THE INFORMATION #835 MAY 8, 2015

THE INFORMATION #835
MAY 8, 2015
Copyright 2015 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

Young men, hear an old man to whom old men hearkened when he was young. –Caesar Augustus

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE

BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER TEN: PART SEVENTEEN: KINGDOM COME

“When you get on the wrong side of the Big Man,” said Count Justin
Victor, “though we don’t call him that around here, we call him the
G.Y., the Gib Yellof—when you get on his bad side, then it’s only a
matter of time before he or one of his bullies will track you down and
make you pay for your ‘crimes’.”

The Count was talking to the two remaining occupants of the Seven
stars Saloon, namely Pappy O’Day and the barkeep, Tipsy Smith. They didn’t even notice me. I try real hard not to be underfoot so they
would chase me out of there for being too young a shaver to haunt
those distinguished precincts.

“Think of it,” he resumed. “A nosy reporter whose only sin was that he didn’t know how to hold his jaw-jaw. He wrote about some of the
murkier connections of ‘The Machine’. The Big Man had him taken for a barking mad lunatic and committed, and he now resides in Arcadia. The Happy Home. The Laughing Academy. And that’s when the Big Boy was in a mellow frame of mind. Just imagine what he would of done if he had been in a snit. It’s enough to make a cat laugh. Incidentally, The Big Man is fond of the purring beasts. Has five or six of them around him, but never any dogs. You got to wonder about a man like that.”

The Count took a drink of Tipsy Smith’s coffin-varnish, shuddered, and resumed. “Now,  I don’t mind telling you, Tipsy, that the Gib Yellof is as vindictive as the day is long. He has a half interest in this
bar of yourn, ain’t he? I’m sure you have many a tale to tell. But
don’t bother. I know you’re scared of him. Not like Pappy O’Day over
here. I understand you, Pappy—maybe better than you’ll ever know. When a Yellof gets to be old and sick and begins to feel like his time on this squabbling ball of mud is decidedly and definitively limited, he gets so he just don’t much care what other folks think. Maybe that’s why old coots like yourself have a reputation for being cantankerous. But just because we old duffers care less about what people think of us, doesn’t mean that we don’t care, or that we don’t think to ourselves. Far from it. Though I have found that the mind of an old man does wander through any number of recollections about the way things used to be. All the girlies we sparked with horizontal
refreshment to follow and all the Yobs we set straight with our little
dukes the size of pile-drivers. All the horse-nails we spent setting
them up at the bar and all the times we bummed a double-saw from an old chum. And going back a ways further: What about the faithful pup we trained to fetch and carry, and the bully of a butcher boy we put paid to, back when we were sprouts?  What about waking up with the house so cold you had to break the ice in the sink to wash your face? Or the first time we rode a pony? Gee it was a good life; honor bright and honest Injun. But like all good things, it couldn’t last.”

The Count took a ruminative sip of Tipsy Smith’s bad whiskey and this time, managed to suppress a shudder. “What’s the first time you
realize you’re old? Maybe it’s when you look in a full-length mirror
and see a white hair next to your hog. The first time you realize
you’re no longer a young hopeful but a back’ard old curmudgeon, I
reckon you feel mighty upset and you go out on a Lushington to sorta backwards celebrate. Somehow, getting plastered amid the hubble-bubble makes you feel more alive. I wouldn’t know; I’m not a big one for the blue ruin; usually when I drink, it’s always the finest champagnes and aperitifs which I imbibe; I guess you might call me the world’s most sophisticated connoisseur of hell-broth.   No—getting old is no picnic in the garden, let me tell you—I know. You may not guess it to look at me, because I like to present a solid front, but I’m very nearly as old as you are Pappy; we went to different schools together, but I know that much. As for you, Tipsy, you’re a mere child by comparison with we old duffers. You know the worst thing about bein’ old? Other than having to get up to piss three or four times in the night, and other than having your chub get all droopy whenever there’s a major distraction in your girlin’ time?  I think it’s the notion that the young people want you out of the way. That’s why the old folks I see are so pathetically eager to talk. They’ll talk you up anywhere—not only in a bar, where liquor loosens the tongue, but anywhere at all, and anytime at all. You know what gets me? The old folks who come to a book store or a library—no, I ain’t ashamed to admit that those are places where I sometimes hang my hat—and, because they’re deaf, they assume everyone else must be a deaf-o too, and they start into talking as loud as can be. “

“The count paused to chortle.  “I should snicker. You ever see some
old Lout who’s not only a huffer but is also a hunt-about–who tells a
passel of howling lies about other people who he knows nothing about? Like what some old devils have said about me—that I’m the lowest sort of confidence man; that I live off the charity of women; that I’m touched in the head. These are all lies. I am the best kind of
confidence man; if I live off of women you can well believe I offer
them plenty of value for their dosh; and as for being a cracked
mirror, there’s not a bit of truth in it, me fine huskies.  Do I look
like a Johnny Trot? Don’t the things I say make good horse sense?
Ain’t I a man, and a brother too?  I never was a ken-cracker ner a
kennel-raker , nor a rolling kiddy either.  And I’ll fight any yob who
calls me a magsman or margery-prater. No, I work hard for my shekels, though the way I go about it, it’s hardly like work at all. Let me apprise you of some of the myriad ways a man like me gets ahead in the world. First and foremost, you always let a sucker tell you his life’s story. I’m different in that respect, I will admit; I like to spiel
with the best of them, but I also know when to sew up my cakehole and give a listen. How do I know what I know? A little birdie told me—over and over again. Let me tell you the one thing I’ve learned through years and years of listening: it’s this. Every man’s story is the same; yes, and every woman’s too. It’s all just variations of a theme, when you come right down to it. Like music, where there’s only so many ways to combine the notes. The only difference is in the tempo. Some people are diffident, and live life in a slow adagio. Others are strenuous, and live their lives fortissimo.  But everybody’s story is the same; you’re young, and the juices fly; you’re old, and the juices dry. Anything in between is just counting out time. And if anybody asks you where you learned it, you can say it came from the lips of Count Victor Justin, his own self.”

1*SALUTATION

THE CHOIR
IT’S COLD OUTSIDE
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MuGWZapyhyU

2*REFERENCE
FAMILIAR SHORT SAYINGS OF GREAT MEN (1887)
http://www.bartleby.com/344/

3*HUMOR
KEITH HARRIS, RIP
“Orville’s Song” was a UK Hit, reaching #4 in 1982. “… sold 400,000
copies, but was later voted the worst song ever recorded.”
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2c8PUVIKgI4

Harris and Orville became a variety show and children’s television
favourite. “People love him,” Harris claimed in an interview in 2005.
“He’s brought children out of comas, and other, more tragic children
have been buried with him. He is a real person.” Later on Harris
toured with a more “adult” offering entitled Duck Off, featuring, as
Harris explained, a grown-up Orville “fed up of my having my hand up his backside”. The show was said to be a great hit with students.In 2002 for his BBC Two series When Louis Met…, Louis Theroux followed Harris and Orville about as they prepared to open in Cinderella in Crewe and found a darker side. Harris proved to be a nervous, edgy man who kept telling rotten jokes and then saying “That’s a joke” afterwards, in case Theroux had not got it. Harris admitted that after his television career stalled in the early 1990s, he had spiralled into depression and heavy drinking and had at one point considered drowning himself in the local duck pond near his home in Poulton-le-Fylde, near Blackpool. [As a child] At the end of his act, “I would get on dad’s knee and be the ventriloquist doll. We’d sing Sonny Boy, and then I got a dummy of my own, called Charlie Chat.” he honed his skills as a ventriloquist, eventually creating a troupe of dummies, including Percy Picktooth, the rabbit, and Sidney Ram Jam, the Pakistani snake. Political correctness was never Harris’s strong point.

He got his first big break compering stage productions of The Black
and White Minstrel Show and never understood why people took exception to its depiction of black people: “Eddie Murphy whites up, so why can’t white people black up?” he asked in 2002. He became a popular act on television variety programmes before getting his own show in 1982.

He was…thin-skinned when invidious comparisons were made with other performers. Of Rod Hull, who had a famous double act with his puppet Emu (before falling off his roof and dying while trying to fix his television aerial), he observed: “He was never a ventriloquist.
Ventriloquism is an art. I’ve worked at it. I’ve studied it. I’m the
best there is, technically. You can’t see my lips move. People don’t
appreciate the cleverness of it.”
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/obituaries/11567975/Keith-Harris-ventriloquist-obituary.html

Here, in case you were curious, is Keith Harris and Cuddles the
Monkey, whose favorite catch phrase was “I hate that duck”:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dCe6xBX2nAE

ALSO SEE:
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-3059777/The-man-loved-duck-wife-s-four-time-wed-Keith-Harris-joked-love-life-humour-Orville-drew-pain.html

4*NOVELTY
TEN REASONS WHY BEING INTELLIGENT IS DIFFICULT
http://thoughtcatalog.com/kovie-biakolo/2013/11/10-reasons-being-intelligent-is-difficult/

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
16 states have more prisoners than college students. (And guess how
many of them are below the Manson-Nixon line?)
http://www.vox.com/2015/1/21/7865887/map-prison-college

6* DAILY UTILITY

SOVIET ANTIRELIGIOUS PROPAGANDA

http://dangerousminds.net/comments/the_gory_and_grotesque_art_of_soviet_antireligious_propaganda1

ALSO SEE:

PAGAN STATISM

http://www.salon.com/2015/04/25/pagan_statism_the_frightening_corporatechristian_alliance_that_invented_in_god_we_trust_and_one_nation_under_god/

7*CARTOON

DIRTY ADULT JOKES IN KIDS’ CARTOONS

http://www.ranker.com/list/adult-jokes-in-kids-shows/jacob-shelton?format=SLIDESHOW

8*PRESCRIPTION

THIS VIDEO WILL MAKE YOU HALLUCINATE

http://disinfo.com/2015/04/this-video-will-make-you-hallucinate/

9*RUMOR PATROL

SPACE TO DESTROY
Poor Stephanie Rawlings-Blake! “Space to Destroy” is the new black.

The Baltimore Riots: Just a little understanding between Stephanie
Rawlings-Blake and 200 looters.

It was here, in West Baltimore, that Gray lived all of his 25 years,
and where his body was broken while he was in police custody April 12. Candles had been burned in a sawed-off Pringles can and pink mums had wilted in a broken bottle of New Amsterdam vodka on the corner where he was cuffed and dragged into a police wagon….She stopped to chat with her neighbors, who have a makeshift convenience store set up on their stoop, selling bags of chips and single diapers for 50 cents a piece from a folding table because nearby “all we have are liquor stores and funeral homes.”… “I brought my nephew from Detroit to live here. I thought it would be better. He was shot eight times in the back right there,” she said, pointing to a corner not far from Gray’s home. “Right now, Detroit’s better than this place.”
http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/opinion/commentary/chi-freddie-gray-baltimore-riots-20150428-story.html

Report: Gray tried to injure himself in Baltimore police van
USA TODAY
A prisoner sharing a police van with Freddie Gray the night he died of spinal injuries while in police custody in Baltimore purportedly told investigators that Gray was “banging against walls” inside the vehicle and was “intentionally trying to injure himself….”

WHEW! All that rioting…for nothing!

10* LAGNIAPPE
BAND TO BAND
http://www.bandtoband.com/

11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
SOME TERRIBLE SONGS
AL JOLSON
SONNY BOY
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r2cYWxLQW9Y

MIKE DOUGLAS
THE MAN IN MY LITTLE GIRL’S LIFE
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HUvyhiLDByY

FRANK SINATRA AND DAGMAR
MAMA WILL BARK
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=maGuLEgyIZk

THINK
THINGS GET A LITTLE EASIER
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sH8go6bj-Y4

*11A BOOKS READ AND REVIEWED
ABSOLUTE SUPERMAN/BATMAN VOLUME 1. ***1/2
THE AGE OF SELFISHNESS. CUNNINGHAM. ****
ALEX + ADA. LUNA & VAUGHN. ****
THE ART OF THE TALE. HALPERN. ****1/2
AVENGERS 4: INFINITY. **1/2
BATMAN: A CELEBRATION OF 75 YEARS. ***1/2
BLACK WIDOW 2. ***1/2
BLACKSAD. ****
BLACKSAD: A SILENT HELL. ****
BLACKSAD: AMARILLO. ***1/2
BUDDY BUYS A DUMP: HATE VOL. 3. BAGGE. ***1/2
THE CONQUERORS. MALRAUX. ***1/2
FANTASTIC FOUR 20: INTO THE TIME STREAM. ***
FLASH FICTION. THOMAS, THOMAS & HAZUKA. ***1/2
FLASH FICTION FORWARD. THOMAS & SHEPARD. ***1/2
GREAT FRENCH SHORT NOVELS. DUPEE. ****1/2
GREAT GERMAN SHORT STORIES. SPENDER. ****
GREAT SHORT SHORT STORIES. NEGRI. ***1/2
GRINDHOUSE 1. **
GUARDIANS OF THE GALAXY 2. VALENTINO. ***
HAPPY STORIES ABOUT WELL-ADJUSTED PEOPLE. OLLMANN. ****
HARLEY QUINN: WELCOME TO METROPOLIS. ***
HAWKEYE VS. DEADPOOL. **
INVINCIBLE ULTIMATE COLLECTION VOLUME 5. ****
JLA VOLUME 6. ***1/2
THE MARCH OF CRABS. THE CRABBY CONDITION. ***
MARVEL MASTERWORKS THE AVENGERS VOLUME 6. ***
PALE HORSE, PALE RIDER. PORTER. ****1/2                           POWER GIRL: POWER TRIP. ***1/2
SUDDEN FICTION INTERNATIONAL. SHEPARD & THOMAS. ***1/2
SWEATSHOP. BAGGE. ****
THINK LIKE A FREAK. LEVITT & DUBNER. ***1/2
THIS IS WARHOL. INGRAM & RAE. ***1/2
THE TRUE LIVES OF THE FABULOUS KILLJOYS. WAY SIMON & CLOONAN. ***
ULTIMATE COMICS SPIDER-MAN VOLUME 5. BENDIS. ***1/2
WINTER SOLDIER: THE BITTER MARCH. ***
ZEN PENCILS. THAN. ***1/2
ZENITH: PHASE 1. MORRISON. ***1/2
ZENITH: PHASE 2. MORRISON. ***1/2

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.
794. POP MUSIC: THE BOTTOM 50
Here are my nominees, more-or-less in order of toxic loathsomeness.
PLAYGROUND IN MY MIND
SEASONS IN THE SUN
MUSKRAT LOVE
YOU LIGHT UP MY LIFE
TIN MAN
POPSICLE TOES
FEELINGS
THE CURLY SHUFFLE
ACHY BREAKY HEART
MAGNET AND STEEL
WINCHESTER CATHEDRAL
PURPLE PEOPLE EATER
I’VE NEVER BEEN TO ME
ANGEL OF THE MORNING
THE JOKER
WE HAD IT ALL (JUST LIKE BOGART AND BACALL)
AN OPEN LETTER TO MY TEENAGE SON
TEEN ANGEL
HAVING MY BABY
WILDFLOWER
I’M TOO SEXY
SMOKIN’ IN THE BOYS ROOM
RUN JOEY RUN
THE NIGHT CHICAGO DIED
PLEASE COME TO BOSTON
IN THE YEAR 2525 (EXORDIUM AND TERMINUS)
ROCK AND ROLL PART TWO
ONE TIN SOLDIER (THE LEGEND OF BILLY JACK)
BOHEMIAN RHAPSODY
PARADISE BY THE DASHBOARD LIGHT
BABY FACE
EPIC
OH BABE, WHAT WOULD YOU SAY?
I WOULD DO ANYTHING FOR LOVE (BUT I WON’T DO THAT)
FLY ROBIN FLY
OPEN UP YOUR HEART (AND LET THE SUNSHINE IN)
I’M STICKIN’ WITH YOU
LOVING YOU
MACARTHUR PARK
AFTERNOON DELIGHT
CHIRPY CHIRPY CHEEP CHEEP
ON TOP OF SPAGHETTI
WORST THAT COULD HAPPEN
IN THE SUMMERTIME
DANCIN’ IN THE MOONLIGHT
HOW DO YOU DO?
AMERICANS (A CANADIAN’S OPINION)
PLAY THAT FUNKY MUSIC
UNDERCOVER ANGEL
THE RAPPER

BUBBLING UNDER THE BOTTOM 50
I’m Henry VIII I Am
They’re Coming to Take Me Away (Ha Ha).
Gimmie Dat Ding
My Belle Amie
Get Down Tonight
You’re the One that I Want.

ALSO SEE:
WORST SONGS
http://kenlevine.blogspot.com/2009/05/worst-songs-of-all-time.html

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MODERN WISDOM NUMBER 199 MAY 2015

MODERN WISDOM: AMERICA’S ONLY HUMOR MAGAZINE
NUMBER 199
MAY 2015
Copyright 2015 Francis DiMenno
dimenno@gmail.com
http://www.dimenno.wordpress.com

 1. MODERN WISDOM PRESENTS: THE MODERN WISDOM DYSLEXICON

CANNIBALS. Show not only bad taste but poor judgment.

CARNIVORES. Would gladly eat vegetarians.

CAT.  When you’re drawn by a cat, every portrait looks like a mouse.

CATARACTS. Something to keep an eye on. Just when you think you’ve seen everything, you get cataracts.

CATFISH. The garbage can of the river-bed. Seriously good eatin’.

CELLS. Basic units of life, and of life imprisonment.

CENSORSHIP. Censor me. I’m mediocre.

CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY. Ask them if you’re on their list and they’ll hound you to death. There’s a certain poetic justice here, I suppose.

CHILDREN’S BOOKS. I had a job writing children’s books–but I got fired for using the word “poop”.

CHOCOLATE-FLAVORED LAXATIVES: An enema of the people.

CICERO. Roman stoic now principally celebrated as Porky Pig’s nephew.

 

  1. BUMPERSTICKERS, TRANSLATED

THESE COLORS DON’T RUN

I am adamant that the entire world know that, in my opinion, my country’s military does not consist of cowards.

JUST SAY NO
Children: Implausibly resist peer pressure encouraging your illegal use of contraband pharmaceuticals through acts of sheer will power.

MY CHILD IS AN HONOR STUDENT AT…
I an so neurotically proud of my child that I feel compelled to boast to indifferent strangers about his obscure scholastic achievements.

I ♥ MY DOG
I strongly identify to a very public and almost maniacal degree with certain purebred canines.

ECOLOGY SYMBOL
I am strongly committed to preventing the very ecological degradation which, incidentally, my car is helping to cause.

GLAD TO BE GAY
I am not only an avowed sodomite, but I am also anxious to reveal my sexual orientation to the entire world.

IF YOU CAN READ THIS YOU’RE TOO DAMN CLOSE
I dread, and yet, nonetheless, simultaneously–and paradoxically–invite your scrutiny of my declaration that you are needlessly tailgating.

BABY ON BOARD
I fear your erratic driving, for I have successfully fostered hapless infantine progeny who may currently be riding in this vehicle.

YOU CAN’T HUG YOUR CHILDREN WITH NUCLEAR ARMS
I prefer physical contact with my children to paying taxes to purchase atomic weaponry, and I would like to gently remind you of that fact.

M.A.D.D.
My special status as a woman who has given birth lends added moral force to my admonitions regarding the operation of potentially lethal transportation devices while under the influence of intoxicating beverages.

GOD IS MY COPILOT
Not literally, perhaps, but in a figurative sense, I am willing to publicly affirm that this vehicle is in part also being piloted by a jealous deity first worshipped by a tribe of Semitic nomads several thousand years ago.

IF GUNS ARE OUTLAWED…
If my ready access to firearms (which I fearfully cling to as a secure raft in a storm) is in any way impeded, I am convinced that this country will become a nightmare land in which armed criminals roam free to commit their felonious assaults with impunity.

ONE DAY AT A TIME
Because I am avowedly an alcoholic, I feel the strong need to attest, publicly, to the need for a diurnal approach to the myriad stressful exigencies which plague the quotidian existence of sensitive addicts such as myself.

 

  1. PHILADELPHIA

Philadelphia! Ahh, “that essence so rare”! Obesity, HIV and asthma are just a few of the attractions you’ll find here, along with burning tires, leaky diapers, squeaky brakes, milk puke, gunshot wounds, cheesesteaks, and scurvy. Don’t take my word for it! It’s the place to go if you love:

 

Rudeness

Parking Tickets

Heroin

Arteriosclerosis

Hordes of homeless bums

Shitty pizza

 

Fabled Philadelphia! Birthplace of Bill “Rapemaster” Cosby, John “The Cool Ghoul” Zacherle, and seduction king Wilt Chamberlain, who claims he slept with 20,000 different women. 

 

Home as well to eminentos such as Gayraud Wilmore, E. Digby Baltzell and kooky Margaret Mead. 

 

The starting-out point for dignitaries such as Phoebe Gloeckner, Robert Crumb, Bil Keane–and Green Lantern creator Martin Nodell!  

 

Native town of Frank Baldino, Jr., Pat Olivieri, and Randal Pinkett. Randall Pinkett! 

 

And leave us not forget such famous native sons as Danny Bonaduce, Joey Bishop, Curly Joe DeRita, Lola Falana, Mario Lanza, M. Night Shyamalan, and–gasp!–Jean Vander Pyl! 

 

And leave us also not forget Henry “Box” Brown, Donald Barthelme, and Chris Matthews! To say nothing of Jim Croce, Stan Getz, Joan Jett, and Lisa “Left Eye” Lopes. 

 

If drinking overpriced liquor in bars that close at 2am and getting held up at gunpoint outside of the selfsame bar and then getting brutalized by Philadelphia’s finest who want to know why you’re wandering the streets bleary-eyed, with no wallet, and blood in your socks is your idea of a good time, then PHILLY IS THE PLACE!!!

  1. AMOEBA, AMOEBA, WHERE YA BEEN SO LONG?

Headline: Mom raises awareness of brain-eating amoeba that killed Calif. newlywed

A Temecula, California, mother is raising “amoeba awareness” after her newlywed daughter died last October from brain-killing amoeba called Balamuthia.

 

Possible pitches:

The Battle Against Balamuthia

We Must Slay the BEA: Brain-Eating Amoeba

We Can’t Fight the Amoeba Without You and ME

 

http://www.cbsnews.com/news/mom-raises-awareness-of-brain-eating-amoeba-that-killed-california-newlywed/

http://www.newsweek.com/brain-eating-amoeba-tap-water-killed-child-study-confirms-301738

 

  1. GINGER ALE TASTES LIKE LOVE

I went looking and found this ghastly commercial. Which looks like something out of The Parallax View.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L69SjHHiQzY

 

But, possibly even worse, there’s this ad.

 

Look upon Canada Dry’s mighty work, ye Gods, and despair!

https://www.google.com/search?q=GINGER+ALE+TASTES+LIKE+LOVE&espv=2&biw=1366&bih=667&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ei=QKgvVYuXDomAsQTPs4GoDw&ved=0CAYQ_AUoAQ&dpr=1#tbm=isch&q=GINGER+ALE+TASTES+LIKE+LOVE+find+someone+and+share+it&imgrc=ngpTfAEMIK_t1M%253A%3BfPlJkfyJZcWtJM%3Bhttps%253A%252F%252Ffarm3.staticflickr.com%252F2701%252F4195169139_3bbf8a0c95.jpg%3Bhttps%253A%252F%252Fwww.flickr.com%252Fgroups%252F864097%2540N22%252F%3B372%3B500

 

Ask any woman what love tastes like, and she won’t say it tastes like ginger ale unless there’s something terribly, terribly wrong.

 

Also, if I were a cop, I would wring that hippie’s neck. I mean it, maan. 

 

What’s the cop doing in front of the apples? Preparing to steal one?

 

Is the ambisexual hippie actually the store’s proprietor? A hip capitalist? “Take one, officer dude–it’s free because it’s YOURS.”

 

Find someone and share it?? Is the cop having an affair with Paisley Boy? Let’s hope, that at the very least, the ginger-headed wretch is his bottom.

 

17.5 cents per apple seems rather high for 1972. What is this, New York? In which case–anything goes. 

 

I am a liberal, and I personally find this ad offensive in ways I can barely even begin to enumerate.  

1) The commodification of dissent, alongside of

2) the glorification of military prowess

and…

3) Those fucking granny glasses. In NYC? In 1972??? M-maybe. But they don’t suit the suspiciously clean hippie’s face at all.

 

But after further scrutiny, I realize why the two of them are yokking it up. They’re both Irishmen, and probably like to hoist a drink, or several. Actually, the way I see it playing out is like this. Officer Manly turns our hippie friend into some 20 year old Irish Whiskey, while the red-headed bastard gets the Officer foozled on some outasite dope.

 

I just hope they don’t pollute all that good Whiskey with cheap Ginger Ale.

 

  1. BUMPER STICKERS FOR INTELLECTUALS
    Not all pointy-headed intellectuals drive fifteen-year-old Volvos or
    VW diesel Rabbits or putter around town in modified
    golf carts or Italian scooters. Some of them actually
    own respectable vehicles, and even though no real
    intellectual would put a boiled-down and facile
    version of his own (or anybody else’s) profound
    philosophic insights onto a mere bumper sticker and
    affix it on the back of a moving vehicle for all to
    see, here is a sample of the sort of thing you might
    expect to read if they actually did.

    ASK ME ABOUT MY COUNTRY’S TWO-PARTY DICTATORSHIP
    REAL MEN DON’T DO NIETZSCHE
    SELF-RIGHTEOUS HEDONISTS MAKE BETTER LOVERS
    CASH IS THE BEST FIREBREAK
    HONK EN MASSE IF YOU LOVE MINDLESS CONFORMITY
    TELL PROZAC TO SHUT UP, ALREADY
    I’LL HUFF AND I’LL PUFF AND I’LL BLOW YOUR MIND
    ASK ME ABOUT MY PROFOUND DEPRESSION…ON THE OTHER
    HAND, WHY BOTHER…
    ACTUALLY, AL FRANKEN IS ALSO A BIG FAT IDIOT
    START SENSIBLE SLAUGHTER
    CUTENESS DOES NOT AMUSE ME
    PLEASE HAVE A SPECIAL SYMPATHY FOR INTELLIGENT MISFITS
    IF YOU MUST BRAG, PLEASE MUMBLE
    CONSIDER GOD’S WEIRD PLENTY
    PRESENT TRENDS CONTINUE
    I MAY BE A FOOL, BUT AT LEAST I’M A RATIONAL FOOL
    IN THE EVENT YOU WERE TO HARM MY VEHICLE IN ANY WAY I
    WOULD MOST ASSUREDLY HAVE RECOURSE TO AVENGE SUCH AN
    ACTION IN A MANNER YOU WOULD BE BOUND TO FIND MOST
    UNPLEASANT
    MY GOD MAKES EVERYBODY HAPPY
    ASK ME ABOUT MY INCESSANT ATTEMPTS TO BROWBEAT YOU
    INTO SUBMISSION
    MY CHILD WOULD BE AN HONOR STUDENT AT AN EXCELLENT
    LOCAL HIGH SCHOOL BUT I HAVE BEEN TOO DEVOTED TO MY
    OWN INTELLECTUAL PURSUITS TO SPAWN PROGENY
    I MAY TELL LIES, BUT THEY’RE IMPORTANT LIES
    I BELIEVE IN  JUDICIOUS ANARCHY
    ASK ME ABOUT MY SUPERIOR GENE POOL
    IF YOU LIVED HERE YOU’D BE LIVING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE
    STREET
    CAPITAL PUNISHMENT IS THE NEW COMMUNISM
    INTELLECTUALS SUCH AS MYSELF EXERT A PECULIAR
    FASCINATION WHICH ENABLES US TO CREATE AN ENVIRONMENT
    MORE CONDUCIVE TO PLEASURABLE COITUS
    LET’S END POETRY AS WE KNOW IT
    ASK ME ABOUT THE MISCONCEPTIONS THAT BEFUDDLE OUR AGE
    TODAY IS THE NEW PAST
    CAREFUL: STUDENT SLAVEDRIVER
    ASK ME ABOUT MY GRADUATE ASSISTANT
    REVERSE UTOPIA
    DON’T SEND JESUS, THIS IS NO JOB FOR A BOY
    …AS OPPOSED TO THE OLD MILLENNIUM?
    I AM PERPETUALLY POISED BETWEEN BASELESS ANXIETY AND
    FALSE HOPE
    ASK ME ABOUT MY USE OF SELECTIVE EVIDENCE DIVORCED
    FROM ITS CONTEXTUAL FRAME
    MY FICTIONS ARE A TRUER ACCOUNT THAN ANYTHING FACTUAL
    CAN BE
    I NEITHER SPEAK NOR UNDERSTAND URDU
    HONK IF YOU LOVE MAGICAL TALES WHICH PANDER TO THE
    CORRUPTED TASTES OF UNDISCERNING CHILDREN
    HOW’S MY TAILGAITING?
    IRONY HAPPENS
    ASK ME ABOUT MY ADHERENCE TO OBSOLETE CONCEPTS
    HONK LOUDER, I’M DEEP IN THOUGHT
    READ MY LIPS–NO NEW LIES
    ENTER THE ORBIT OF MY VANITY AT YOUR OWN PERIL
    IT’S NOT THAT I’M ALWAYS RIGHT BUT THAT I THINK I AM
    THAT YOU PROBABLY FIND ANNOYING
    HONK IF YOU LAMENT THE FORGOTTEN STRAINS OF HAPPINESS
    WEB SURFING IS THE NEW GOLF
    I BRAKE FOR INTERESTING SPECIMENS
    I HATE THOSE PARAMECIUMS TO PIECIUMS
    ASK ME ABOUT MY POST-MODERN LIST OF WORDS I’VE JUST
    MADE UP
    SMASH THE STATE AT LUDDITES.COM
    HENDIADYSREDUX
    ATTENTION-SEEKERS ANONYMOUS
    BEWARE ZERO RESULTS
    I BRAKE FOR HALLUCINATORY SUPEREGOS
    FORGET KLEOS
    IN THE FIGHT BETWEEN THE TOURISTS AND THE TOWNSFOLK,
    BACK THE TOWNSFOLK
    MY GOD PROVES MY GENOTYPE IS SUPERIOR
    NOW THINK YOURSELF BACK INSIDE THE BOX
    NOW IS THE DISCOUNT OF OUR WINTER TENTS
    I HATE MY DREAM LIFE
    I OPPOSE FORCES OPPOSED TO HUMAN EVOLUTION
    ASK ME ABOUT THE VIEW FROM NOWHERE
    I HAVE NOT READ THE NATIONAL BESTSELLER
    I AM INTERESTING
    I’LL GIVE YOU THE BENEFIT OF MY CERTAINTY
    I’D RATHER BE MOCKING THE CONVENTIONS OF OBJECTIVITY
    MY BIBLE YES, MY RIVERSIDE SHAKESPEARE MAYBE, MY
    UNABRIDGED OED, NEVER
    TIMOR MORTIS CONTURBAT ME
    MELISSUS OF SAMOS IS MY CO-PILOT
    I AM HARDWIRED TO ENJOY PERIODS OF RESPITE FROM TOIL
    YOU WILL TAKE AWAY MY COPY OF THE ANATOMY OF
    MELANCHOLY WHEN YOU PRISE IT FROM MY COLD DEAD FIST
    MY OTHER VEHICLE IS A NON-POLLUTING ALTERNATIVE TO THE
    INTERNAL COMBUSTION ENGINE

 

  1. VIRGIL

One dripping wet mid-winter morning early in 1966, it must have been, or maybe it was 1969, I decided, much as if I were fully grown, to take the day off; in this instance, from the third grade.

So on a morning bright with cold I sauntered past my schoolyard, concealed my schoolbooks in a paper bag which I set among some bushes, then wandered north toward the down town, choosing a path that skirted the park. There I fell in with an older boy, a stranger to me.

 

He was standing at an outdoor pay phone posted upon a pole just next to the Bigelow Planetarium. He wore no hat. It was also a windy day and his longish hair half stood in the breeze. He looked over as I hurried past and said to me, “Hey Kid, you got a dime?”

 

I was afraid he would beat me up, so in a fearful voice I said, “No,” and began to walk away.

 

He said, “Hey Kid–c’mere.”

 

My legs were shaking as raw February cold was stung my unprotected cheeks.

 

The boy looked me over and said, “You got a dime?”

 

“I said I didn’t.”

 

He appeared to mull this over, and then he asked, “How come you ain’t in school?”

 

“I skipped.”

 

“Me too,” he said. “Where you going?”

 

I told him I was going down town and he said “Me too,” and began to walk alongside me.

 

He told me as we walked that his name was “Virgil”. I don’t remember his face. He was tall with sandy hair, blonde or even white, though this seeming whiteness might have been a trick of the egg-white light of the hidden winter sun.

 

We walked together, mostly in silence, across the bridge from the Noxtown section of the great city into the north side, known then, as now, as “Old Town”.

 

Virgil took it upon himself during that dripping wet morning to show me around his treasured haunts in Old Town. He told me of the wondrous fables to be found  upon the spinner racks within Card’s Department Store.. He would often skip school, he told me, and in that wonderful department store a kindly lady would let him stand there by the cashier’s station and read to his heart’s content the legendary tales of the Scarlet Speedster and the Man of Tomorrow; and of Death Man who knocked three times for the Black Knight.

 

One summer day, or so he told me, a parrot got loose from the pet department and began screeching and whistling amid the drop-ceiling rafters of the ground floor. On another occasion an excited pitchman stood in front of the housewares department and swore that oranges could be made into a delicious treat for adults and kids alike merely by purchasing at virtually no cost a simple plastic juicer with a straw sticking from the end of it.  

 

Back of the old Card’s establishment on Sixty-sixth Street, Virgil pointed to a derelict office building with boarded-up windows where established concerns once had operated. The bottom floor of this building had been converted into a type of burlesque theatre, though at that time neither he nor I knew what a burlesque theatre was. As we looked, we saw through the grimy window there at the basement level a woman in a giant cage adorned in feathers who appeared to have her head caught between jail bars. Raucous music pulsed and its vibrations filtered out from behind the window pane.

 

“What is it?” said Virgil.

 

“I don’t know,” I said. Then I thought that Virgil would think I was a child, so I said, “I saw something like it on TV once.”

 

Virgil looked at me and said, “Stuff on TV ain’t real.”

 

The enormous doorman wearing a blue greatcoat sees us gawking and begins to approach us with his fists bunched up next to his sides. We flee around the corner to an alley with a loading dock.

 

“We ought to do something to help that woman,” says Virgil.

 

I was sad because I was only eight years old and I didn’t feel as though I could help anyone.

 

Virgil circles around the building to investigate further. I silently follow. I don’t know why. I didn’t have to. At that moment I could have walked away. But it was though I had fallen in love with the boy, and his heroic magnetism.

 

When we again approached the front of the building, it seemed as though someone might have built a small fire in the alley. There was smoke billowing from somewhere. It wasn’t long before we realized that the lower floor of the building was on fire. Smoke began to flow and pour. We went to look for a policeman or a fire alarm. We were confused to see a half-naked woman run out of the place, followed by half a dozen men who then stood around and watched as the sill around the great window smoldered. “Someone’s playing a trick,” said the doorman. He spotted us, standing about thirty feet away. “Hey you kids!” he shouted. We ran away, in our blinded panic nearly running across the street directly into traffic. We stopped short. A fire truck drove by. A man who said he was a doctor came running up to the door. Then there were police cars, lights, and sirens. Two big, pink-faced policemen wearing woolen hats were using a crowbar to pry open the rear door. Three people ran out and the smoke from the inside followed them like cloudy fingers. Someone yelled to “get them kids out of there.” It took me a few panicked seconds to realize they were talking about us. Only where was Virgil? I thought I saw him far away, across the street, entering Card’s Department Store.  

 

A gray rabbit trailing a leash ran past me. Where did it come from? And then I saw a dog. It was a furry German shepherd that was pulling itself along the sidewalk as though its back had been broken. As it inched along its broken leash was just long enough to trail along the sidewalk. I thought that maybe the animals had escaped from a pet store. Shaking, I walked up Sixty-Sixth Street looking for the bus that would take me back home.

 

Then I see Virgil. He is running from the Woolworth’s, which is also on fire. He is on fire. He is surrounded by firemen.

 

A woman in a Navy Blue suit holding a microphone runs up and grabs my arm. “An eyewitness to the scene. Can you tell us what happened young man?” I twist away from her and run. She shouts something. I run behind a building on Sixty-Fifth Street, across the street. That building, too, is surrounded by police cars with their flashing lights, and fire engines with men spooling out fat gray hoses and playing bright water upon the steaming building. I dodge the outstretched arms of policemen and run up the grime-black metal stairs of the loading dock. In the rear bottom floor of this building is a dance studio. It is deserted. This must be where the women in the cage came from, I think. I enter the studio from sliding glass doors imperfectly tracked on their sliders. I run, sliding, across the newly waxed wooden dance floor. I try to leave through the front door, but it’s locked. I smell smoke. I try to exit the way I came. The sliding glass doors are stuck. A fireman wearing a yellow helmet is shouting at me from the other side of the glass. He breaks the glass. My face is showered with splinters of glass. I fall and cut myself. I am fascinated by the little beads of blood that begin to form on the palms of my hands.

 

The last thing I remember thinking is that everyone will blame me and I will be in prison for thirteen years until I’m 21 and I will also have seven years of bad luck or maybe they will make me join the army and I will have to go and fight the Germans.

 

I don’t remember much of what happened next. They must have taken me home. In the bright yellow kitchen my mother unwrapped a bandage from my hand and put something on my cuts that stung and made the tears well up at the corners of my weary eyes, and then she took me to my room and put me to bed for I now had a raging fever.

 

When I woke up, it was midnight of the following day. 36 hours had passed. I had a dry mouth, a dryness in my eyes, and a headache. I remember, before resuming my long sleep, I heard my mother at the door.

 

She came into the room and as she was drawing the covers over me again she told me in a whisper that it wasn’t my fault, none of it. And now I think that maybe that’s the only thing that saved me.

THE INFORMATION #834 MAY 1, 2015

THE INFORMATION #834

MAY 1, 2015

Copyright 2015 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

All faults may be forgiven of him who has perfect candor.–Walt Whitman

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE

BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER TEN: PART SIXTEEN: KINGDOM COME

“I suppose,” said Count Justin Victor to Tipsy Smith and Pappy O’Day,”I suppose that you think or feel you should be perfectly well chuffed when the Big Man picks you out for special notice. Never a word of it. Oh, he’ll be perfectly cordial, because that’s the way the Big Man operates. He’ll say come in, and offer ye a good cigar, and ask ye to take a seat. But allee samee, he will scrutinize you with especial vigor. For it has been truly said that ye must never seek to beard the lion in his den. That’s the one and only mistake I made in my ane encounter with The Big Man.

“You know the Yob I mean. The Gib Yellof. He whose name must never been spoken. He may seem mellow of countenance and gentlemanly by nature. But hell hath no fury, and et cetera and et cetera. I’m taking my life in my hands just by mentioning his name. Surely his malice shall follow me all the days of my life, and me and mine won’t be worth a plugged nickel, if He ever gets wind that I’m spieling about his doings. But I know you, Tipsy Smith; I know you of old; yah, you’re a cagey one; you know how to keep Mum. And you, Pappy O’Day; you wouldn’t be after stirring up no trouble; all this is for your ears only.

“The first thing I’ll say is that the Big Man has filled his dusky den with priceless antiquities of fabled provenance from the four corners of the earth. I know well the sound of my words can dazzle; but even my finest phrases must fail miserably to describe even the merest moiety of his gatherum omnium. Priceless jade; sparklers the size of your meaty fist; fine silver mirrors gilded in solid gold; exotic birds and beasts; great works of art; unique manuscripts.

“If’n I feel the need to talk low it’s because the Gib Yellof has spies everywhere; he’s as suspicious as Tiberius of old. I’m telling you true that if you write his name on a piece of paper you must burn it, lest it fall into his hands. O burn, o burn, o burn that paper! The whores is smart. They call him by harmless names he would never guess the meaning of in a million years. Sophisticated Ciss has named him the Kennel Master, because he has a way with dogs, and with harlots, too, though he don’t often go Girlin’ as he has a wifey at home. Dirty Sally calls him Booger Bear because, at 300 pounds, he doesn’t walk, but sort of lumbers, like even the best-trained Circus Bear. But don’t, whatever you do, call him the Fat Man! Fool! That Blubber is all muscle. He can walk 20 miles; heft 500 pounds like you’d handle a puking baby; throw a javelin the length of two football fields.

“I shouldn’t be saying these things, but it’s very important to know that the Big Man—the Gib Yellof—Johnny Cruel, as some of the harlots call him—is Master. They say his bloodline goes all the way back to old Pharaoh in Egypt as was mentioned in the Bible, and I can readily credit this as fact. He’s no Snarling Creampuff. For verily, he is the Boss of Bosses; Son of Ra; a Tough Nut to Crack; Private Enterprise, Corporal Punishment and General Largesse all wrapped up in one. You must beware of letting his shadow fall over yours; that makes you his slave. Although it is said that as a slave-master, he is a good one; all his thralls are fat and sassy because they never say nor do anything to cross him and they call him Lord.

“But in his younger days—watch out! He mellowed some since then, like good whiskey, and you wouldn’t think to look at him that the bearded rascal ever got up to any anti-social mischief; but you’d be wrong. He was Hell Himself, and he brought it wherever he went. He was a Fool-Killer; a kill-crazy yob; a deadly cove. A man who tangled with him on a Friday didn’t often live past Monday; and that’s why, once upon a time, they called him The Sunday Man. Back in those days, why, where that man spit, the grass would never grow. He allus had a plentiful supply of Chloral, of Cocaine, of Morphine, or of any pill or powder your heart desired, and he warn’t back’ard about sharing’ it none. But beware! Once you were brought into his toils, there was only one way out—total subservience to HIM. He has his helpless drug and booze slaves a doin’ his bidding to this very day. Remind me sometime to tell ye how he made a vassel out of Smash Conklin, using rotgut and sweet talk. But that’s a story for another day. Don’t think that he neglects the smallest detail concerning the goings-on here in Noxtown. You can be dead sure that not a sparrow falls, and et cetera. He knows everything that goes on. Remember that any letters which mention his name need to be burned, and the ashes thrown into the canal or better still, scattered to the four winds.  The Gib Yellof does not like to have his name and his likeness bandied about. He doesn’t want to be the Mayor; he OWNS the Mayor. After all, why rent, when you can buy?

“You must promise me, Yobs, as long as you live, that not one word of this will ‘scape your bloodless lips. I’m counting on you Yobs, because the Gib Yellof is the Boss of the Boss of Bosses. The Keeper of the Castle. Mistake me not—he’ll sneak up on you one fine day, and then—well, then that will be just too bad. Weak sisters and pump-suckers know to keep out of his way. Because that’s the Law of Noxtown, and you’d do well for yourself to never forget it.

“Namely, this: The Big Man wants you out of his WAY. He wants you out of his WAY!

“That’s why they also call him the Big Cat. He’s just crazy for meat—eats practically nothing else—it was good enough for Pater, says he, and it’s good enough for me. Maybe that’s why he always had a bloodthirsty glint in his cold gray eyes, even when he was a pup. They say his grandpappy dreamed dreams and seed visions. Well, Sir—the B—The Gib Yellof—he plays them visions out. And some!”

1*SALUTATION

CHARLES MINGUS

ECCLUSIASTICS

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pjEAVHK5Aq8

ALSO SEE:

CHARLES MINGUS WITH ORCHESTRA

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_UblGOR2Ta4

2*REFERENCE

COST OBSESSIONS AROUND THE WORLD

http://www.fixr.com/blog/2015/04/17/world-of-obsessions/

3*HUMOR

HOW TO BE POPULAR WITH BOYS

http://www.buzzfeed.com/krystieyandoli/terrible-dating-tips-for-women-from-the-80s#.ftomJpNAy

4*NOVELTY

THE SAMPLERS THAT SHAPED MODERN MUSIC

http://www.factmag.com/2015/04/22/the-samplers-that-shaped-modern-music/

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST

THE EASY WAY TO GET TO 500+ IN LINKEDIN

http://www.forbes.com/sites/williamarruda/2015/04/12/the-easy-way-to-get-to-500-in-linkedin/

6* DAILY UTILITY

“BUMPKINS”

http://dangerousminds.net/comments/bumpkins_appalachian_artist

7*CARTOON

GABBY THE PUPPET: THE RIDDLE OF THE FRIENDLY STRANGER

http://www.ep.tc/problems/67/

8*PRESCRIPTION

Police called after teenager posts Johnny Cash lyrics on Instagram

http://www.nme.com/news/johnny-cash/84622

ALSO SEE:

HOWLIN WOLF

FORTY-FOUR

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e3kK2l4on9w&feature=youtu.be

BUD AND TRAVIS

DELIA’S GONE

https://youtu.be/9sBogKkhCp8

9*RUMOR PATROL

WARTIME POSTERS

https://www.pinterest.com/julesbonneux/war-time-posters/

10* LAGNIAPPE

CRAMPS

HUMAN FLY VIDEO

http://dangerousminds.net/comments/the_cramps_long_lost_video_for_human_fly

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

BLACKSAD

If you like reading about Big Cats that drive cars and smoke cigarettes, Blacksad is the way to go.

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.
793. How corporate elite symbols and logos control you

http://disinfo.com/2015/04/corporate-elite-logos-symbols-control/

THE INFORMATION #833 APRIL 24, 2015

THE INFORMATION #833

APRIL 24, 2015

Copyright 2015 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

The clever cat eats cheese and breathes down rat holes with baited breath. W. C. Fields

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE

BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER TEN: PART FIFTEEN: KINGDOM COME

Count Justin Victor resumed his pleasant pattering chatter and chaffing, even though by now his audience had dwindled mostly to only those stalwarts who frequented the Seven Stars by necessity rather than choice: To wit, Pappy O’Day and Tipsy Smith, and me. And I hardly counted, being a ten year old who kept mostly out of the way and was never underfoot.

“Bad a fool as Adam O’Day is, he ain’t a patch compared to his mealy-mouthed Paw! Ain’t that right, Pappy? Far as I can tell, you and your wagging tongue have been causin’ a whole heap of trouble here in Noxtown. Say, confidentially, didn’t I see you having a sit down with the cop on the beat in the company of Police Captain Tom Aston? Sure, and weren’t you spilling the beans to them about the doin’s of Jack the Painter, and like that? Trying to say he was a drunkard , and had sniffed too much paint, and, and he was also on the dope? “

“Shut your blubber!” said Pappy O’Day. “It’s a damned lie! I never said no such thing! I’m with it and for it!”

“Well, in that case, it must have been a blue moon then, because I’ll be blowed if I didn’t see you just the other day down at the police station. And as we all know, fine words butter no parsnips. And say–didn’t I also see you telling Smash Conklin the Bludgeoner and Joe Rumbsuter the twanking Bully that Cool Slopp the pawnbroker has a wonderful tin box that is filled with yaller boys? And about how easy it would be to get him dumb-fogged on screech water and whiskey squeezins and scoff the lot? And didn’t Conklin say ‘Hah! Hah! Hah! I want gold!’ or words to that effect?  And didn’t you tell him that the pawn shop that he has there is the home of the feathered oof-bird?”

“Never!”

“Oh, so maybe that wasn’t you; maybe that was some other sawed-off, crippled-up, bald-headed rogue with snaggly teeth and a crooked nose. Well, a turd’s as good for a blind sow as a pancake. And maybe I need to be totin’ around a set of cheaters, because unless mine eyes deceive me, and they seldom do, I could of swore I saw you gassin’ to Judge Rance Sniffle about all the riff-raff and tag-rag who gad about the Seven Stars and the other flatirons, and about the harum-scarum bunch of Gutter Bloods that make this place their home. About how they was all of them a bunch of gallows birds for certain, and ought all of them to be hanged as a simple preventative, and to give the crows a pudding. Wasn’t that you?”  

“Nit!” said Pappy O’Day. “I would never blow the gaff on any man, until two Sundays come in a week!”

“That may be so,” said Count Victor Justin. “I’m not saying it is and I’m not saying it ain’t. Leave us be judicious in this matter of whether or not you’re actually a dyed-in-the-wool stool pigeon. Don’t get me wrong, Pappy. I like you. I like the way you square up and down even though you have nothing whatsoever to strut about. You’re no fart-sucker, or pukey snirp, like Tipsy Smith over there. You’re no pumpsucker either; you could probably drink all of us under the table. As a matter of fact, I do believe you love the firewater so well you would sell out your own son for a pint of old man’s milk. They way you snap at that bottle is a wonder to behold. You really like to go the pace, don’t you? I am sure that the yellofs who say that you are so hell-bent on taking care of number one that you are indifferent to the fate of your fellow man—I’m sure that those yobs are merely suffering from the delusions of an ignorant child.

“Who?” said Pappy O’Day. “Who’s been saying those things! I’ll have them arrested!”

“Now now,” said Count Victor Justin. “There’s no need to get yourself into a lather. I’m sure that the fabulists who repeat such palaver are simply talking for Buncombe. Just a bunch of low-down scrubs and poltroons. Fop-doodles, the lot of ‘em. Not fit to shine your shoes. If they have the gall to repeat their low-life rumors when I’m around, I’ll put a pettifogger on ‘em. All that talkee-talkee don’t amount to a hill of beans. But….”

“But WHAT?” said Pappy, and his voice was practically a shriek.

“But didn’t I also hear you say that Conklin and Rumbuster were a couple of turnip suckers and chaw-bacons, despite all their citified ways, and that they was always good for a drink? Didn’t I hear you say that the Big Man his own self had a yen for a bit of Fresh from the Girl Shop? That he longed to be a Fancy-Man, only he was too fat to fuck? Own up to it now; it’s only you, me, and the barkeep, and Tipsy Smith don’t never tell no tales out of school.”

At this, Pappy became almost hysterical with both fear and rage. “I didn’t—I couldn’t–I would never—“

“Well, say what you will,” said the Count. “But it’s your funeral if the word gets around that you’ve been slanderin’ The Big Man. You might as well pawn your coat and go on one last manly tear, because you won’t be needing it where you’re going.”

“You!” cried Pappy O’Day. “You’re—you’re the devil himself!”

“You flatter me,” said the Count. “Only it won’t wash. I just might have to get on the telephone and talk to The Big Man himself, and ask him what it is I’m supposed to do  with a chaffing blubberhead as don’t know his place. I sure would hate to see what the likes of Conklin and Rumbuster would do to you if—But—Oh, I won’t tell on you, my little man. I’ve got a few profound truths of my own to retain about The Big Man. I suppose you and I are the only men living who know even a small part of the true story, so let us order a bottle of Rye, which I know for a fact is the real McCoy, and retire to the table over there where curious ears can’t hear us palaver.”

Without another word spoken Pappy O’Day, as white as a ghost, made his shuffling way to a nearby table. I kept well clear until I knew they forgot I was around, and then I mooched around their table–to hear what I could hear—and what no man was ever supposed to hear.

1*SALUTATION

Captain Beefheart’s song about Zappa:

Ashtray Heart

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=82gyb0cFJ20

“Yeah . Beefheart and Vanna White should have procreated. Imagine the Dada blunderbuss that would have issued [forth].”

ALSO SEE:

Captain Beefheart’s song about Death (as near as I can make out; I’ve been puzzling over the lyrics for over 30 years).

Sue Egypt

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OIrZmRZSazI

2*REFERENCE

Five awful SNL hosts of the 70s

http://mentalfloss.com/article/19028/5-awful-saturday-night-live-hosts-70s 

3*HUMOR

CRAM IT, CLOWN!

http://www.snopes.com/radiotv/tv/bozo.asp

4*NOVELTY

The Buchanan Brothers (1950)

(You Better Pray to the Lord) When You See Those Flying Saucers

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yrIcZjIvQM0

ALSO SEE:

Sheldon Allman (1960)

Crawl Out Through the Fallout  

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8XPzICHxXoQ

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST

SWEATY CELEBRITIES

Some of these celebs (virtually all of whom will be all but forgotten in 30 years) have no doubt had their minds poisoned after being indoctrinated at an impressionable age from reading The Joy of Sex (or hearing about its pernicious anti-deodorant message secondhand). News flash, bearded bohemian walking cliche with a Chinese character tattooed on the back of your neck to indicate where the ax should fall (how convenient): The ladeez do not appreciate the smell of your manly sweat. And your shit does not smell like chocolate ice cream.

http://www.answers.com/article/1226767/10-celebrities-who-are-said-to-smell-awful?param4=tb-us-de-enter#slide=1

6* DAILY UTILITY

WHAT ONE DRINK OF SODA DOES TO THE BODY

http://www.thescienceworld.com/this-is-what-one-drink-of-soda-does-to-your-body/

7*CARTOON

American Imperialist: The Millionaire

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jETJt_zbnKk

ALSO SEE:

HOW TO SPOT A COMMUNIST

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SkYl_AH-qyk

8*PRESCRIPTION

HILLARY CLINTON CAMPAIGN LOGO

“So what lucky 3rd grader won the Design the Hillary Clinton Campaign Logo contest?” 

http://www.reuters.com/article/2015/04/13/us-usa-election-clinton-logo-idUSKBN0N30XF20150413

9*RUMOR PATROL

DEVOUT JEWS SAY IXNAY TO SUBWAY FATTIES

http://www.bensonhurstbean.com/2015/04/greenfield-calls-on-mta-to-pull-sexy-lane-bryant-ads-from-f-train/

10* LAGNIAPPE

MOST PROSPEROUS AND LEAST PROSPEROUS STATES

http://www.ijreview.com/2015/04/292013-whats-cure-economic-downturn-map-states/

ALSO SEE

AMERICA’S RICHEST COUNTIES

http://www.forbes.com/fdc/welcome_mjx.shtml

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

GREEN FUZ

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K2QKu4ayXEg

Legendary as being the most garage-y of all the legendarily inept-but-catchy garage rock anthems. Note the march drumming in the middle eight. (About one minute in.) 

This punk band hailed from Bridgeport in North Texas, just Northwest of Fort Worth and were for a while a popular local attraction in the area. Randy was just 15 when this single was made. Mastered on a portable reel to reel cassette and recorded in a rock constructed cafe after hours, which probably explains the echoey sound, it’s hardly surprising the production sounds so crude. Only 500 copies were pressed at the time, but today, Green Fuz has become something of a cult classic. 

“ALL THE OTHERS ARE IN THE PAST.”

​Words to remember.

 This is the song that changed the world as we know it. John Lydon was simply following in the footsteps of Randy Alvey.  

 “I’ll tell ya. Mike the drummer…his mom has two [of the Green Fuz singles] that have never had a needle on them. And,” he confides in a hushed, serious voice, “there is no money that can touch them.”

http://www.60sgaragebands.com/bandbios/greenfuz.html

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.

792. FIGBAT OSWALD

12:09. Posted under Forever Changes and What Did Jesus Eat:

i came up with a theory that involves the book of genesis (fig leaves) buddha (sitting under the bodhi fig tree) jesus (many sayings about figs) ross hornes’ book (new health revolution) and science (figs are the most important source of food for fruit eating rainforest animals). i then experimented on the figs by eating mainly dried figs (same brand) for over 9 years now and found cycles which i related to the numbers in psgs 11/12 of the book of revleations. this theory has gone everywhere.

Posted Under What Did Jesus Eat:

so far i have had eliminations at days 504, 840, 1176, 1512, 1848, 2184, 2520, 2856, 3192 and 3528. today is day 3555. i have definitely found something. i am not lying. what i have discovered has gone around the world and many songs have been written about it……the foo fighters’ last 4 albums…..coldplays’ last 4 albums……”vertigo” by U2 (my first name is phil). an elimination is a day when you experience strong flu-like symptoms and feel terrible. bad stuff is washed out of your body.

http://www.patheos.com/blogs/christiancrier/2014/01/16/what-did-jesus-eat-popular-bible-foods-in-the-day-of-jesus/

Posted under How to Use a Food Processor

my ears are now ringing with a continuous high pitched tone and i dont know what this means. in australia ross hornes’ books have been removed from the libraries and the bookshops. can anyone tell me what i have found?

https://www.youtube.com/all_comments?v=Hqb8qZbYBKk

From the Rate Your Music Message Board:

http://rateyourmusic.com/board_message?message_id=4387423&show=20&start=80

[There is a user by the name Figbat Oswald who, as far as I can tell, believes Youtube comment sections are his own personal blog. He comments regularly, usually regarding the progress of his bizarre diet. Here is an excerpt, from a Men at Work music video:]

day 2833. only figs and 3 oranges this morning and nothing more except urine til 7.00pm tonight. then usual foods. no change.

[He also makes frequent, cryptic references to his “theory”:]

  1. my name is figbat1 and today is my 2819th day of eating mainly dried figs.

would you like to know why and to read my theory?

google figbat1 or click on my figbat oswald moniker and go through my postings til you find it

if you cant find it…..keep looking. ASIO are doing their utmost to hide it and suppress it.

it is about jesus and figs and science and the foo fighters.

[His gloriously insane Youtube channel can be found here.]

https://www.youtube.com/user/figbat1

[Hmm….This Figbat Oswald seems to be ONTO something.—ED]

THE INFORMATION #832 APRIL 17, 2015

THE INFORMATION #832

APRIL 17, 2015

Copyright 2015 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

Failure is unimportant. It takes courage to make a fool of yourself. –Charlie Chaplin

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE

BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER TEN: PART FOURTEEN: KINGDOM COME

Count Justin Victor addressed the remaining denizens of the Seven Stars Saloon, which included Adam O’Day, his Father, Tipsy Smith, and myself. “Adam O’Day. Some call him the worst kind of fool. Some call him the best. Ain’t that right, Adam?  Always the showboat;  never the tugboat.  

“Look at that big old barge-ass just settin’ there, squintin’ up at me with his blinkers jolting out of his fat phiz, a flabby grin plastered on his dozy mug.  There’s no fool like an addle cove; he lets himself be cheated by all the sharpers and blacklegs in town; this I know, for I readily confess myself to be among their number;  but I personally do not deign to lower myself to indulge in such easy pickin’s and perform flabberdegaz on a flat unless I’m in a profoundly sorrowful way.  But that don’t stop every acrimonious hoaxter and spiteful double-dealer for miles around from trying to sucker him out of his brass.

“Be a man, Adam O’Day—stand up and account for yourself!

But Adam, unaccustomed to being addressed by the likes of a well-dressed gent like “the Count,” remained planted on his bar-stool.

“But of course, he won’t. He’s a real dumb-foozled elbow-crooker, him. Uncle Happy, prince of the hell-broth. There’s drunk, and there’s dead drunk, and there’s lying-down drunk; and he’s mostly the lattermost. The big Gollumpus.

“And who can blame him? He’s got a bee in the head.  Got bats in the belfry. See how he carries my coals! Another man would come out swinging. Not our proud lout.  He’s Mr. Carry Me Out and Bury Me Decently, he is. Here is a Yellof who is destined to do everything, and to do it arsey-varsey.  Consider a yob who looks like a balmy cove, who talks like a jolthead, who acts like a John Cheese—surely you’re not telling me that this is a man who is wise beyond his years?  He’s never said a wise thing in all his born days, unless it be responding to the offer of a drink with ‘I Don’t Care If I Do.’

“Look at him, with the black and yaller black choppers, and his fat and florid Irish face—I fancy he even burps in Gaelic. He’ll always be glad to be carneying, and to share your drink, but when it comes time to pay, he no speaka da language.  He’s a real Captain Cork.  He takes care of number one, and we all know who that is. He makes ducks and drakes out of other people’s bacon.  He’s nothing more than a palliard. A bit of a flim-flam artist his own self. He would beg on his knees to Panjandrum the Great and sob for a nickel—enough to buy him an awful glass of all-sorts—makes me gag to even think about it.

“Adam is no pap-mouth–a real Lover Boy, him–has an eye for the Bob Tails, sure, but too cheap to spend the actual, even when he’s hot and bothered. He’ll tell you all is Bob even when the whole neighborhood is up and arms and crying blue murder—just so long as he gets his caper juice. He’s a real Uncle Chumpy for the blue ruin. He’s been lapping it up from the gutter since God was a pup.

“O, but, mind you, he’s a contented cove all the same–always cracking wise—a flearing fool–loves to play pranks. He’ll roll over and let you scratch his belly, like any shivering jenny, when he’s got enough of the Old Soak in him. The sign of a weak intellect, says I. He’s not only a socker but a staggerer. One of these days he’ll go sidling up to the likes of Smash Conklin with one of his cute antics, and then he’ll really catch a Tartar.

“O, he’s a sick man, but funny sometimes. Would you like to hear tell what happened the last time he tried one of his adorable stunts? He tried to get the preacher man, John Cross, to buy him a snort. Young Johnny Cross, he gets up on his high horse, a position from whence he seldom comes down, and cackles all kinds of pishery-pashery and makes with the Gospel gab, as is his wont—tells him he’s going slowly to Hell, and Adam, bright boy that he is, says he ain’t in no hurry, nor is any man. The gimber-jawed Bible-pounder gives him a cold hard stare—says Are Ye Washed in the Blood of the Lamb? Adam thinks the Sky Pilot is asking him if’n he’s bathed, and says, no—not since last September.  The hot Gospeller comes back at him and asks if he’s been saved. And wouldn’t you know it, the shaney has no idea what he’s talking about, being a heathen and a Papist to boot, and he says ‘Saved for what? If I gots the stumpy, I spends it!’  Then John Cross says ‘Surely you do not doubt the truth of the Gospel of Jesus Christ?’ Adam ups and says, ‘The Gospel? I don’t know what that is. And that’s the Gospel truth.’ Then the Preacher-man starts to chop the whiners, commencing with the Our Father, and Adam just stares at him like he’s gone off his chump.  Says, ‘Don’t you want to be friends with the Christian faith?’ Adam says, “I got all the friends I’ll ever need, right here!’ Finally, in desperation, the Preacher-man says, quote,  ‘I’ll pray for you, my Friend. By the way–Have you met Jesus? I could introduce Him to you.’ Adam ups and says, ‘No thank you—my Pappy always told me not to talk to strangers!’

Haww!

“Finally, the Preacher, he loses his patience. ‘Hey—you tame goose,’ says he, ‘I’ve had it up to my neck with all your idiotic comments!’

‘Likewise, I’m sure,’ says Adam O’Day. ‘I suggest,’ says he, ‘that you go to hell and help the devil make your mother into a bitch pie.’

Haww!

“That took all the starch out of the Preacher. He didn’t know whether to shit or go blind, and he slunk out of that very door right over there just as quick as a cat that had just gotten scalded on the tail by a teakettle.

“O, he may be a shoon, but he’s our fool!  A fine broth of a boy for all his lushing. What’s that they call him? The man who holds the serpent by the tail. He’s either a simpleton or a genius—and maybe a little bit of both!” 

1*SALUTATION

ROLLING STONES

WILD HORSES (ACOUSTIC)

http://www.slate.com/blogs/browbeat/2015/04/02/rolling_stones_wild_horses_acoustic_version_from_sticky_fingers_reissue.html?wpsrc=fol_fb

2*REFERENCE

ALAN LOMAX FOLK MUSIC ARCHIVE ONLINE

http://www.npr.org/blogs/therecord/2012/03/28/148915022/alan-lomaxs-massive-archive-goes-online

3*HUMOR

WILLIAM BURROUGHS’ ADVICE FOR YOUNG PEOPLE

http://disinfo.com/2013/02/william-burroughss-advice-for-young-people/

4*NOVELTY

TERRIFYING OLD MOVIES

http://www.cracked.com/article_21664_9-utterly-terrifying-movies-older-than-anything-youve-seen.html

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST

MISSISSIPPI FRED MCDOWELL

GOIN DOWN TO THE RIVER

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9TyzAAwJnIw

6* DAILY UTILITY

AMERICA’S MOST OVERPRICED CITIES 2015

http://www3.forbes.com/business/americas-most-overpriced-cities-in-2015/

7*CARTOON

WHITE PRIVILEGE

http://boingboing.net/2015/04/08/simple-comic-strip-explains-th.html

8*PRESCRIPTION

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS MYSTERY PHOTOS

https://m.flickr.com/#/photos/library_of_congress/sets/72157648233084733/

9*RUMOR PATROL

CONFUSED 92 YEAR OLD DRIVER

https://www.facebook.com/video.php?v=10153117682194445&pnref=story

10* LAGNIAPPE
THE MONKEES

YOU JUST MAY BE THE ONE

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cZ6R5g34A68&feature=share

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

FORTY OF MY FAVORITE MOVIES

 Mean Streets. Dr. Strangelove. The Wizard of Oz. The Parallax View. A Clockwork Orange. Groundhog Day. Goodfellas. Raising Arizona. Something Wild. City Lights. Psycho. Citizen Kane. Sunset Boulevard. Double Indemnity. The Devil’s Advocate. Lawrence of Arabia. Scarface. The Graduate. The Great McGinty. Nashville. Sweet Smell of Success. A Face in the Crowd. Chinatown. Seconds. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. The Manchurian Candidate. Seven. The Usual Suspects. JFK. Pulp Fiction. The Wild Bunch. Traffik. The Silence of the Lambs. Brazil. The Leopard. College. Badlands. Naked Lunch. All About Eve. Bonnie and Clyde.

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.
791. VINTAGE PROPAGANDA POSTERS

https://www.pinterest.com/jayamber79/vintage-propaganda-posters/

THE INFORMATION #831 APRIL 10, 2015

THE INFORMATION #831

APRIL 10, 2015

Copyright 2015 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

We feel quite truly that our wisdom begins where that of the author ends, and we would like to have him give us answers, while all he can do is give us desires. But by…a law which perhaps signifies that we can receive the truth from nobody, and that we must create it ourselves, that which is the end of their wisdom appears to us as but the beginning of ours.–Proust

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE

BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER TEN: PART THIRTEEN: KINGDOM COME

Seated in the Seven Stars in the depths of mid-winter with snowdrifts forming outside and covering the high windows, a roaring fire inside, the smell of cheap tobacco prevalent throughout, Count Justin Victor turned his attention next on Jack the Painter. “The trouble with you, Jack, the thing about you is that you and that ‘ooman of yourn ain’t got no bairns. Kiddies are a blessing or a curse, but it does a man proud to see a piece of him roaming the world and gives a man incentive to live rather than leaving orphans for a brother’s care. Oh well—I suppose you have found your modus vivendi right enough.”

“I don’t have to stand here and listen to this,” said Jack the Painter.

“Then sit down , ye durn ninny,” said Count Justin Victor; but Jack made his departure.

“Now you see him–now you don’t,” said Count Victor Justin. “In case all of you are interested,” he said, turning to the crowd, which consisted of Musky Jim, Jimmy Ragmop, Adam O’Day and his Pappy, and Tipsy Smith the Barkeep, “Jack is a classic case of neurasthenia. He knows his Latin; oh! And I wouldn’t be surprised if he knew a little Greek into the bargain, and maybe even some Hebrew, and I’m not talking about the beer they serve here. You might conclude from his demeanor that Jack is every kind of fool; but you’d be wrong. You can trust me—I’ve traveled this great world over, and I’ve heard the Hooty Owl, I have. Jack was once a man of great promise. I knew his Paw. He was a washed up Calvary officer in the Confederate Army; he only birthed Jack late in life, when all his little glory had long ago faded. So—what makes Jack so sad? I think it was his Paw, having had him late in life, never much had the strength and energy to share with the boy his love of manly pursuits. He was more like the grandfather than the father. Then again, I knew him, and he was an irascible cuss. Always blamed everyone else for his station in life. Couldn’t get over the fact that the South had lost. You know how some of these Southern gentlemen treat the Negro with excessive grace? Jack’s father was not one of those. He would snarl at them every which way he could; expect them to wait on him hand and foot and, worst of all, he wouldn’t even tip ‘em.

“Anyway, like I said, I knew the father, and the acorn never did fall far from the tree. Only, instead of raging and roaring at the world, Jack more of less keeps to hisself. Oh, there was a time—and it wasn’t that long ago—that Jack was a gay young dog, easily excited by drink, always willing to bet the farm—a real proposition player, willing to wager on a raindrop falling down a window-glass. He got in with a bad crowd for a spell—we all have, I’ll admit—but he had the good sense to cut ‘em loose when a little bird whispered in his earie. So how did he go from being the Young Man With A Lot On The Ball to being a handyman in a dive like this one? I’ll tell you straight—I’ll warrent he believes he doesn’t deserve any better. It’s like he’s doing penance for some great sin he committed in the past. The Seven Stars is his Calvary.

“I’ll be beggared if he wasn’t a majordomo in the Masons at some time or another. Jack the Clown, always playing the fool. Always in his altitudes; always first in line to whack the new initiates with a paddle, or play some sort of stunt with an electrified rug. People in blindfolds and kneeling, being whacked and prodded by rods. Bad slang. Faked-up branding irons. Riding the goat tricycle. Like that. O, I know all their tricks! Jack was a real Hail Fellow Well Met; the Heartiest of the Heart Men; a Stout Fellow. Note how thin and ragged he looked just now. Comes of never eating. He’s so sad the food is ashes in his mouth. Show me a fat man and I’ll show you a man who is too earthy to be a Nervous Nellie. Nowadays, it’s always the skinny wretches who’ve got the drooping melancholia. Note, too, how he is never seen taking a drink, though you can bet that working in a bar, he gets plenty. Not that bad whiskey, either, with a plug of ‘baccy soaking in it. No; no insipid brew for him; only the purest corn liquor passes those lips; you can bet the bank on it, and no whistle.

“Because Jack was once upon a time used to a much softer life. He was a master locksmith. A regular Jimmy Valentine, only on the sunny side of the law. Banks would pay his fare to go to cities far and wide to test their locks, and provide them with security measures. He could talk like an apothecary to all the bankside ladies—and he did. Maybe that’s why he never had kiddies; he was always on the road, and too busy with the Dashers to pay attention to his first wife. Maybe that’s why when she took sick, it hit him so hard. He was a changed man, then, as if to make an extra effort could make up for all his earlier neglect. He was at her bedside at every hour, except when he was outside chopping wood to feed the stove so she wouldn’t catch cold and get any sicker. I’m sure he felt the whole time like he was dying inside and nobody understood. Well, finally, the inevitable happened, as it happens to us all, and he buried her.  After she passed away, he lost all joy in life. Quit his job, quit the Masons, moved out of his house, took a room over the bar, and spends his time here. Where are his jokes, his japes, his hoaxes and his capers? He let his hair grow long and he ties it up in back like a pirate. Makes him look like he’s wearing a periwig; only it’s all his own hair.

“You ever see an ox that’s been poleaxed? It stands there with glassy eyes just before it keels over for good. I see that look sometimes in Jack the Painter. He’s been through hell, sure. Maybe that’s why he don’t want the prayers of nobody. He feels like he’s a lost soul. He has no joy in his life. He’s lost his soul. He’s got himself another wife—the Lord knows how—he hardly ever leaves The Seven Stars—but she doesn’t seem to be doing much good, not that I have ever had the pleasure of having made her acquaintance. But I’m sure she’s no roaring gal. Having a kiddie would be the best thing that could happen to him; but I suppose some men are destined to pass from this earth and leave nothing behind them—and Jack the Painter is one of them.”   

1*SALUTATION

VAN MORRISON

SWEET THING

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2QzDWIOUnM0

ALSO SEE:

HOW VAN MORRISON WROTE ASTRAL WEEKS

http://www.bostonmagazine.com/arts-entertainment/article/2015/03/24/van-morrison-astral-weeks/

IN FULL: Lewis Merenstein, producer of Astral Weeks

http://darkforcesswing.blogspot.com/2009/03/in-full-lewis-merenstein-producer-of.html

2*REFERENCE

Charles Bukowski’s Letter to the Librarian Who Banned His Book

http://disinfo.com/2015/01/charles-bukowskis-letter-librarian-banned-book/

3*HUMOR

THE HOLLOW: THE INBRED HILLBILLY HAMLET WHERE EVERYONE’S RELATED

http://dangerousminds.net/comments/the_hollow_the_inbred_hillbilly_hamlet

4*NOVELTY

EVERY NOISE AT ONCE

http://everynoise.com/engenremap.html

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST

I AM NOT AN ATOMIC PLAYBOY!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IE06ECcimb8

6* DAILY UTILITY

22 CHARMING WORDS FOR NASTY PEOPLE

http://www.merriam-webster.com/top-ten-lists/charming-words-for-nasty-people/ruffian.html

7*CARTOON

The Secret Satanic Messages in Disney Cartoons and Hollywood

http://disinfo.com/2015/03/the-secret-satanic-messages-in-disney-cartoons-and-hollywood/

8*PRESCRIPTION

LIST OF SENIOR DISCOUNTS

https://www.onmogul.com/articles/this-list-of-senior-discounts-for-people-over-50-might-be-the-best-thing-you-learn-all-day

9*RUMOR PATROL

32 LEGITIMATE WAYS TO MAKE MONEY AT HOME

http://www.thepennyhoarder.com/ways-to-make-money-at-home/

10* LAGNIAPPE

BEACH BOYS RARITIES

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xOJy6IIUmU8

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

*11A BOOKS READ AND REVIEWED

BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES. SELTZER. ****1/2

CONFESSIONS OF A SOCIOPATH. THOMAS. ***1/2

DISPLACEMENT: A TRAVELOGUE. KNISLEY. ****1/2

FATHERLAND: A FAMILY HISTORY. BUNJEVAC. ****

GAME CHANGE. HEILEMANN & HALPERIN. ****

HAPPINESS IN CRIME. D’AUREVILLY. ***1/2

THE MALACCA CANE. VIGNY. ***1/2

THE OLD MAID. BALZAC. ****

RAMEAU’S NEPHEW. DIDEROT. ****1/2

GREAT RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES. GRAHAM. ****1/2

RUN LIKE CRAZY, RUN LIKE HELL. TARDI & MANCHETTE. ****1/2

RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES FROM PUSHKIN TO BUIDA. CHANDLER. ****1/2

THE SCULPTOR. MCCLOUD. ****

STORMWATCH 1. **1/2

SUPERMAN: EARTH ONE. 3. ***1/2

TREASURY OF MINI COMICS VOL. 2. DOWERS. ***1/2

VANINA VANINI. STENDHAL. ***1/2

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.
790. GREAT LOST ALBUMS

http://stylusmagazine.com/articles/weekly_article/the-lost-album-the-stylus-magazine-non-definitive-guide.htm