I know I will never be happy, but I know I can be gay! –Marilyn Monroe
WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER TEN: PART SEVENTY-TWO: KINGDOM COME
“Yobs like Jake Leaming’s kind,” said Count Victor Justin to young Cadger Tandy, aged fourteen, “have a tendency to avoid family men and other normal individuals. It’s a funny thing, but certain people seem to have a sixth sense when it comes to Morphodites and their boy chums. O, don’t tell me there wasn’t a whole lot of it going on, all through history. In the Roman legions. On board pirate ships. In the boarding schools of the British elites. In the many prisons and jails in this fair land–designed, in large part, to keep the deviant population behind bars. You’d be surprised at how many cops and Pinkerton spies have a secret yen for male flesh. But you mustn’t mention this, or you’ll become the sworn enemy of all ‘good’ men. And when you go hoboing in particular, you have to be especially careful of wolfs and their punks or prushans. These wolves have many ways of luring young boys into their loathsome orbit. If you see a big bearded lout stroking his beard and casting an appraising look on your manhood, beware! He is likely ready, willing, and able to make you his slave in all matters, and I do mean all. After he has twisted your mind with drugs or rotgut, he will enlist you to join the ranks of those who troll the deep dark depths of sexual perversion. I myself was a young Hobo for a spell; I had to fight off the Wolfs and Jockers at all times; I hate the Sodomite with a passion.”
“And that is why creatures such as Jake Leaming are so dangerous. They do not initially present as anything other than a member of the grifting tribe who is with it and for it. But after you’ve made a few scores with him, he takes you into his confidence and tells you dirty little tales of all sorts of dark deeds which you’d rather not know. I don’t know why, but a great many of these Nances and odd ducks have got the gift of terminal gab. they’ll talk and talk, right up top the crack of doom. I don’t understand how such people function, in an age when to be a man is to be cautious with your speech and only talk when it’s bound to improve the silence.
“I suppose that such creatures are so much like women in one thing, that they will be like women in all things. I have never known one who was not a physical coward when it came to confronting men of his own age and condition; otherwise, he will only pick on someone who is not his own size. He will certainly never protect someone who is weak and vulnerable, because he himself feels weak and vulnerable at all times. He has never been known to insult anybody bigger than he. Nor will he fight for his honor when it is offended. When he walks into a tavern and some young smart alecks laugh at him and attempt to harass his, he merely ignores them, or perhaps he will gain their good will by standing a round for the house.”
“Count on it: a Catamite is jealous of all real he-men. He longs to be like them–unfettered by loathsome vices–but knows that he never shall be, until the day he dies. A Nance is resentful of women–they enjoy privileges and prerogatives which he can never aspire to, except among creatures of his own debased kind. A Nance will always exploit an opportunity to practice his vice, no matter what the place or time or circumstance, because he has no shame. A Nance will shy away from work, and any strenuous physical activity–he would rather eat, or sleep, or get drunk. Other than expressing a wish to exchange seminal fluids in sexual congress, a Nance will almost never tell to truth about anything–not even to himself. Scratch a liar, and half the time, you got a fellow who is uncomfortable around women. Conversely, a Nance will almost never argue with you. He doesn’t want to get into a fight, with the possibility of loosening a few teeth or getting a black eye. A Nance, you see, is very meticulous in his personal habits–never spontaneous. For him it’s always the hair grease and the stinkum, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he also used powder and rouge. He will not fight; he will not risk his life; all things considered, he would rather stay home with his pipe and slippers, and read the newspaper, than go on crazy adventures. A Nance is never looking to better himself, much. He would rather stay in a comfortable rut; for he is really only half a man. A Nance is always looking for someone else to cozy up to him, and tell him what a fine Yellof he is. He dotes on your flattery. Butter him up, and he will do your bidding–right up to the point where it’s no longer convenient for him. Because he lives only for himself. Not for a woman; not even for another man. He looks in the mirror, and there is his ideal. He will happily engage in that particular practice all the live-long day. Beware the man of vanity! He is probably a powder-puff; a creampuff inhaler…an queer duck.”
“Sounds as if you know a great deal about this particular topic,” said the usually quiet suds-puller Tipsy Smith.
“I ought to,” said Count Victor Justin, “for Jake Leaming was my pard, and we ran together for a goodly while, until we were parted by circumstance and I heard from other dark tales of his true nature.”
DO YOU REMEMBER ROCK AND ROLL RADIO
THE GLOSSARY OF HAPPINESS
WHEN SUPERGIRL REPLACED JIMMY OLSEN
still no word on whether or not any members of the Jimmy Olsen Fan Club have ever known the touch of a woman.
ALFALFA SINGS OPERA
MYSTERIES AND SCANDALS: ALFALFA AND THE LITTLE RASCALS
5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
POLICE CALLS, WALMART, AND TAXPAYER MONEY
NAVY SEAL IMPOSTORS
DEPTH STUDY (1957)
ROBERT FRANK, PHOTOGRAPHER
My Response to Responses to My Critique of “Skepticism”
THE ELECTRIC PRUNES
I HAD TOO MUCH TO DREAM LAST NIGHT
THE LEGENDARY RICH GILBERT Holy Wreckords
Stereo Action Music 13 tracks
We all know who Rich Gilbert is and if we don’t we can look him up, so what do you need me for? Anyway, on this release, he does it all, or virtually all, all by himself, and the results are impressive. “#1 Hit Record” sounds to my jaded ears like the soundtrack to a Quentin Tarantino Western on speed, and not like a #1 hit record at all! It’s a spectacular piece of mind-melting, careering instrumental goodness all the same. “Castellena’s Last Ride” is another wild and winsome instrumental romp with tons o’ steel guitars and a through-line as inevitable as a mobster’s dirt nap. “Mystic Valley Parkway” is a mysterioso mood piece with shimmery guitars and a jazzy slow-dance vibe. Other highlights include the aggressively rocking rave-up “The Fatal Wedding,” which sounds for all the world as though it should be adorning the soundtrack of an unusually hip monster movie. Plus, there’s “The Parade of Forgotten Beauty,” which, to my ever-more-senescent ears, sounds vaguely like Genesis, what with the grandiose guitar pomp on full display (and dig the backwards percussion!); and the lonesome country-and-western-meets-new age melodic wave of “Black Saturday”; the downright trippy C&W tinged “Sayonara” with its clip-cloppy rhythm; “That’ll Work” with Billy Contreras on fiddle, which reminds me of western swing; more notably, of Dan Hicks & His Hot Licks grown somehow too big for their britches (sorry, but I call ’em as I see ’em). There’s some nice steel guitar there, Mr. Gilbert. (And where in hell did you get that clangorous guitar solo in the middle eight?) As for the rest, well, there’s “Run Swinger Run”: prog-rock meets monster movie music? “Trouble Makers”: steel guitars vs. industrial synth? “The Holy City”: Shimmery circus music meets brazen showboating rock in a disorienting Alice-In-Wonderland odyssey of sound? I mean, wow. Overall, Stereo Action Music is a tricky album full of kooky variations on a theme–and very easy to love. Bravissimo.
CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.
849. RID THE CITY OF SOILED DOVES
Bartlesville, Aug. 20.–Women, common street walkers, are being driven from this city today. Every train is carrying them away and by night the city will be cleaned of soiled doves. The women of abandon became so brazen they offended the entire citizenship and public sentiment forced the officers of the city to drive out the prostitutes.
The flight of the “soiled doves” began recently, when the fallen women became too bold. They flaunted their shame in the public places and sought to permeate the whole social life. It was not an infrequent thing to see women driving about the streets in cabs and reckless abandon calling, “howdy, son,” “hello, hubby,” “Now, Chawley, don’t you know your tootsy wootsy,” and similar phrases, many times mixed with curses and vile language unfit for publication. The women addressed all men alike, regardless of whether they had ever seen them before.
Editor Latta of the Daily Enterprise declared war. He stated that while not trying to make the city Puritan, the conditions had become so bad that they must be remedied. Latta won a clean victory this morning when the citizens held a mass meeting and ordered the police to order every questionable woman out of the city.
A large crowd of them left hurriedly this morning and a car load is billed to be shipped tonight. Bartlesville is cleaner than any time during its history.
Tulsa Daily World [OK], August 21, 1906