THE INFORMATION #1231 DECEMBER 9, 2022

THE INFORMATION #1231
DECEMBER 9, 2022
Copyright 2022 FRANCIS DIMENNO
dimenno@gmail.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE:  BOOK SIX
THE THUNDERSTONE DIARIES

CHAPTER NINE

Monday, January 21st
CHRONICLES OF NOXTOWN : 3
BIG GOWER’S LIQUORS & VIDEO RENTAL
By Doree Lang, Town Historian, Noxtown Historical Society
You may not know it to look at him, but Gower Marbas is quite the film buff. And no, not of the commonplace action-adventure shoot-em-up car-crash explosion variety, either. No; Mr. Marbas (who insisted throughout our interview that I call him “Big Gower”) is decidedly a connoisseur, and his video rental service (incidentally, the only such in the tiny community of Belle Avon) tends towards classic
features by the likes of Kurosawa, Fellini, and Kubrick. You’re much more likely to find on his racks the likes of “Kagemusha,” than, say, “The Terminator” (though he does also stock that film); much more likely to find “I Vitonelli” than “Chariots of Fire” (though he stocks that one as well).
This gentle giant, standing six feet two inches in his stocking feet, may, at first, seem unapproachable and dour, but when you mention foreign films and even motion pictures by such acknowledged American masters such as Orson Welles and Samuel Fuller, his eyes light up. “Ahh, yes,” he says of the latter director, “I have a great many of Mr. Fuller’s films. Not only “Pickup on South Street,” but also lesser
known examples of his, uhh, oeuvre, such as “The Steel Helmet,” “Verboten,” “The Naked Kiss,” “Shock Corridor”—and even a copy of “White Dog”!

One hesitates to ask how he manages to come across such long out-of-print gems, but he explains all with a genuine enthusiasm. “There’s a whole bunch of us out there,” he expostulates, “Dyin’ to see these movies, and so’s we, uhh, correspond, and arrange, like, little swap sessions, like.” Looking at how enthusiastic he becomes upon imparting this information, one can almost imagine a type of poker game
with film canisters standing in for chips, and the players shouting things like “I’ll see your ‘Touch of Evil’ and raise you one ‘Ran’!”
Big Gower’s establishment is something of a town landmark; situated on the more southerly of Belle Avon’s two main streets. You may walk or even drive past his establishment and suddenly notice, totally out of the blue, none other than a 6’2” plywood facsimile of Big Gower himself, admittedly a version which no doubt dates from his young manhood, striding purposefully towards you, jauntily attired in a
green top hat, grass-green waistcoat, and snappy red trousers held up by equally blood-red suspenders.
The big black boots have, strangely, been partially eradicated by what looks to be whitewash. “Big Gower,” said his raffish clerk, well out of that individual’s earshot, “is kinda sensitive about the size of his feet. I wouldn’t say nothin’ about dat, if I was you.” In spite of his rather ominous warning, however, I will venture to mention that, given a man of his size, they are, in fact, commendably large feet, though not
disproportionately so. Anyhow, one must grant the man his small vanities, for he has otherwise brought much joy to many film buffs, who flock from miles around to rent his wares. And, if they happen to purchase a bottle of Wild Turkey to wash down a viewing of ‘Citizen Kane’, then so much the better for Big Gower’s cash register, which merrily ka-chings from 10 in the morning until 10 at night, Big Gower’s
usual hours of operation, except for Fridays and Saturdays, when he stays open from 11 in the morning to 11 at night.
Many of us would, perhaps, find such an onerous schedule rather grueling, but Big Gower is used to hard work, he’ll happily admit, and besides, “Hookin up the, uhh, clientele with their favorite flicks ain’t hardly like, what I would consider diggin’ ditches, y’know.” All of Big Gower’s films rent for three days, not the usual two, and can be taken home for the flat fee of two dollars, quite a bargain, even in these not-
quite-entertainment-starved times. As an inside tip, I might mention that by Friday night, his shelves are practically bare, so canny customers come on Thursdays or even Wednesday nights, to get what Big Gower his own self calls, half in jest but more in earnest, his “pick o’ th’ litter.” I myself was astonished to find such gems among his choices as “Kiss of Death” and “Clash By Night”. Big Gower, it seems, is
especially fond of American Noir classics, though he is also well-schooled in directors the world over. “Coup de Torchon” and “Wages of Fear” are two of his all-time favorites. “Nothin’ quite like dat “Wages of Fear.” Dat remake, “Sorcerer,” that that there Friedkin (he almost spits the name) made back in the 70s really loused up the screen, though, and that makes me mad.” And, if Mr. Friedkin had had the misfortune to be present at that particular moment, I have no doubt whatsoever that Big Gower wouldn’t have hesitated for even a split-second to give him “the what-for.” Fortunately, however, that was not the case. Some 3000 miles away, Mr. Friedkin undoubtedly rests secure, oblivious to the run-in he might have had
with the indignant Big Gower, who, incidentally, is no relation at all, he hastens to add, to the unfortunate Mr. Gower in that Christmas Capra-corn perennial “It’s a Wonderful Life.”
“Great film,” he concedes. “Outstandin’ actor, too. But nope, I’m no relation,” he sighs, a bit ruefully, as though his already high reputation might have been enhanced still further by an avowed blood kinship to the unfortunate (albeit fictional) Pharmacist so skillfully portrayed in that film.
Upon concluding my visit to Big Gower’s emporium of cinematic wonders, as I walked to my car, happily carrying in a paper sack a complimentary bottle of good port wine, as well as a rented copy of “Nights of Cabiria,” it occurred to me that I had omitted to ask Big Gower what happened to those of his customers who neglected to return his rentals in a timely fashion. One look, however, at the purposeful
and rather intimidating plywood giant adhering to the front of his establishment, however, made the need to ask such a question strangely…redundant.

Tuesday, January 22nd
Mr. Gaap called me at home this morning, and, instead of giving me an assignment, said that he thought, with the “Big Gower assignment,” that I had “proven myself sufficiently” and so I could be “trusted” to “more or less pick my own assignments.” Well, that’s certainly a big boost to my ego! Not a promotion, exactly, but a sign of his confidence in me. He even said that “if it worked out,” we could go on “a sort of
schedule”—one assignment from him, followed by one assignment I would pick for myself. He told me we’d see how things develop before we “definitely” commit to anything, and he also said that this was an “informal arrangement” and that it could change at any time, in which direction he didn’t say, but the implication being that he could go back to directing all the assignments, and I certainly had no quarrel
with that, and assured him as much. He did ask me to “run my proposals by the managing editor first”, and I told him I had no problem with that.
Fortunately, being the tawdry little ambitious and upwardly mobile scheming snot that I really am at heart (though you wouldn’t know it to look at me, Diary, because, really, I’m rather plain, since I don’t wear white gloves and I don’t wear stiletto heels and I never, never wear couture!) I had already been thinking about out-of-the-way places I could cover, given my own head of steam, and, in fact, have already been
putting together some notes. So, not to spoil the surprise, I think I’ll hold off, Diary, on telling you what the place actually is until it’s actually published—provided, that is, that it IS actually published! Or even publishable!
Would you believe I already have big schemes? To publish a book? Maybe not a big book….

Wednesday, January 23rd
Early this afternoon, just before I set off for work, this terribly nice lady from the Uptown Blood Bank called, asking if I’d care to participate in the town’s annual blood drive. And do you know what I did? I actually said (like Bartleby?), “No, I should prefer not to,” and I hung up the phone on her. Can you believe it?
What is wrong with me???!!!

Thursday, January 24th
An awful day at work, because first of all when I woke up at around ten in the morning I looked out the window and the ground was covered with white stuff, it was like a winter wonderland out there; we must have had six feet of snow drop down on us last night. It took me half an hour just to get my car shoveled out of the driveway (actually, I’m lucky even to have a driveway, some people have to park in the street and when there’s a “snow emergency” they have to drive around looking for a place to park.) (The landlord is supposed to keep the walk shoveled but I suppose that if I don’t complain about stuff like that I’ll be a “good” tenant and he won’t feel obligated to raise my rent so high that I can’t afford to live there anymore and have to move out.)
Well, then the car wouldn’t start, I guess the battery was frozen, but fortunately some fellow who was driving by saw me fiddling under the hood and actually stopped and asked me if I needed any help.
Sometimes a blizzard brings out the best in people. Well, I asked him if he could give me a jump start and he said he could but that just to be on the safe side I should keep the car running for at least twenty minutes to give the battery time to charge and then take it to a battery place he knew about where they could replace it for about thirty dollars if need be. Well, I didn’t have thirty cents, but that’s why God made charge cards, so I did as he suggested and went to the battery place, and, miracle of miracles, I had an honest mechanic who told me that the battery was at least good for another year. Said if I kept a diesel engine in the garage it wouldn’t freeze up like that. He told me my VW even had a plug I could buy an extension to plug it in overnight so the engine would stay warm. I didn’t even know! He said he didn’t sell extension cords but I could get one at any big hardware store for five dollars. So right then and
there I did as he suggested and went and bought one. And then, feeling supremely competent, I went to work. Well, at first they told me to go home. Said they were only planning to stay open for “essential functions”, whatever that means. Said they left a message on my answering machine. Then they felt sorry for me and said I could “stick around if I wanted to” and that they “could probably find something for me
to do,” which they promptly did, because, come to find out, the basement had flooded and a whole bunch of the files they had stored down there were in danger of getting soaked so while one of them installed a pump, they put me to work hauling dusty cardboard file boxes filled with God knows what upstairs. Well, I suppose I would have had to pay eight dollars to a gym to get a day’s workout like that. So my net profit for the day was actually three dollars, after you subtract the five dollars I spent on the extension cord.

Actually, since I made forty dollars (after taxes) from work that day and saved thirty (on a new battery), I actually came out 73 dollars ahead. Which means that I can pay the rent this month, and even make a dent in my credit card bill. (I’m still paying off that dress I bought for the party.)

Friday, January 25th
Well, I got a call this morning telling me today the museum was still closed; they had a power outage or something, which is just as well, I guess, because I was still stiff and sore from that workout they gave me yesterday. So after putting the final touches on my article and managing (somehow) to get to the offices and hand in my typescript (this time a few hours early) when I got home I took a hot bath with some
soothing bath salts and then I just made some tea and then I just lay in bed and dozed fitfully on and off all afternoon. I think I may be coming down with a cold.

Saturday, January 26th
Woke up this morning with a scratchy throat and a definite case of the sniffles. It’s a cold all right, and I’ll bet I got it from having to shovel the driveway all by myself and then having to slosh around in that filthy basement. What does Alwyn do all day, anyway? Shouldn’t he have made some sort of contingency plan for when the basement floods? So, anyway, I’m pretty mad at someone, though I’m not sure who to blame so maybe I’ll just blame myself and as my punishment I’ll make myself stay in bed and sleep for at least eight hours.

Sunday, January 27th
I can’t believe it, Diary, I slept, not for eight, but for eighteen hours! I’m writing this now at 6pm. I still feel crummy, but at least I’m not chilled to the bone. Some chicken soup and then back to sleep. I can always call in sick tomorrow if I have to.

*1 SALUTATION
STEELEYE SPAN
THE WEE WEE MAN
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DKGDS4244To

2*REFERENCE
I never could get through American Notes, by Charles Dickens, though I do like this passage:
 “where dogs would howl to lie, women, men, and boys slink off to sleep, forcing the dislodged rats to move away in quest of better lodgings.”
https://www.city-journal.org/charles-dickens-first-visit-to-new-york?wallit_nosession=1

And this:
https://www.teachushistory.org/node/384

3*HUMOR
RUSSIAN WORK ETHIC
“We pretend to work and they pretend to pay us.”
https://www.barrypopik.com/index.php/new_york_city/entry/they_pretend_to_pay_us_and_we_pretend_to_work

ALSO SEE:
Stalin: “Guh–What a Canal!”
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/White_Sea%E2%80%93Baltic_Canal

4*NOVELTY
NEWTON’S DOG
“Oh, Diamond! Diamond! thou little knowest the mischief thou hast done.”
https://www.newtonproject.ox.ac.uk/view/texts/normalized/OTHE00089?start=par72&end=par77

Allegedly said by Newton to his dog, who had destroyed his papers, though the story has since been shown, via other sources, to likely be spurious.

But in any event, he did not punish the dog.

SEE ALSO:
There was a dog that actually lived to be 29. Her name was Bluey.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bluey_(dog)#:~:text=Bluey%20(7%20June%201910%20%E2%80%93%2014,the%20oldest%20dog%20ever%20verified.

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
TREET VS. SPAM
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Treet#:~:text=Treet%20(Armour%20Star%20Treet)%20is,to%20bologna%20or%20vienna%20sausages.

6* DAILY UTILITY
MY MOM’S A TOTAL NARCISSIST
https://slate.com/human-interest/2022/11/cut-ties-family-advice.html?utm_source=digg

*7 CARTOON
JIM WOODRING
Experience the strange and wonderful world of Jim Woodring. His recent opus:
https://www.fantagraphics.com/products/one-beautiful-spring-day

8*PRESCRIPTION
EXAMPLES OF ABUSE
http://safehavenshelter.org/learn/educational-resources/domestic-violence/examples-of-abuse/

9* RUMOR PATROL
KATE SMITH CANCELLED
www.pressrepublican.com/news/kate-smith-controversy-touches-adirondacks/article_5900d356-ccba-5734-9473-5e68aea357a4.html

10*LAGNIAPPE
LEO KOTTKE
MACHINE #2
https://sceneinboston.freeforums.net/thread/18/listening?page=356

11*DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
WE DO IT ALL FOR YOU
At McDonald’s…we do it all for you.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2Ai0AwaLeHw

Ghastly fascism on display

12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE
STOICISM
Blame Tom Wolfe and his novel A Man in Full for the inexplicable still-current interest in Stoicism.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Contemporary_Stoicism

ALSO SEE:
BREAKFAST WITH SENECA
https://www.amazon.com/Breakfast-Seneca-Stoic-Guide-Living/dp/039353166X/

THE INFORMATION #1230 DECEMBER 2, 2022

THE INFORMATION #1230
DECEMBER 2, 2022
Copyright 2022 FRANCIS DIMENNO
dimenno@gmail.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE:  BOOK SIX
THE THUNDERSTONE DIARIES
CHAPTER EIGHT

Sunday, January 20 (Part Three)

The man who Alanna greeted was in his fifties maybe, a bulky but not ungainly giant of a man standing at least six-and-a-half feet tall, though he was wearing what looked to be rather high riding-boots. She walked over to him, saying, over her shoulder to me, “Would you excuse me for a moment, dear? It’s Eli Eligos. A dear old friend.” She then threw what amounted to a bearhug around the man, who was oddly dressed
in an overlarge white shirt with a black nylon belt banded around his flat belly, almost in the style of a Russian mystic.
I took this opportunity to look for the ladies’ room, which, miraculously, wasn’t occupied, quite possibly because it was just a little closet of a room with a single toilet, which, it appeared, was actually a unisex bathroom, at least, to judge from the position of the toilet seat, which was upright. With a pang I suddenly thought of Ted, and for a moment wished I had thought to invite him along. I straightened my hair, which had gotten a little frizzy in the dry and somewhat chilly room, and quickly freshened my lipstick, adjusted my stockings, cleaned my glasses, and launched myself back out into the room, thinking that enough time had probably elapsed for Alanna to have finished her meet-and-greet. To my shock, as I looked over at the
entrance, I caught her in the middle of a long soul kiss with the bear-like mystic, and quickly turned away.
I freshened up my drink—still sticking to the angostura bitters and water—and struck up what turned out to be a brief conversation with a pale bookworm type who said his name was Myron Asteroth. After I introduced myself, he told me that he “enjoyed” my piece on the Conspiracy Museum. He was a librarian, or, anyway, he worked in a library, doing what he didn’t say. Then he excused himself politely and started
talking to Sprang Paimon, the ex-Police Chief, who looked at him like he was a little buzzing fly and did his best to ignore him, though Myron was nothing if not persistent, and soon they were gabbing excitedly about what if they had to cancel Reagan’s inaugural parade because of the severe cold snap in Washington. “Can ya beat that?” said Paimon. “I know,” said Asteroth, and since they were both ignoring
me, I wandered off.
Alanna had vanished. I had a couple more seltzers and just stood around, looking at the partygoers. Most of them were dancing to some kind of disco-synth music that went boom boom-boom, boom boom-boom.
I didn’t feel much like dancing myself, so I just watched.
Alanna came back about fifteen minutes later, looking just the slightest bit disheveled, though it took a keenly observant eye (like mine, Diary!) to notice. I walked over to her but said nothing, For her part, she said not word one about Eli Eligos. But she did light another cigarette and direct her jet of smoke toward
a very tall African-American woman who had just walked in. “Zora Phenex,” she said. “Boy, they’re all out tonight, aren’t they?” “Who all,” I said, not liking what I thought was her faintly racist tone. “Oh, the politicians, you silly goose! Miz Phenex there has been candidate for mayor…hmm…five times now. I think there was one race where she actually got more than 20 votes.” “Twenty?” I said, incredulous. “Oh,
she’s a Socialist, Marxist, Trotskyite, Communist, call it what you will,” she said, smiling. “I guess there’s one in every crowd. She’s lucky to get that many. Last year, she got twelve.” “Twelve votes? Why does she even run?” “Oh, I dunno,” said Alanna, casually, as if she couldn’t be bothered to think about it. “To
piss people off, I suppose.” And I wondered, just briefly, whether the two of them weren’t perhaps sisters beneath the skin, so to speak.
I must say, Miss Phenex didn’t look like a Communist. She did have a rather tall Afro, which put her height at well over six feet, but she seemed fit and even happy—she was laughing as she greeted ‘Easy’ Ose, and I always thought that Communists were rather dour and serious.
Like Ted, as a matter of fact, I remember thinking. And I also remember thinking, why was I thinking about him so much that night.
I thought at that point that maybe I had had about enough of the party, and started thinking about leaving.
And Diary, it’s weird, but it’s almost as if Alanna sensed as much. She looked at me with a peculiar frown, as if to say, “Well, I can see that you’re bored, so now I’ll really knock your socks off. “See that older gentleman, over there?” She pointed across the room. “That rather stocky brute, with the white hair? Over by the exit? Poised to eject himself from our little gatherum omnium? That, my dear, is Solly. Mr. Amon, to the likes of you and me. Quite a mysterious fellow. Dear little Penrod seems to think very highly of him. Quite frankly, he fawns all over him like he’s the Messiah. He wouldn’t be a bad Messiah at that,” she mused. “Or Antichrist, more likely. Depends on which side of the fence you’re on, I suppose.” I waited for her to say more, but she’d apparently decided that she’d said just enough, and would say no more. But I pressed her. “Oh, you wouldn’t want to know too much about him,” she said with a smile. “Around here, he’s Mr. He-Whose-Name-Must-Not-Be-Mentioned, at least, certainly not in jest. He carries some very serious weight with our esteemed King-Priest-slash-publisher.” At this point, Sol Amon actually came over to where we were standing and introduced himself to me, then said to Alanna, “Why, hell-oh, Miss Volac. Judging from your waspish smile, I suspect you’re indoctrinating Miss Lang in all the ins and outs of the Thunderstone. So tell me, just who were you just cutting up before
I walked over?” “Why, you, dear,” she said, with all the calm confidence in the world. “I was just telling Miss Lang how much our dear friend O Cuhmon, eh, shall I say, ‘admires’ you?” He barked out a laugh, and tossed his silvery mane. “Well!” he huffed. But said no more. There was an uneasy silence, so I piped up. “Alanna says you’re awfully clever.” “Oh—does she now!” he said, acting pleased, but casting
Alanna a rather shrewd and appraising look. “Well, Miss Lang, I would advise you to attend quite carefully to everything Miss Volac says, but not to believe every word of it,” he said, jestingly. Then, with a serious look, “Though I must say, she does know what a whole lot of nines are.” “Say again?” said Alanna, a bit impudently. “Just my rather archaically euphemistic way of implying, my dear, that you do seem to know where all the bodies are buried. Which of course,” he said, brightening, “Is why
Yeddidayah considers you such an asset to the firm.” He slithered off. Alanna waited until he was well out of earshot, then said, in a simpering tone, “’Oh Mr. Amon, Alanna says you’re so clever!’” She furrowed her brows at me and hissed, “Who the fuck do you think you are, Jane Austen?” I gasped. She roared with laughter, “Oh, you are simply too much! A Machiavelli in a pinafore frock! Why, I couldn’t have put one
over on him any better myself! But,” she said, suddenly all seriousness, “Do be careful around him. He is not a man to be trifled with, beyond a certain very definite point.” I didn’t know if she was pretending to be serious or not, but decided to take her at her word and grew serious myself. “Don’t worry,” I said, weakly. “I’ll remember.” “You are smart,” she rejoindered. “Still a bit of a naïf, but smart. So I know you will. And I won’t worry. Yet.”
Her mood suddenly shifted from solemn to merry, as she continued to “cut up” the various party guests, though with not quite the same aggressive gusto as before.“See that woman?” she’d say. “Brandi Sabnock. Prominent feminist. Married twice. Filthy rich. And that girl over there? Consuela Sallos. A cat burglar. Never convicted, though. And that guy? Fred Seere. Has nothing else to do, so he’s into all kinds
of charity stuff. And that older guy standing next to him is Ziv Asmodai. Mobbed up lawyer. And there’s Frank Zagan. Musician. Vice lord. Owns a string of porn shops. “ She tried to be lively, but I could tell her heart was no longer quite in it. So we just stood there for awhile, silently, and smoked, and watched, as the party wound down.
Mr. Gaap had already left, kind of early, and most of the older staffers left soon after he did, so then it was just the young staffers and the freelancers and their friends and significant others. As is usual at these drunken parties, the guys who didn’t have their girlfriends in tow made fools of themselves and you could see that the women were basically in charge.
O Cuhmon got really drunk and started handing out photocopies of what he called his “poetry,” only anybody could tell just from looking at it that really it was just bad prose, and I could tell that everybody was sort of snickering at him behind his back.
Cad Cadwell commandeered the stereo and insisted on playing old Motown tunes, one right after the other, until finally thank God two of the girls ganged up on him and Vesta the Secretary dragged him away from the stereo and Brandi the intern put on some more contemporary music, and then we all decided to dance.
Then O Cuhmon switched from getting sloppy drunk on Heinekens to getting raving and incoherent on vodka and orange juice and started stumbling around and shuffled up against Vesta the secretary, accidentally-on-purpose, like, and grabbing her breasts, and Vesta started yelling, “Eww, get away from me, you little creep,” and then the nasty little black midget man with the diamond-studded tooth, who in
the meantime had suddenly reappeared, started laughing hysterically.
Just as I concluded the party was starting to get decadent, and not a little boring, and I was preparing to leave, Alanna stubbed out her cigarette and pointed to the drinks table, where O Cuhmon was staggering as he tried to carry three drinks. “That, as you well know, is our office simpleton, little Penrod. He’s actually a dear, a real sweetheart when you get to know him, which very few have either the time or patience to do. Oh, not personality-wise,” she laughed, noting my shocked expression. “He’s as dumb as a Blue Ox, yet shrewd all the same. Definitely out for number one, in spite of all his hippy-dippy posturing. A bit of a wild child, if you like that sort of thing. His father’s a liberal, or so I’ve been told. I’ve fucked him, you know. He’s really just a silly little shrimp, but I swear, when he gets hard, 100 pounds of him goes straight into his dick.” I must have blushed or something, because she said, “Oh, but I do see I’m
shocking you! You must have lead a very sheltered existence,” she said, lighting another cigarette, “at least, up until now. Well, I simply can’t resist adding that, in his case at least, the ‘Rod’ is definitely mightier than the ‘Pen’!” At this, Diary, I burst out laughing so hard almost choked on my drink. I had to cover my mouth with a napkin, I was laughing and choking so much. For five full minutes, it seemed like.
I guess you really had to be there.
Alanna turned to me and said, confidingly, “And that fellow over there? That’s Boomer Green. You ought to get to know him.” She pointed—actually pointed—to a nondescript little fellow with horn-rimmed spectacles wearing a rather shabby blazer.
“Why? Is he somebody big?”
“The biggest!” she gasped with delight. “He wrote the award-winning story about the baby who gobbled down grandma’s iron medication and had to be rushed to the hospital. Moral,” she snickered, “Iron medication–don’t leave home without it!”
“Why Alanna, I do believe you’re utterly heartless,” I ventured to say.
“And you’re loving it,” she rejoindered, with a pealing laugh. “Don’t pretend you aren’t. You just might be a little heartless yourself .”
For some reason, this sent us both into screaming gales of laughter, even though I wasn’t the least bit drunk and she, I noticed, was drinking glass after glass of what turned out to be ginger ale.
Finally I looked at my watch. It was 1:30! So I decided it was time to go, so I kissed Alanna on the cheek and left.
What a night! What a crazy crazy night!

*1 SALUTATION
PARTON, HARRIS, RONSTADT
CALLING MY CHILDREN HOME
https://youtu.be/lh5qxn1K1mo

SOFTLY & TENDERLY
https://youtu.be/2n7TfUbBx4A

2*REFERENCE
THAWING A HOLIDAY TURKEY
https://www.yahoo.com/lifestyle/start-thawing-thanksgiving-turkey-lot-133005487.html

3*HUMOR
THE SIMPSONS
EVERY DELETED SCENE PART ONE
https://youtu.be/4B9xBb0V1n8

4*NOVELTY
GRATUITOUS PAWTUCKET MURDER
www.msn.com/en-us/news/crime/man-found-guilty-in-2020-pawtucket-murder/ar-AA14c5gj?ocid=entnewsntp&pc=U531&cvid=a3e064b9dd324fd3bf307780eda17db5

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
PIL
CHANT (LIVE)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SzjWwfCJ65s

ALSO SEE:
NEU!
SPITZENQUALITÄT
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cRBat_VY4yM

6* DAILY UTILITY
UKRAINIAN SNIPER
https://www.msn.com/en-us/news/world/watch-ukrainian-sniper-take-out-two-russian-soldiers-in-one-shot/ss-AA14gDvh?ocid=entnewsntp&pc=U531&cvid=dedf218ec1b14b53aa5d601e8f08d2d2

*7 CARTOON
THE BOYS
I just re-read all six of the omnibus volumes of the Boys. The most terrifying sequence, for those who are curious, can be found here:
comicnewbies.com/2020/03/24/billy-butcher-kills-jack-from-jupiter/

8*PRESCRIPTION
PULLING OUT NASAL HAIRS
www.iflscience.com/picking-noses-or-pulling-nasal-hairs-could-raise-alzheimer-s-risk-65992

9* RUMOR PATROL

Young George Washington was instrumental in causing the French and Indian War
https://www.mountvernon.org/george-washington/french-indian-war/#:~:text=In%201754%20Washington’s%20surprise%20attack,as%20the%20Seven%20Years’%20War.

10*LAGNIAPPE
THE SINGING DOGS
HOT DOG ROCK AND ROLL
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GZWz9tRRdeA

SEE ALSO:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZzHQ_2XNsqA

11*DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
THE CULT
The Cult went from a poor man’s Adam + The Ants Cure to a poor man’s Led Zeppelin in a remarkably short time.
BLACK SUN
https://youtu.be/IiL9lNwvVHo
RAIN
https://youtu.be/NlnrN3Gto1o

12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE
THE 70 GREATEST NUMBER 2 SINGLES, RANKED
www.theguardian.com/culture/2022/nov/17/the-70-greatest-no-2-singles-ranked

THE INFORMATION #1229 NOVEMBER 25, 2022

THE INFORMATION #1229
NOVEMBER 25, 2022
Copyright 2022 FRANCIS DIMENNO
dimenno@gmail.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE:  BOOK SIX
THE THUNDERSTONE DIARIES

CHAPTER EIGHT

Sunday, January 20th (Part two)

“I really do think,” said Alanna, “that, like so many men, our friend Cad Cadwell is stuck around the age of, ohhh, let’s be charitable and say fourteen. Maybe even fifteen. He certainly has the politics of a belligerent ten year old, for all of that. He has the sort of vindictive lock-em-up-and-throw-away-the-key mentality that’s red meat to all the hard-core right-wingers in this town. That’s why Gaap employs him,” she added, almost ruefully. “As a sort of right-wing attack dog. Oh, Petey SAYS he’s a ‘libertarian’, whatever the hell THAT is. Basically, I think a libertarian is a hippie who’s turned into a drug-crazed Nazi. But dear, please,” she said, with a bored glance over at the object of her fascinated scorn, “You mustn’t tell him I said so. In fact,
it might be wise if you kept this information completely to yourself. There are a lot of long knives at the Thunderstone, and I find it useful to have a Spartan phalanx to protect me from frontal assault.” With a wicked pause, she added, “My ass I can worry about on my own, thank you very much.” I laughed, and thought she was about ten times wittier and certainly funnier than that Vinegar Jack character, who,
incidentally, she then proceeded to slice open. “Waller Amdusias,” she said, jetting a stream of smoke so that it just barely reached his back about eight feet away, where he was holding court with a gang of his cronies, who were hooting and hollering at just about every word that came out of his mouth, “Good old ‘Vinegar Jack’. He’s actually Greek, you know.”
“I thought—“

“Yes, he says he’s half Italian and half Irish, so that means he steals whiskey, and after he gets drunk he rolls himself, and then he says to himself, ‘Lemme go through your pockets’ and he tries to fight himself off, and then he tells himself to stay down, and it’s a tough life, and he when he has the d.t.s he sees pink leprechauns and tries to fuck ‘em, and bla bla bla. His stuff is so formulaic it’s almost utterly predictable.
I’ve given him a few jokes myself. Let’s see, oh yes, the one about him being his own worst enemy so he kidnaps himself and holds himself for ransom and he leaves himself a note that says ‘Meet me at the old bridge at midnight with the ransom money’, and then he never shows up. All of these guys seem to think
they’re going to be the next Rodney Dangerfield. One catch phrase and a couple of jokes that they tell over and over, and they think they’ll have it made. They’ll be rolling in it. Never mind hat it took Rodney two tries and over twenty years. These entertainment-biz types are so delusional. They all think because
they stand up on a stage and tell potty jokes, they’ll be an overnight sensation and the girls will come flocking to them. My dear, I find that the very last thing that a girl wants is a man who just won’t shut up. God knows, the silent ones are boring, but at least they don’t deafen you with their patter.” I stopped listening for just half a second to cast a quick glance at him.
“Oh, my dear, don’t even think in those terms!”
“Did you–?”
“GOODNESS, no!” she almost shrieked, and began silently wheezing with suppressed laughter. “I wouldn’t touch that filthy little Greek with a barge pole! What DO you take me for? A girl has to have SOME standards, you know! No,” she said, more quietly, acknowledging perhaps that he wasn’t all that bad looking, and so perhaps, accordingly, deciding not to take offense, “I’ve thought about it, just for a
lark, but really, just who IS he? Just a second rate not-so-funnyman playing third-rate venues who, unlike our friend Hartley Valefor, really IS in hock up to his spit curls, AND to some REALLY rather unsavory individuals. It seems as though he fancies himself quite the sports expert, but somehow, his teams never quite seem to be able to make the spread. Always a bridesmaid, never a bride,” she said, sighing, perhaps
briefly following some other train of thought. “Just about everybody who’s in the know is onto him. It’s gotten so bad that the Naberius brothers had to bail him out, provided that he cuts out the gambling altogether. God knows why. Don’t you think he’d be handsome…in a pair of cement overshoes?” I giggled, and resisted the impulse to glance over at him. “But the Naberius brothers aren’t exactly running
a charity outfit for degenerate gamblers. Bailing him out means that he’s got to work for them, more or less for free, for about the next three years or so. Well, as long as SOMEbody still finds him funny I guess he’ll be all right. Unless, or I should stay until, he starts in with the gambling again. Because then, as they say, ‘all bets are off’. Oh, did I really say that?” she said, draining her drink. “I crack myself up sometimes, I really do.”
I began to get the distinct impression that to some extent, Alanna’s exterior of bored exasperation masked some really deep feelings—maybe even compassionate ones–that she wasn’t allowing herself to express.
But I said nothing, or next to nothing. I just listened. Because listening to her was better than reading a week’s worth of tabloids.
She next pointed to a short but muscular man over at the buffet table. “That athletic looking fellow busily scarfing down a huge slab of smoked Salmon? That’s Gus Gusion, a boxer, as if you couldn’t tell from the cauliflower ear. He took a real beating in his last bout with that up-and-coming Mexican featherweight. To make matters worse, he lost, and it was a close decision. Suspiciously close,” she said, lowering her voice. “I’m afraid Vinegar Jack also took a beating. In the old pocketbook. And, almost,” she said, appraisingly, “about various soft portions of his anatomy. I’m not going to tell you who gave him the beating because you have no compelling need to know,” she said with a wicked smile, “unless, of course, like Vinegar Jack you’re the credulous type who likes to bet your rent money on ‘a sure thing,’ which I rather doubt, because frankly, my dear, you just don’t seem the type, but,” she paused to take a breath, “there ARE quite a few people in this little community of ours who like nothing better than pounding the tar out of a guy who chisels on his bets and doesn’t pay off exactly when and in the exact amount they’re supposed to.”
“Oh, now the African contingent is at TWO percent!” she said, blowing smoke at the door. “See that brown fellow who just walked in? The one who looks like a bronze Buddha? That’s ‘Easy’ Ose. Local politician, or, I should say, perennial political also-ran. He comes to all these events, the good Lord alone knows why. You haven’t lived until you’ve tried to hold a conversation with him. English, it seems, isn’t
his first language. Or even,” she said, sardonically, “eh, even his second, third or fourth. I’d place it somewhere around fifth or sixth. He’s not a stupid man, you know; he’s quiet fluent in French, which, quite frankly, is not one of my strong suits.” I didn’t bother telling her that I knew the language well. I was growing more and more fascinated by her spiel. “It seems he also knows how to speak Arabic,
fluently, and even Greek, passably. He should get together with Vinegar Jack!” she said, laughing as the thought occurred to her. “Jach could be his INTERPRETER! Pick up some spare change so he can live on something other than Red White and Blue Beer and Chef-Boy-Ar-Dee canned ravioli!” She snickered, and blew a jet of smoke at the next visitor to walk through the door. “Another old pol. John ‘Bathless’
Bathin. The man is 85 if he’s a day, and still coming to these events.” I noticed she didn’t offer any further information about the nattily-dressed old man, who was working the room, pumping hands, and who even posed briefly to have a picture taken with Gus Gusion, who unfortunately, still had rather prominent flecks of smoked salmon ringing his still-masticating jaw. “Now look where he is, over there with Strang Paimon, who used to be the chief of police and might still be to this day if, well, if it weren’t for that very unfortunate felony assault charge he was convicted on. It’s a sad story; you can visit the morgue for the sordid details.” She noticed my horrified expression. “Oh, no, you don’t think I meant the COUNTY
morgue!” She laughed. “You crack me up, Doree, really you do.” I noticed this was the first time she’d used my name. “You really live up to your name, don’t you, dear? ‘Little Goldilocks!’ No, silly, I mean the Thunderstone’s morgue. Its back-file of old articles. Really, my dear, you are such a child! And now you’re blushing. I’m sorry,” she said, showing perhaps the tiniest drop of the milk of human kindness for
the very first time. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. You’re new here. You’ll catch on quickly enough.
Ahh!” she said, wheeling around, “What do we have here! My old friend Burt! Darling!” she cried, a bit too extravagantly, because a few of the older men turned around and looked in her direction as she teetered over on her high heels to where an impressive looking man in his mid-forties stood impassively, dressed in a forest-green London Fog raincoat (somewhat the worse for wear), and sporting a long,
hippie-style mane of white hair which cascaded over his shoulders. “Doree!” she cried out to me from across the room. “Come here this instant! This man is somebody you simply MUST meet!” I walked over quickly, though I hope, not too quickly. My feelings were still slightly hurt by her nickname of ‘Goldilocks.’ She couldn’t possibly know, of course, that this was the pet name my father had called me, though, it seemed, there was very little Miss Volac didn’t know. “G-, uh, Doree Lang, meet Burt Furfur. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? ‘Mr. Impresario’?” “Alanna, please,” he said, in a rather soft and faintly ‘British’ tone of voice, “You know how much I despise that odious nickname.” But, judging from the expression on his slightly crazed countenance, he didn’t mind it at all. “Burt will do. Just plain Burt. And
I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss Lang. I enjoyed your piece on the Conspiracy Museum immensely. In fact, I might be interested in holding a benefit at one of my clubs, to help them raise some money.”
“Burt’s the man to see,” said Alanna, archly, “If you want your latest boy-toy to make it big in the music biz.” “Oh, really, Alanna, stop—you flatter me” he said quietly, but, as I looked at his ruddy face, just slightly bloated, perhaps from too many years of hard drinking, I thought I could see just the faintest flash of genuine annoyance. “Well—people to see,” he said, abruptly. “Must toddle.” And he was gone.
I noticed that Alanna was unruffled. I also noticed that she remained standing by the door. “They say he’s a little bit odd,” said Alanna, when she was sure he was well out of earshot, “But nobody gets booked into even the smallest nightclub in this town without his say-so. He’s fist in glove with the Naberius Brothers, who, of course, are fist in glove with Mr. You-Know-Who-who-publishes a certain newspaper. Sorry to be
so mysterious,” she added, abstractedly. “You never know who reads lips around here. Certainly Mr. Hack-it-out, who, by the way, appears to have taken a powder. Or maybe,” she said with what seemed almost a leer, “he’s off TAKING some powder. As in,” and she pinched her nostrils and made a snorting sound. “Do you indulge?”
“Me? Certainly not!”
“You’re a fine, upstanding girl, and that’s a fine, upstanding answer. I never use the stuff myself. Eats holes in your brain. And I’m not going to get by on my looks forever!” she said, brightly, and I could tell she was sincere. Suddenly she turned toward the door. “What is it with these bald guys, anyway,” she shrilled, in a tone of mock-annoyance, as a man walked in. “Here comes another one. Eli!” she shouted.

*1 SALUTATION
THE HOLLIES
HERE I GO AGAIN
https://youtu.be/M-EXoVaeSho

WHEN YOUR LIGHT’S TURNED ON
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wt2YT815Tzs

STAY
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GynWfSa3Abg

2*REFERENCE
THAWING A FROZEN THANKSGIVING TURKEY
https://www.yahoo.com/lifestyle/start-thawing-thanksgiving-turkey-lot-133005487.html

3*HUMOR
UPON MY HONOR….
Upon my honor
I saw a Madonna
Standing in a niche
Over the door
Of the glamorous whore
Of a prominent son of a bitch.

Said to have been written in the guest-book of Hearst Castle, referring to the room occupied by Hearst’s mistress, Marion Davies. Parker always denied it, pointing out that she would never have rhymed “honor” with “Madonna”.
Since Parker didn’t write it, there are many different versions of this, including ones where the word describing the whore is “favorite” or “famous”, and ones where “son of a bitch” is modified by “the world’s worst” instead of “a prominent”.

4*NOVELTY
BABY RAY
THE IDIOTS ARE OUT
https://youtu.be/D0uhEeTrh1k

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
J.EDGAR HOOVER
https://www.washingtonpost.com/books/2022/11/09/edgar-hoover-book-gage-fbi/

6* DAILY UTILITY
THE LADY OF THE DUNES
https://www.capecodtimes.com/story/news/crime/2022/11/08/provincetown-1974-cold-case-lady-of-the-dunes-timeline-ruth-marie-terry/69623844007/

*7 CARTOON
Dolly Parton, Emmylou Harris & Linda Ronstadt
TELLING ME LIES
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OjkihwNeCqA

8*PRESCRIPTION
RSV, COVID, OR THE FLU?
https://news.yahoo.com/rsv-covid-19-flu-pediatrician-120935990.html

9* RUMOR PATROL
STUFF THEY DON’T WANT YOU TO KNOW
https://www.iheart.com/podcast/182-stuff-they-dont-want-you-t-26941221/

10*LAGNIAPPE
PERE UBU
LONESOME COWBOY DAVE
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MryqjoHPDEQ

THE MODERN DANCE
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OCuVUCfSLoY&t=17s

DUB HOUSING
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=91KBuWqxE7g&list=PLW1w8neoXejvI0tQjOH12g17FybZn6Awz

390 DEGREES OF SIMULATED STEREO
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4xMxCjQW7aU

DON’T EXPECT ART
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WV7-eZnecgQ&t=976s

11*DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
LOVING HAIR CARE
“You’re not getting older, you’re getting better.”
https://youtu.be/dcY7F6xIhLo

12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE
MARIJUANA & TOBACCO
https://www.cnn.com/2022/11/15/health/marijuana-lung-damage-study-wellness/index.html

THE INFORMATION #1228NOVEMBER 18, 2022

THE INFORMATION #1228
NOVEMBER 18, 2022

Copyright 2022 FRANCIS DIMENNO
dimenno@gmail.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE:  BOOK SIX
THE THUNDERSTONE DIARIES

CHAPTER SEVEN

Sunday, January 20th
Well, Diary, I’m sure you want to know all about how the big “post-holiday” bash at the Thunderstone went. It was fine, I guess, everyone stood around smoking and drinking, including me, though of course I made sure I didn’t drink too much because I didn’t want to make a fool of myself in front of Mr. Gaap and the other staffers, so I used this little trick I have, which is to get the bartender to prepare a glass of seltzer
with a few drops of angostura bitters in it and so you have a drink but there’s not enough alcohol in there to make a fly drunk.
The party was actually at the Thunderstone offices and they had moved the computers and word processors out of the way and covered them up with drop cloths and they had set up a stereo system with records and cassette tapes and there was plenty of free booze and lots of really good food. First thing I thought was, “Who pays for all this, I wonder?” Then I looked around and discovered that a lot of the
food was donated by the Naberius brothers, and the booze had been donated by Big Marbas Liquors, because there were these little business cards scattered about in which they about as said as much. Well, I thought, that was awfully nice of them.
Anyway, I met some really interesting people, a lot of them who are on the staff there, some of them freelancers, and some people who I didn’t know what the heck they were doing there, but I guess they were some sort of local media celebrities or something.
First there was this woman named Trixie Dantalion, who acted kind of aloof. I think she was only a college intern anyway.
Then there was this woman named Vesta Shax…some kind of secretary? She was about my age or maybe a little younger. A very pretty girl. She was so good-looking that she could have been a professional model, and I wondered what she was even doing there, working in a place like the Thunderstone.
Then this hostile little man named Hackett Barbatos. He was this incredibly short black guy with a diamond tooth who just stood in the corner and glowered and wouldn’t talk to anybody. I have no idea who invited him, or, for that matter, why he even bothered to show up. Except maybe to steal food. I thought I saw him stuff about eight or ten jumbo shrimp into a cloth napkin, but I didn’t say anything
because he saw me looking at him and he sort of glared back at me.
Then there was this hippie-looking shrimpy kind of fellow who sort of reminded me of Ted, whose name (what a name!) is Penrod Andromalius, only he writes under the pen name of O. Cuhmon. I knew him in grade school. He always impressed me as being something of an idiot. He came up to me and asked me if I had read any of his stuff and I had no idea what he was talking about and he said that he sometimes writes record reviews for the Thunderstone but now he was more into “cultural issues” and did I read his piece on “Reagan’s Drug War” and I told him, no, I wasn’t really all that interested in drugs, and he said, “Don’t you get it? It’s POLITICS, baby, it’s POLITICS!” And then he pretended he saw somebody who was calling him over to their group and he excused himself.
The guy who called him over was this preppy-looking doofus in a jacket and tie named Peter Cad Hauras, though he uses the pen name Cad Cadwell. I have no idea why Mr. Gaap would hire somebody like him to work on a counter-cultural newspaper, except that this Cadwell was a young man in a hurry who was going places.
From what he told me. And from what I gathered, he was initially hired to write more “conservatively slanted” op-ed pieces so if, say, O. Cuhmon wrote a piece about “Ronnie Raygun’s Pig War on Drugs,” Cadwell would come around and write a think-piece about the public policy implications to give the whole thing a patina of gravitas.
Right now they have him covering business issues, though it’s not, he said, investigative reporting so much as merely information journalism, whatever the heck that’s supposed to mean. I think what it’s actually supposed to mean is they have him writing flattering articles about some of the town big wigs, though he didn’t say as much. Still, I had to wonder why, if he’s so up-and-coming, why is he even still
writing for a paper like the Thunderstone? I mean, in my case, I’m just getting my feet wet, so it’s a good place to start, but apparently Cadwell has been writing professionally for almost ten years, practically from the day he graduated from college. Anyway, like me, he seemed somewhat out of place at this party,
so we ended up talking for quite a long time.
It occurs to me to ask, what is it with these guys and their need to write under some time of pen name, like they’re all budding Woodwards and Bernsteins and if they didn’t disguise their identities, the CIA or the Mob might “get” them? Some guys, I think, take these secret agent fantasies of theirs just a wee bit too far.
And then there was this guy, also about my age, named Waller Amdusias, though everybody calls him Vinegar Jack. He’s supposed to be some kind of stand-up comedian, though I didn’t find him very funny. Just filthy and vulgar. I think he fancies himself some sort of satirist or something. Well, I’m sorry, but the way I understand it, satire by definition seeks to redress social wrongs. I remember, all throughout the
1970s, stand-ups were debating the question whether it’s simply enough to be funny, or do you have to actually ‘say something’ too? I find the humor that lasts tends to be of the latter sort. Though even that can become dated, and rather quickly, too. I think another keynote of satire is that it addresses the human situation in a way that is comprehensible to a large and non-inclusive group of people. Preaching to the
converted may be satire, though not perhaps of the highest order. Satire is supposed to realign your thinking, not merely confirm it. And Waller is aptly named. He wallows in gratuitous profanity.  Just about every other word out of his mouth is “fuck”.
Real satire makes you see the world in a slightly different light. And jokes about farts and masturbation and security guards and Disneyland just don’t do that for me.
And then there was this utterly fascinating woman named Alanna Volac, a very sharp dresser, and from the way she talks and carries herself you can see she’s really going places. She is so stylish, and yet also not at all stuck up. I liked her almost immediately. She was like, really swank? But at the some time, down to earth? It’s hard to explain. She was kind of like some nice older lady who immediately strikes up
a friendship with you and doesn’t treat you like a child? Except she wasn’t older; she was my age, or a little younger. It’s just that she dressed more like an older woman. She had on this really nice black dress that you can tell she didn’t exactly buy off the rack at K-Mart. It was nice to see a woman get dressed up for a party. Most of the other women there, except for that stuck-up intern bitch and the secretary,
looked like they had just stepped out after working a day job selling tie-dyed t-shirts out of the back of a beat-up 1947 Ford pickup truck in the parking lot of a Grateful Dead concert. You know, the back-to-the-land farmgirl look, with the bib overalls and the wooly socks and the fat faces with freckles with the hair too briskly combed and drawn back into a five-pound ponytail. Kind of like one of Ted’s dream girls.
There were some other people there too, older people, and they just seemed to be standing off in the corner and watching all this, and I was curious, so I asked Alanna, who really is pretty sharp, just who these people were and why they were there.
So she pointed them out to me one by one, though from time to time she almost had to shout because the music really was just…too…damn…loud.
I should mention that she had this cute little trick of blowing a jet of cigarette smoke at the person she was talking about. (I suspect, Diary, she has something of the devil in her.)
At times, she had me laughing so hard I swear I almost peed my pants. If she were a guy I’d probably already be half in love with her.
Anyway, she seems to know her stuff, and she is clearly the sort of person one should cultivate (and I strongly suspect she knows it, too).
First she pointed out that little coffee-colored midget lurking in the corner and gave me the low-down on him. “That,” she said (blowing a jet of smoke at him), “is Mr. Hackett Barbados. The name really suits him. He truly is a consummate hack. Around here, we call him ‘Hack-it-out’ Barbados. Gaap employs him, God knows why, to write advertising copy. Bread and butter stuff. Any idiot could do it. Maybe it’s
some kind of affirmative-action blackmail. You have noticed, I hope, how blindingly white this room would be if it were not for him skulking by the free food over there.” She turned to face me directly, perhaps because she noticed, as I did, that old Hack-it-out was glaring at her. “He does seem to have an unusually keen sense of hearing, don’t you think? Like an animal. A dog, or maybe,” she gave me a crooked little grin, “A hyena. And…he’s keenly attuned to insults, and very quick to take offense.”

Next, she pointed out the Managing Editor of The Thunderstone, Kevin Lunt. “Rhymes with you-know-what, “ she said, and gave me a slow and unmistakable wink. “You haven’t met him yet? You will. Don’t be fooled by his ‘kindly’ act. He really is a pompous baboon. He can’t be much older than 40, yet he lords it over the staffers like he’s Perry White. Except that he likes it if you call him ‘Chief’. That’s the kind of
fellow Mr. Lunt is.”
Then, she pointed out this rather bluff-looking blonde guy standing in the center of the room. He was rather tipsy, and loudly expostulating about some kind of boring business deal, “That, my dear,” she said (somewhat more discreetly blowing a jet of smoke at him), “is Hartley Valefor. They say he’s in hock up to his eyebrows with the Mob, though, perhaps,” she paused dramatically, “you shouldn’t believe everything ‘they’ say. Hart is from a fabulously wealthy line of old-time Robber Barons. It would
take him three lifetimes to squander all their stolen loot. He’s literally made of money. He reeks of it. I swear, you can even smell it on him if you cared to come that close to him. I think he just likes to run up those little gambling debts of his because he likes to hang out with the rougher element. He isn’t married, you know. He’d be quite a catch. If you could figure out how to manage him. And if all you cared about was money, and, otherwise, you didn’t have any gray matter whatsoever klonking about in your silly little head, which, I suspect, is far from the case with you. Oh yes, I’ve read your profiles. A bit flowery for my taste, but you do know how to write, my dear, and that counts for a lot around here. In time you may improve. You do have the potential.”
I was chilled just a bit by her sudden frankness. It seemed like a warning that she could spray her venom at me, at any moment, if she so chose. But if she noticed, she didn’t let on. Just directed a jet of smoke at her next victim.
“That’s our dear friend Peter Hauras, who calls himself Cad Cadwell, and the name suits him very well, too I might add.” She looked at him as he was attempting to fight his way through the crowd clustered in front of the stereo. “I’ll bet you were wondering like a guy like him would work for a paper like the Thunderstone. Well, it just so happens that in addition to being their voice on the right, Peter is also pretty
good at selling ads for the paper. I went along once on his little expeditions. He goes into one of the nightclubs in Jivetown or one of those funky little shops they have in the Haven section of Cross Country Plaza and he says to the owner, “Say, if you take out a little ad in the Thunderstone, we can make sure you get some coverage in the paper, but if you don’t, well…there isn’t going to be any way we can help you
out.” It’s just short of extortion, really. And Pete happens to be really good at it. Which is no surprise. Because he’s actually what you might call a real control freak. And takes himself oh-so-seriously. Did you know that he’s set himself the task of memorizing a new word every day?” I looked at her with an extremely puzzled glance. “Oh, ha ha ha ha, you looked all the world like a perplexed little girl just then!
How would I know that juicy little detail? Why, my dear, I’ve slept with him! Do you know what he does?”
She then whispered in my ear something so scandalous that I almost spilled my drink.
“He comes quick and then he says, ‘Ahhhhhhhhhhh!’ He does it every single time! Well, after three days of that sort of thing, I said to him, ‘Petey, you really are a dear, but I can see that you and I are rather like ships that pass in the night.’ And do you know what he said? Lying there in his underwear? He actually said he had no ‘hard feelings’ toward me! A rather unfortunate turn of phrase for one allegedly so well-
versed in English language idioms. A Freudian slip, perhaps? No ‘HARD feelings’?”

I thought this over for a second, and then I got it, and I almost exploded in laughter. Alanna really is a hoot.

*1 SALUTATION
TODD RUNDGREN
JUST ANOTHER ONIONHEAD
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=56wQYTkURcg

ALSO SEE:
UTOPIA
TOO MUCH WATER
https://youtu.be/nHvwHhtsKVg

2*REFERENCE
THE GREAT CHAM
https://www.booksandculture.com/articles/2010/janfeb/manofsorrows.html

3*HUMOR
YOUR WRITING IS INTRIGUING
https://www.quora.com/I-was-told-my-writing-sample-is-intriguing-but-Im-not-sure-if-its-a-compliment-As-a-writer-would-you-take-this-as-a-compliment/answer/Francis-DiMenno?prompt_topic_bio=1

4*NOVELTY
KIT-KAT CLOCK ORIGINS
https://kit-cat.com/about-us/

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
THE DARK SIDE OF JERRY LEWIS
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ddH-T91K0tU

6* DAILY UTILITY
LEGALZOOM
https://www.legalzoom.com/

*7 CARTOON
E.T. is obviously a phallic symbol.
https://www.reddit.com/r/shittymoviedetails/comments/phhkra/in_the_original_script_of_et_the_extra/

8*PRESCRIPTION
MARTIN SHORT VS. BETTE DAVIS
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZX–1zzFWmw

9* RUMOR PATROL
A LIGHTED CIGARETTE, AN ASHTRAY, AND A FIREPLACE LOG
providencedailydose.com/2014/10/10/lighted-cigarette-ashtray-fireplace-log/

10*LAGNIAPPE
WIRE
Map Ref. 41°N 93°W
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XZ2RvSHK_B8

Albums
PINK FLAG
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2eFRjLBWctU&list=PL7KAlPZuWnduzAf07cJPrlZDOqTrAtUOc

CHAIRS MISSING
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7dudr9Yx4lQ&list=PL7KAlPZuWnduDrq0Z5wsYg4f1OYP7mIJp

151
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FxigNmhB5KM&list=PLDZmtI4GBWqyCUuzo_dIEXFU9ji-_kup5

11*DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
CRANKY MARTHA
Apparently, the cranky oldster meme is popular, since the paid actress who portrays Martha has been recently resuscitated for a series of new and even more obnoxious ads.
https://youtu.be/_oT_Z0jR8OA

12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE
JERRY LEE LEWIS
OLD BLACK JOE
https://youtu.be/JUusfBhHF4g

THE INFORMATION #1227

NOVEMBER 11, 2022

THE INFORMATION #1227 

NOVEMBER 11, 2022

Copyright 2022 FRANCIS DIMENNO
dimenno@gmail.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE:  BOOK SIX
THE THUNDERSTONE DIARIES
CHAPTER SIX

Wednesday, January 16th
Well, Diary, speak of the devil and he appears. I mean, about the car. I took it into Mr. Fixit’s Auto Repair for an oil change this morning and the new mechanic there, a younger guy, said he had some “bad news”. He said that the car needed a new fan belt and that the wiper fluid reservoir had a leak in it. I kind of simpered at him and told him I didn’t have a whole lot of money and he sorta sighed and said that he
could replace the belt pretty easily right then and there and it wouldn’t cost a lot, he’d just charge me for the belt, and that, if I wanted, he could try to “jerry-rig” something with the wiper-fluid reservoir so it would last until I could afford to replace it and I ran up to him and gave him a little kiss and I could tell he had an enormous boner but he just smiled rather sheepishly and asked me to “remain” in the waiting area
because, according to that sign posted over the door, “the insurance people” say that “customers” are “absolutely not permitted” in “the garage area”.
So the whole thing only ended up costing me around 30 dollars, including the oil change. After the work was done, the garage mechanic came out with a strange little smile on his face and scolded me; he almost started to wag his finger at me like I was his little girl! He said, “Miss, you absolutely have to stick to a 5,000 mile schedule on the oil changes.” He said even a diesel engine can be ruined if you don’t change
the oil. (Stupid me, I didn’t even know it WAS a diesel engine—though I didn’t say anything!) He said I could even go 7,500 miles between oil changes, but that he “wouldn’t recommend it.” I thanked him effusively and gave him a flirty little giggle and said I would “see him in 5,000 miles.” And then I drove off.

Diary, the next time I go shopping for perfume, I’m really going to have to buy some more of that White Shoulders! I think it just saved me $75!
KIDDING! I’M KIDDING!
He was a nice guy, though. Too bad he was married (I noticed a clean spot where he had taken off his ring). It might be nice to be hooked up with a guy who actually knows how to fix things.

Thursday, January 17th
Mr. Gaap called me on the phone this morning to ask whether I minded if he made my articles a regular feature and ran them under the title CHRONICLES OF NOXTOWN. Would I mind? I practically flipped! I told him I would be more than happy to agree to anything he wanted to call it. I told him he could call it ‘THE TEN MOST WANTED LIST’ if he felt like it! No, I didn’t really say that. I was very cool and, if I do say so myself, gracious. I put on my most sexy little co-ed voice and sweetly told him that he was the big boss man and he could do anything he wanted, of course, but that “Chronicles” sounded like a swell idea to me. (Yes, I actually used the word “swell”!) He said Fine! And then he hung up. Busy man.
Guess who else called, right after that?
Right. Ted.
Diary, I really, really have to change my number. Even though I usually screen my calls, this time I picked up, because I thought maybe that it was Mr. Gaap calling me back to ask me another question, like, would I also mind a big fat raise.
And the first words out of Ted’s mouth—this is the first time I’ve even talked to him in about two months, mind you—and what are the first words out of his mouth? “Who were you on the phone with? I was just trying to reach you.”
“Ted, it’s really none of your business, but if you must know, it was my publisher.”
“Your–? Oh, you mean that Pig, the mysterious Mr. Gaap.”

“Ted, I thought I told you not to call me anymore,” I said, and I hung up. Then I unplugged the phone.
Ted REALLY REALLY pisses me off, if you’ll pardon the gutter language. I know, I know, it’s getting repetitious—“Here it comes, one more long monotonous rambling monologue about what a stupid loser the ex-boyfriend is.” Actually, Diary, I blush to admit it now, but he’s actually my ex-fiancee. To think that when he asked me to marry him the first time, I actually said ‘Yes’. Without even thinking about it!
That was, ohhh, probably about six or seven years ago, after we had already broken up and gotten back together again at least twice.
He said he would change. He promised he would “clean up his act.” (His words, not mine.) He said he would “try”. He said things would be “different.” But nothing changed. Nothing was different. He didn’t try. He didn’t even pretend to try. And after about a week, I could see as plain as day that he sure as hell hadn’t cleaned up his act. He just got furtive, and sneaky about the pot and the booze. Finally, I’d had
enough, and I just flat out told him that I knew what he was up to, and why didn’t he just cut the crap, so I guess he took that as permission to go back to getting drunk and high like there was no tomorrow. And it was about a week later that I told him that I was calling the engagement off. And then the very next week, the Soviets invaded Afghanistan, and Ted went off the rails, and I think you’ve already heard that story.
Sometimes I actually half-heartedly believe that Ted must be some kind of devil from Hell sent to torment me and exact some kind of “karmic retribution”, as he would say. For exactly what, I don’t know. Some awful sin I must have committed in a previous life, or something.
Though, of course, I don’t believe in any of that nonsense.
Anyway, thinking about Ted got me so mad that I did something I haven’t done in about five years and promised myself that I would never, NEVER do. I actually went out and bought a pack of cigarettes. But I only smoked two, and then I started to get dizzy, and I threw the rest of the pack away. But Diary, that’s the kind of effect he has on me. He still has on me. He really makes me kind of sick.
I really, really REALLY have to change my phone number. And I’ll do it, too. First thing Friday morning.

Friday, January 18th
Well, Diary, I was supposed to have today off from the Historical Society, but they’re mounting some sort of special exhibition so they had me come in that afternoon, and it’s a good thing I had swung by the Thunderstone and handed my copy in early because as it turns out it was busy busy busy until finally, around four o’clock, I went out with Iola for a smoke break and she noticed I had my own pack (I dug it out of the trash so I wouldn’t have to always be bumming from her), and she laughed and said that she must be “corrupting” me, and I said, no, I was upset about my boyfriend—I slipped and actually said my boyfriend—and she said that I had never told HER anything about a boyfriend, and I told her that actually, he was my Ex, and I told her his name, and would you believe it, it turns out she knows him, because they both live in Central Depot and she sees him “hanging around a lot” in the nightclubs in
Jivetown, only “not so much lately” and she “just knows him to say ‘hi’” and she says she noticed that lately he’s been looking “pretty awful,” and of course, she wanted to hear all the gory details about how we broke up, and when, and of course, the all-important “why,” so I ended up telling her, but I must say that I told her just as little as I could get away with, without totally offending her. And I resisted the
impulse to ask her just what she meant when she said he looked ‘awful’, though it wasn’t easy.
Really, he’s not my concern anymore. And if she wants him I guess she could have him, (not that I think she does, though, because she already has a boyfriend, this Tim guy who plays guitar). Though, really, Ted is absolutely not her type, and, besides, he is much too old for her, he being almost 32 and she being, like, 25.
Once again, Iola sort of gently hinted that she’d like me to go and see her boyfriend’s band “sometime”, and I didn’t really know how to tell her that nightclubs aren’t really my thing, at least, not without totally turning her off, so I more or less promised that at some point I would. And we left it at that.

Well, then there was another rush from about 5 to 10pm, and when we finally closed they were nice enough to send Iola home in a taxi, even though all the subways were, of course, still running. And, of course, since they all knew I had my car (though today I had to park it on the street about three blocks away), they didn’t offer me a cab, which I’m thinking is probably is just as well, because some of those
cab drivers are real weirdos. I hope Ted doesn’t end up driving a taxi for a living because those guys get held up all the time and their lives must be hell.
Well, it’s almost one am so I think I’d better go to bed before I drop dead from utter exhaustion! What a crazy day!

Saturday, January 19th
I think a few more weekends of sleeping until one in the afternoon and maybe my body clock will finally be caught up after all the years I spent staying up until three and four in the morning, at first because that’s what everybody else in college seemed to be doing, and then because in grad school I had so much work, what with being a teaching assistant AND attending classes AND working in a library part time
AND trying to write my thesis. It’s a wonder I made it through that tunnel at all, and it’s such a relief to only work six hours a day instead of sixteen or sometimes eighteen or even twenty.
Sleep is such a wonderful thing.
But I just had to force myself to get out of bed; I couldn’t just sleep the afternoon away; at the very least I could use the time to catch up on some of my reading.
But then I remembered the party and so I had to get ready for that, so first I cleaned the house, for some sort of mysterious reason—maybe I was expecting to meet somebody there and invite him back to my apartment? Don’t ask me. Then I had to go out and buy a bottle of wine, because of course you can’t arrive at a party, like, empty-handed. And then I sat there for a good long time thinking about Ted and
wondering whether maybe I should invite him along as my “escort”.
But then I got to thinking about all the times I’ve gone to parties with Ted and how, every single time without exception, he utterly embarrassed me and disgraced himself as well. I swear, sometimes, just from the way he behaves, he reminds me of a feral child like the one they found in France in the 1800s, or maybe it was Germany. Because when he goes to a party, or anywhere where there’s free food, he
immediately homes in on the cheese platter like a starving wolf, or a great big lumbering garbage bear, and he starts stuffing his face with cheese and apples and grapes, practically with both hands, then it’s onward to conquer the crackers and dip, but if, of course, there’s some big-ticket item like salmon or even chicken, why, nothing else will do but that he also gobble down as much of that as humanly possible. And if it happens to be an open bar, not only will he slam down three or even four beers in a row but then he won’t even tip the bartender! (Which is inexcusable.)
So no, going with Ted was absolutely out of the question. Soo I decided to go by myself after all. And so now I’m off.

*1 SALUTATION
ARETHA FRANKLIN
SKYLARK
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jHYDafTrpMU&list=RDjHYDafTrpMU&start_radio=1&rv=jHYDafTrpMU&t=1

SARAH VAUGHAN’S RESPONSE
https://twitter.com/tommy_robb/status/1030176448517222403
https://www.newyorker.com/culture/postscript/aretha-franklin-a-legacy-in-music

2*REFERENCE
BURNING PINEAPPLE
https://www.bonappetit.com/story/pineapple-tongue-burn-trick#:~:text=Because%20the%20bromelain%20dissolves%20the,drives%20the%20stinging%20sensation%20home.

3*HUMOR
DON MCLEAN’S GREATEST HIT
https://booksbikesboomsticks.blogspot.com/2009/02/today-in-history-important-safety-tip.html

ALSO SEE:
10 WORST HIT SINGLES OF THE 70S
https://www.letsrun.com/forum/flat_read.php?thread=2064362&page=2

4*NOVELTY
BE MY FRIEND…GODFATHER
https://youtu.be/fDJe3o9BD_s

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
THE PATH TOWARDS NUCLEAR WAR
https://medium.com/@andersentda/math-models-show-the-path-towards-nuclear-war-was-the-only-real-option-from-the-start-dc95275aa55f

6* DAILY UTILITY
BOBBY DAY
LITTLE BITTY PRETTY ONE
https://youtu.be/lkVVlRNclw4

*7 CARTOON
THE COWARDLY LION JUMPS OUT THE WINDOW
This frightened me. When I was about five years old.
https://youtu.be/anUIL5_bHrI

8*PRESCRIPTION
RSV
www.yahoo.com/gma/us-facing-potential-tripledemic-flu-081211159.html

9* RUMOR PATROL
THE TESTAMENT OF TRUTH
www.the-testament-of-truth.com/

10*LAGNIAPPE
ROBERT GORDON
SOME DAY SOME WAY
https://youtu.be/wzVwU18zG_E

ALSO SEE:
THE MOODY BLUES
NEVER BLAME THE RAINBOW FOR THE RAIN
https://youtu.be/YAXz-xVwEi8

11*DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
DIZZY GILLESPIE
SALT PEANUTS
https://youtu.be/FJrUBEtoNQU

SEE ALSO:
MILES DAVIS & JOHN COLTRANE
SALT PEANUTS
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aNci4JvzQhY

ALSO SEE:
JOHN COLTRANE
LEO
https://youtu.be/GeVAcU2qeSM

*11A BOOKS READ AND REVIEWED

ACTING CLASS. DRNASO. *****

AMERICAN MIDNIGHT. HOCHSCHILD. ****

ANIMAL CASTLE. DELEP & DORISON. ***1/2

BATMAN URBAN LEGENDS VOLUME 3, ***

BEN REILLY: SPIDER-MAN. **

BIG ETHYL: ENERGY. **

BIRDS OF MAINE. DEFORGE. ***1/2

THE BOOK OF CLASSIC INSULTS. STEELE. ***1/2

BLACKSAD: THEY ALL FALL DOWN PART 1. ****

CHICKEN DEVIL: UNDER PRESSURE. ***

DANGEROUS CROOKED SCOUNDRELS. BATTISTELLA. ****

DARK KNIGHTS OF STEEL VOL. 1. **

FANTASTIC FOUR FULL CIRCLE. ROSS. ***1/2

THE FLAG, THE CROSS & THE STATION WAGON. MCKIBBEN. ****

HOW TO MAKE A MONSTER. FRANKENSTEIN & PEARCE. ****

JOSEPH SMITH & THE MORMONS. VAN SCIVER. ****

JUDGMENT DAY. **1/2

KARMEN. MARCH. ***MY PERFECT LIFE. BARRY. ****

NEWBURN VOL. 1. ZDARSKY & PHILLIPS. ****1/2

OUR MEMBERS BE UNLIMITED.  WALLMAN. ****

RALPH AZHAM. BLACK ARE THE STARS. TRONDHEIM. ***

ROBIN & BATMAN. LEMIRE & NGUYEN. ****

SPAWN: AFTERMATH. MCFARLANE. **

TALK TO MY BACK. MURASAKI. ***1/2

TOKYO ROSE–ZERO HOUR. ****

TOO FAMOUS. WOLFF. ****

VIVA LA REPARTEE! GROTHE. ****

12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE

HOOVER’S DARK SECRET

https://www.theguardian.com/world/2000/jun/24/duncancampbell

WAS J. EDGAR HOOVER BLACK?
https://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/therootdc/post/was-j-edgar-hoover-black/2011/11/20/gIQAZcu3kN_blog.html