIL FOR
SOVIET SPACE AGE PROPAGANDA POSTERS
 
ALSO SEE:
30 MODERN PROPAGANDA POSTERS
9*RUMOR PATROL
CHEVY CHASE’S SPECTACULARLY BAD TALK SHOW

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OdqMEfV-r9A&feature=youtu.be

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

Another Side of Bob Dylan: A Personal History on the Road and Off the Tracks. By Victor Maymudes. Co-written and edited by Jacob Maymudes. St. Martin’s Press. Hardcover. 288 pages.

Reviewed by Francis DiMenno

Long time Dylan crony Victor Maymudes meant to write a memoir of his friendship with Bob Dylan–as well as his time as tour manager forDylan and his entourage, during both the mid-sixties and the late eighties and early nineties. Instead, prior to his untimely death in 2001, he left behind a treasure trove of audio-taped reminiscences. His son has sorted through these and selected some of the most interesting anecdotes and observations. It is questionable whether there are enough of these to fill an entire book, but certain Dylan fanatics may feel well rewarded–particularly after reading the early chapters. 

Maymudes was a guitarist and poet in his own right, but soon realized that he could never compete in either field on the same level as Dylan. So he helped his friend by solving problems for him while he was on tour; and also by controlling access to Dylan before and after he went on stage: “There were lots of people who would try to get close to Bob…the most aggressive attempts would be from people using their power in the entertainment business to get access to him….When I was on tour Bob asked me to stand between them and him.” (83). 

But Maymudes was far more than a humble factotum; he was also a long-time veteran of the hip scene in Los Angeles, having co-founded in 1955 the Unicorn cafe, a coffee-shop which was the first of its kind, located in the heart of the Sunset Strip. “For marketing they put posters up in liberal bookstores, music venues, and any place that had a sense of hipness and a taste for folk music….The cafe was painted entirely black inside and pictures of nude women hung upside down on the walls. They were defining what hip was and they nailed it. Once the place was built, Victor would reach out to musician friends and poets to book performances at the cafe.” (25)

So Maymudes was no innocent. He had been around. He knew a lot of interesting people–he made a point of cultivating and collecting celebrities (and dropping names–sometimes to an annoying degree)–and he also introduced Dylan to his more interesting friends: people such as Lenny Bruce (about whom Dylan later wrote a song). Maymudes also suggested that Dylan sign with Albert Grossman (the money-grasping manager about whom few complimentary songs will ever be written).

We learn, among other stories, further details of that notorious incident in which Dylan introduced the Beatles to marijuana, in a NYC hotel room, where the streets outside were overrun with both policemen and rabid fans. According to Maymudes, he was the one who rolled the joints and chummed around with the band. Dylan, for his part, had a couple of drinks and passed out. We also learn that the motorcycle accident which supposedly incapacitated Dylan for months was actually a quite minor incident which gave him the incentive to slow down and examine his life, and eventually to try life as a family man instead of a famous, and constantly on-call superstar. 

We also discover more about Dylan’s early writing technique–solitude, along with plenty of coffee and cigarettes. We can guess at why Dylanwas successful when so many other folk singers are now relegated to the status of footnotes–including such luminaries as Dave Van Ronk, Rolf Cahn, and Eric Von Schmidt. It was likely Dylan’s work ethic–which, by Maymudes’s account, was extraordinary. “Bob’s vision is bad,” says Maymudes, “but he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t wear glasses because the world he inhabits is an internal one.” (121)

Dylan, we learn from Maymudes’s account, was an extraordinarily gifted and insightful individual who had to be left alone to do his work as much as possible. But with this aloofness came a concomitant loneliness; a void which Maymudes himself, for all his fabled closeness to Dylan, could not fill. So he tried instead to be the friend of the great man who provides companionship when desired: “Our talks would expand the boundaries of our philosophy; we would push the limits of the meaning of words and bend ideas around new phrases.” (83)

There are genuine insights to be found, even if they are suffused in a glow of orange sunshine, or whatever type of drug the author happened to be on at the time. This one is my favorite: “The Hopis sang and danced for those elements that were rare, water principally, and our music was all about love, maybe because for us that was rare.” (144)

Dylan scholars will rightly be skeptical of some of the claims made by Maymudes.Some parts of this memoir seems overstated; for example, Maymudes claims that “I did get to watch our taste in clothes influence a whole generation” (116). Really? He also claims that he and Bob would meet some of the most interesting characters on any given local scene by dropping into pool halls early in the morning. OK–if you say so,

But, overall, it is difficult to fault this book, since it is ostensibly nothing more than a memoir of someone who had been present at the creation of the Dylan mythos. The author himself protests that “I want to help people remember the great, the magic that was those early days. The miserable shit that took place can be forgotten, for it won’t help anyone.” (35) All the same, the temperamental, arbitrary and sometimes downright cruel side of Bob Dylan is sometimes observed. Like the time he made his friend wait in the car while he visited his parents. Like the time he made him desert his 7 year old son and 14 year old daughter in a parking lot for hours. Like the time he fired the author’s daughter for her inept management of his coffee shop, and chewed her out in front of everybody. This latter deed effectively helped end both their long friendship and business relationship. As did a charge of statutory rape brought against Maymudes which Dylan’s people managed to extricate him from. To sum up: Maymudes seems to share Dylan’s absolute narcissism, with none of his crippling self-doubt. Diehard Dylan fans will find this an interesting and useful account; others might prefer to dip into books such as the recent biography Bob Dylan: Behind the Shades Revisited by Clinton Heylin, Dave Van Ronk’s underrated memoir The Mayor of MacDougal Street, or even Dylan’s own memoir Chronicles (which, perhaps tellingly, mentions Maymudes not at all).

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.
765. WHO ARE YOU?

THE INFORMATION #806 OCTOBER 17, 2014

THE INFORMATION #806
OCTOBER 17, 2014
Copyright 2014 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

Life is a dream for the wise, a game for the fool, a comedy for the rich, a tragedy for the poor. –Sholom Aleichem
WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER NINE: PART THIRTY-TWO: THE MAYOR OF HELL
At this point Cadger Tandy as he interrupted the account of his youth to deliver a few home truths.  You’ll notice that when he is in a serious mood he doesn’t talk west quite as much as he does when he is telling a story. You’ll also notice maybe that his speech here also mixes elements of turn of the century events with more contemporary doings.  
When you’re a bairn, how do you even talk about those sorta whim whams–the kind when you’re left high and dry and you’re fed up and languorous and filled with the hopelessness of ever getting anywhere or making straight course to find safe harbor? I guess some folks calls it ‘the doldrums’. Ye hear tell of all the tales of heroes and villains and all their foolish doings, but you never get any of the real know-how from none of these stories–never once do you read about how Rudolf Rassendale was having problems with the employees down at the lumber mill, ner about how Pauline was having a visit from her little friend and wasn’t up for orienteering, or about how for one whole day Abie the Agent was so damned unambitious he just didn’t feel like getting out of bed–but what does he DO, anyway, when he ain’t scheming and wheeling and dealing–and for that matter, you never do hear tell about the private life of Mutt and Jeff–is Jeff a punk? And I also want to know where they get the money to dress so fine when neither of ’em seem to have a job and Mutt spends all of his money down at the racetrack? Who supports Little Jeff? T’say nothing of Barney Google. And Moon Mullins! Not t’mention Kayo. 
You might think this is the delirium of an old man. But when you’re on the bum you always got nothing to do but think and plenty of time to do just that. And there was always lots of questions that bothered me, even when I was a kiddie. Like, did Buffalo Bill smell like Buffaloes? If so, he must have stunk to high heaven all the time.  Wasn’t it lead pipes that led to the fall of the Roman Empire? Then why did we put the very same lead in our paint? Painters is mostly crazy, and drunks. Cooks, too. And people as work at gas stations. And why was we always mucking around with those banana republics? Nothing down in those parts but Malaria and Senoritas with crooked teeth.  Not one of them Dagoes knows how to behave decently. And little Billy Hearst wanting to be president–hah!  Allus looking to sting his senses to a fresh thrill. Could he have kept his pecker in his pocket long enough to make the announcement?  Had to be a warmonger and a kingmaker if he couldn’t be the king. The Yellow Peril? Faffgh! We’re just so many white devils to them. Let Rooshia sort ’em out. Burn ’em all. 
I never cared a straw about riding the rails and beating the railroads of a fare–that was the least of my worries–hell, they were swindling everybody, every which way–the gummint, the farmers, the passengers who was forced to rely on them. Jeepers Crow, I would of rather walked most of the way, and for a goodly while, I did. I warn’t no rubber tramp.
I’ll tell you who you don’t want to mess with–it’s The Mob. Them Jacketeers won’t take an insult sitting down. You try throwing them in jail in the afternoon–none of them bums ever get up when the rooster crows–and they’re back out in the streets in time to see the opera-show. Another rough bunch–the coal miners. They got little enough to lose–a 30 day spell in the hoosegow must seem like a heaven-sent vacation to the likes of that crew. It’s hard on the families though. I’ll bet all of ’em are married men with a wife and some kiddies to support. Otherwise why would they ever go down in that shaft? Hostages to fortune.
I see a day some day in the future when there won’t be no more hamburgers, ice cream cones, peanut butter and iced tea. Instead, people will eat tasteless frozen food under bare light bulbs. I saw this in a dream, back when I was on the lam from some brakies who caught me riding the rods and told me to get off at Stew Junction, only I didn’t. So much for those muckers. When you go down south, y’know, you sweet backs and summer birds, it’s best to watch your tongue. Folks down there is very particular about cussing around ladies. You’d be better off in Sonora Town if they haven’t yet got into the habit of breaking the heads of bindlestiffs. The Scottsboro Boys–they got a bad break, but that’s just the way the dice roll. So t’ speak. I’m betting they didn’t have no bidness down there anyway. That kid–what was his name? Down in Mississippi? He was a snotty yellof anyway. Not saying he deserved what he got, but I’m not saying he didn’t. It’s easy to judge, but just you try to live it and you find out soon enough who’s who and what’s what. 
Gee, I remember when the General Slocum burned–it liked to of wiped out half the East Side. 
And I remember too how everybody went around singing about they were a Yankee Doodle Dandy. Damn bunch of fools. Bosses to the left of ’em and their hired thugs to the right, but they’re eating bananers from Panama and crowing about how the sun shines in! Gee, but 1904 was a lousy year! Strikers were striking, Drys were bawling, boodlers of all sizes was getting their cut, but the ordinary Yellof put on a pair of hoss blinders to the miseries that was all around ’em. I’m not one of them devil-dodging Reds–not by a long chalk–but it don’t take a radical agitator to know why the people was sore. Even tourists said ix-nay on the red talk, but every so often one of them would get into a spiel and would manage to sorter captivate us. Even me, a punk kid as didn’t give a hoot about Jerusalem Slim on one side ner the Money Power either.  Insolence and aggression was just wordy words. But ever so often we would hear an angry man with some brains commence in to talkin’. And we was all ears. 

1*SALUTATION

BARBARA GAYE
MY BOY LOLLIPOP

2*REFERENCE
ME AM WEIRD
THE STRANGEST COMIC BOOK STORIES EVER TOLD

3*HUMOR

IT’S THE END OF THE WORLD AS WE KNOW IT–BACKWARDS
 “Liquor Store in Noxtown/Liquor Town Today.” 
4*NOVELTY
GEESHIE WILEY
LAST KIND WORD BLUES
PICK POOR ROBIN CLEAN
5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
DARK SHIT
BY JAMIE ALLIOTS

6* DAILY UTILITY

WEIRD VINTAGE

7*CARTOON

16 CARTOONISTS WHO CHANGED THE WORLD

8*PRESCRIPTION

ROKY ERICKSON
STARRY EYES

9*RUMOR PATROL

WHAT TO EAT WHEN YOU’RE BROKE

10* LAGNIAPPE

MAC & KATIE KISSOON
CHIRPY CHIRPY CHEEP CHEEP

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

LANDSLIDE: LBJ AND RONALD REAGAN AT THE DAWN OF A NEW AMERICA. 
By Jonathan Darman.  
The presidential election of 1964. It was the height
of the Democratic Party’s success, and President Lyndon Johnson was
riding high. Just before election day, a well-known B-movie actor and
public speaker gave a televised half hour speech in support of
candidate Barry Goldwater. This speech galvanized the conservative
True Believers and launched the speaker’s own career in politics. That
man was Ronald Reagan, and Darman ingeniously traces the rise and fall
trajectory of the sitting President and compares it to the rise of
Reagan, a future President, as the two men and their airy promises and
contending ideologies occupied an increasing portion of the national
stage.

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.
764. A HEARTWARMING CHRISTMAS TALE

A kid saves up his allowance money so he can buy his mean dad a present that will make him love him. He carefully saves up every penny, earning more money by running errands and collecting soda bottles. Christmas day arrives. Angry Dad gets a genuine imitation leather belt. Which he promptly uses to whup the boy, for having given him such a cheap present.