THE INFORMATION #927 FEBRUARY 10, 2017

THE INFORMATION #927
FEBRUARY 10, 2017
Copyright 2017 FRANCIS DIMENNO
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
 

The government is a joke. It’s a cardboard cutout that hides where the real machinery is.

–Frank Zappa
WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER ELEVEN: PART TEN: DAYS OF WRATH
“Little Joe the grifter is just like most members of the lower orders, ” said Count Victor Justin, warming to his theme. “You can give a gutter bum some polish, but you can hardly ever remove the smell of the gutter. And you can’t take them anywhere because they’ve trapped themselves inside the damned fool notion that they’ve got to be true to their ‘heritage’. So they’ll behave in all sorts of ways which sensible people scorn. They’ll drink too much. In fact, they will drink to stupefaction, all the while loudly proclaiming that they’re perfectly sober. They’ll express their opinions about any damned thing at all in a loud and grating voice. The principle things they’ll discuss are sporting competitions, politics, horses, and women. Which they value in roughly the same order. How tiresome they are! They have absolutely no sense of propriety–none at all. If they see you walking on the other side of the street they will loudly yell your name to attract your attention. And tell me–what man of affairs would want to be seen with such a person? Of course, if you fail to reciprocate their vulgar addresses, they will think that you are ‘high-hatting’ them and will attempt to make trouble for you, in their own oafish way. By telling the rest of the louts and layabouts and loochers, ‘Gosh–I thought he was a reg’lar Gee, but I guess he’s become snooty and stuck-up since he’s left the old neighborhood.’ No! He’s merely learned to carry himself with the pride of bearing which you so conspicuously lack, because you grew up in a garbage dump and simply don’t know any better! From a very early age you’ve been accustomed to strong drink, and repeated blows to the cranium, and hats that are too tight for your head, and so it’s a small wonder that you’re utterly incapable of holding so much as an original idea or notion in your rotting skull, let alone thinking in a straight and logical line! These people are so dumb that they join hands with their class enemies and applaud when these self-same earth shakers carry out their mission of afflicting the afflicted and comforting the comfortable. You can always make lots of ooftish in this way–by selling broken toys to sick children. 
 
“Don’t get me wrong–I don’t fall down and worship any Progressive bullshit overlord who comes along and claims to be my Savior. But my commonsensical self-same distrust of goo-goos and mugwumps does not mean I can’t smell phony business among the plutocracy when I see it. As far as some of these rich people are concerned, the poor might just as well curl up and die, and stop breathing all the precious air. But–not so fast, fuckers! The lower orders are breeding grounds for degeneracy and vice precisely because those are the very same conditions that prevail in the upper decks. Don’t kid yourself that the Plutocrats live their lives like plaster saints. No–I’ll tell you right here and now–and you should listen to me, because even though there’s no percentage in wising up a sucker, I am your friend and I am also the voice of hard experience–the rich, why, they fancy a drunken ruckus as much as any dirty scab or filthy beggar or starving Hobo. Difference being, they got the specie to cover over their dirty little habits. Good, though, ain’t it?’ ‘Money does not stink.’ Remember that, Yob, if you remember nothing else. 
 
“Now, every now and again, you’ll find some sort of social worker–poverty pests, I calls ’em–who will raise up a great hue and cry about how if conditions were to be changed from the very foundations, the poor would no longer be poor but would rather become productive members of society, and they’d all be clean as a hound’s tooth and honest to boot, and they’d be drinking Ice Cream Sodies on the Sabbath after getting down on their prayer dukes and praising the Lordie at the Church Social–instead of sleeping off a mean drunk in a filthy hovel and waking up with a world-class katzenjammer.  
 
“Haw! I should snicker! If I could talk to just one of these mollycoddles, d’ye know what I’d tell her? I’d scrooch up to her and say, I’d say, ‘Look, Sister, why don’t you get wise to yourself? Do you want to see another world? Then first and foremost, you had better come to terms with the one you’re in. Let’s face it–“The poor shall always be with us.” Your own Jesus said it. Some people are just born to be shat on. In Ancient Egypt they’d be slaves, and live on a diet of bread and beer. In Ancient Greece they’d be slaves, and live on a diet of olives and resin wine. And in Ancient Rome they’d be slaves, and they’d live on rusks and the lees of the master’s cup, and they wouldn’t even be enterprising enough to buy their own freedom. And in the old South, they’d live on hoe-cakes and pork cracklin’s and take an occasional nip of the massa’s good corn likker and would no doubt try to be runaways–and then Pateroller would get ’em, and they’d be whipped–forty lashes.’ 
 
“The problem with having this slave mentality is that you feel entitled to steal from everybody. You lie to everyone for no reason other than to get one over on them. You never let the smallest insult or slighting remark pass you by, but rather you hold it in your heart like a burning brand and you take revenge upon whoever passed it whenever and however you can. The trouble with thinking like a slave is that you eat and drink to excess on every occasion when you have the opportunity. You’re either hyper-cautious and look both ways before you say or do anything, or else you’re extremely reckless and get yourself into all sorts of sorry fixes because you just don’t think. Having never thought for yourself before, you’ve never developed the habit and you are incapable of doing it. You haul away whatever isn’t nailed down in the expectation that it might profit you. And the chances are very good, someone will haul you off–and you’ll get shot. Good, though, ain’t it?” 
 
1*SALUTATION
THE PHANTOM
LOVE ME
ALSO SEE:
BILL MONROE
WAYFARING STRANGER
2*REFERENCE
JURY DUTY: HOW THE INTERNET BECAME A TOOL FOR JUDGMENT RATHER THAN DIALOGUE
3*HUMOR
THE TEN MOST UNINTENTIONALLY FUNNY MOVIES OF ALL TIME
4*NOVELTY
HAIRCUT NUMBERS
 
ALSO SEE:
HOW TO TELL YOUR BARBER EXACTLY WHAT YOU WANT
5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
NEW DC COMIC REINVENTS SNAGGLEPUSS AS ‘GAY SOUTHERN GOTHIC PLAYWRIGHT’
http://www.cbr.com/new-dc-comic-reinvents-snagglepuss-as-gay-southern-gothic-playwright/

6* DAILY UTILITY

10 Investigative Reporting Outlets to Follow

8*PRESCRIPTION

New York Times Is Killing Its Comics Best-seller Lists, and the Comics World Isn’t Pleased

 
 
 
9*RUMOR PATROL
SHIRLEY TEMPLE AND THE DISTURBING HISTORY OF BABY BURLESK
 
10* LAGNIAPPE
GREEN MAGNET SCHOOL
THROB
 
ALSO SEE:
WINDSHIELD
 
 
11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA

BUTTERSCOTT
Buttersville Records
The Somewhat Disappointing Contractually Obligated Followup™

Instead of talking about this latest offering from the inimitable trio comprising the 21st century Butterscott, why don’t I instead inform you that the tradition of humor, at least in early rock, is strong. From the Lieber and Stoller songs written for the Coasters to “Chantilly Lace” and “Stranded in the Jungle”… No, wait. Maybe I had better talk about the record in depth, something which is sure to suck all the fun out of it. Warning: Spoilers ahead! OK. So. This latest offering begins with a cover of “Little Bit O’ Soul,” but the band calls it “My Favorite Friend” and it has a Bay City Rollers-style chant. “Female Trouble” is an amazingly twisted foray into rap, and station identification jingles. “Frumpi Grumpi” sees the trio concocting yet another 60’s dance craze. “Do the Nothing” is a sardonic descent into early 80’s synth rock and trance music. “Glorioski” is a debased doo-wop song, replete with authentic strings. “Not a Bad Idea” is a ’20s-era hokum spectacular, crammed with hilarious jokes. (Why they repeat the song later on is a mystery for the ages. Maybe they lost track or something.) “Kangaroovy” is a prime example of bubblegum psychedelia. “Undercover Jesus” is actually a profound statement disguised as a blasphemous Philadelphia Soul pastiche.  “All My Fault” is an astute impersonation of an angry punk rocker. “The Technological Love Song” uses click tracks and vocorder to completely take the piss out of–well, techno(logy). “Sage Advice From the Islands” takes the lessons of “Get An Ugly Girl To Marry You” to a predictably risible extreme. “Star wars for X-MeSS” tears apart the franchise for good and all – because somebody had to do it. “The Dynamite Eating Goat” made me laugh out loud, but that’s just the kind of guy I am. This is followed by a cover of “Diamond Girl,” only they call it “Choc Van Shake.” “When the Dustbunnies Blew Away” is a song which the Peanut Butter Conspiracy should have covered. Just sayin’. “Dime a Dozen Daddy” skewers the ominous pretentions of goth – or is it spaghetti western soundtracks?  You decide! “Showtune” does a great deal to wash away the sour taste of the, duh, show tune genre out of one’s mouth. But it’s not as catchy as “In the Good Old Summertime” as sung by the Jurgis Rudkis Choir. (“There seems to be something hypnotic about this, with its endlessly recurring dominant. It has put a stupor upon every one who hears it, as well as upon the men who are playing it. No one can get away from it, or even think of getting away from it; it is three o’clock in the morning, and they have danced out all their joy, and danced out all their strength, and all the strength that unlimited drink can lend them – and still there is no one among them who has the power to think of stopping.”) (Note: According to Kenneth Anger, “Rosebud” was actually Marion Davies’ clitoris, which is the real reason why William Randolph Hearst was so miffed at Orson Welles.) The band then covers “Woman From Tokyo,” only they call it “New Song.” And they use it to explain “the purpose of new songs in rock ’n’ roll shows.” What a cynical bunch! There’s also a cover of “For No One” with vocals by my good friend Walter Sickert. No French horn, though – bummer. This is funnier than Beach Boys Party and Jan & Dean meet Batman, and almost on a par with The Who Sell Out and The Turtles Present the Battle of the Bands. Like most good satire, it informs the future about the inane preoccupations of the past and present. I’ve spent worse hours. Well done, my good and faithful servants! 

http://thenoise-boston.com/2017/02/book-review-16/

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.
905. The intolerance of the left: Trump’s win as seen from Walt Disney’s hometown
 
906. The President’s Grand Strategic Train Wreck
http://foreignpolicy.com/2017/01/31/trumps-grand-strategic-train-wreck/
 
 
909. STEVE BANNON & CRONY CAPITALISM
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