THE INFORMATION #955 AUGUST 25, 2017

THE INFORMATION #955
AUGUST 25, 2017
Copyright 2017 FRANCIS DIMENNO
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com 

Talk sense to a fool and he calls you foolish.–Euripides

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER ELEVEN: PART THIRTY-NINE: DAYS OF WRATH

It was late summer in Noxtown. The weather that year seemed slightly off; wetter than usual and colder in the evening than was often the case.
And the wildlife was acting queer. Count Justin Victor had begun evenings to take his wonted constitutionals very late in the evening, in some of the less citified parts of the neighborhood. As he roamed through back yards and unpaved alleys, he saw sleepy fat robins roosting in low-hanging bushes and whey-faced possums lurking behind dustbins. If he happened to be walking very early in the day, he would spy bees frantically gathering pollen to bring back to their hives, and common rock doves patrolling the grassy vacant lots where once stood decrepit hovels and ancient shanties.

“The trouble with this country,” said Count Justin Victor to Cadger Tandy, as together they prowled this semi-urban hinterland late on a Thursday evening, “is that so many growed men continue to think and act as though they was children. And that’s because they went to a little red one-room schoolhouse and they never paid attention to nothing the teacher ever said, and so they never learned the proper rules of argumentation. They got no logic in ’em–none. They think they can win you over with the simple argument Becuase I Said So. the same one their own parents likely used on them.

“But the joke’s on them. I’m going to let you in on a big secret, Yob. Don’t tell nobody I said this, because I might be tarred and feathered and run out of town for contributing to the delinquency of a minor. But here it is. The fact is, most goddamned people don’t know shit. They don’t know what they’re talking about, unless they have direct experience in the matter, and very few do. And furthermore, they don’t even know how to think or even what to think until somebody far smarter than they are comes along and tells them.

“Another thing you should know about people is that they want simple answers. They don’t want to debate the truth. Back in ought-four they was all marching in the street and hoo-roaring themselves hoarse for Grand Old Teddy without even listening what Judge Parker had to say. They don’t want to think for themselves because most of them don’t know how.  As a matter of fact, most people, if they can think at all, can only think about one thing at a time. Sometimes two at a time, but no more. Because most human beings just ain’t built to be all over the map with their attention. They got to have peace and quiet so they can think. Otherwise, they get easily distracted. And tell me something–where is there peace and quiet in today’s world–where we have such modern machinery and so many cave-dwelling minds? Out in the big stick country, I suppose–but farmers have always got the critters to think about. Man was not built for the speed of the modern world. It’s the pace that kills. Why is it you suppose that when a Yellof goes nutty, they always send him to some quiet sanitarium way out in the country in Chump Junction or East Saint Jesus? The answer is simple–once you get away from all the noisy pandemonium of the big city and all the irritating noisy snoops of your typical small town, your brain has a fighting chance of healing itself, and stretching itself back into its natural shape. Once you get away from all the hustle and the bustle, the hurly and the burly and the rumpus and the bumpus, why, then, you can get yourself a complete and restful night’s sleep. As the immortal bard of Stratford-on-Avon so eloquently stated:

Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care
The death of each day’s life, sore labour‘s bath
Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course,
Chief nourisher in life’s feast.

“See what I mean? You may not of thought much of MY argument, but all I have to do is quote some Shakespeare, and all of a sudden what I said sounds…very, very wise.

“Now, don’t get me wrong, Yob. I’m not saying that I’m simply handing you a line of bunkum. Most good doctors will tell you that a few good nights of sleep will cure pretty much whatever ails you–far better than any powders or pills. That’s why I always stuff myself at lunch and hardly eat anything at all for dinner. A man needs to get his eight hours. Now, you see gamblers and stage performers and lawyers and such, and they always seem to be burning the midnight oil. And that is precisely the reason why that all too often, they ain’t quite right in the head. Night nurses, sleepy hoss doctors, goofy night watchmen–all of ’em are easy to put one over on–because they’re dull from lack of normal rest.

“And believe me when I say that if you’re not too bright in the first place, then you’ll be even duller if you don’t manage to get some shut-eye. It’s more debilitating than being roaring drunk, in my experience. Most yekkmen are stupid because they’re uneducated, and they have never learned to think, and they keep odd hours, and they never get a good night’s rest because they’re jittery all the time–they got the inside meemies that some copper is going to come busting into their lair at some ungodly hour like 4am. Also, a lot of them on on the dope. That’s why crooks look up to a yellof as can do all their thinking for them. I was spieling about Masons before, and I’ll be the first to admit that I only know as much as I’ve caught wind of–but I’ll tell you with the bark off that there’s one secret society that has the Masons licked all hollow–and that’s the confraternity of the demi monde, the shades below, and the unfathomed deep. You might call it the underworld. Leave us call it ‘the syndicate’ and leave it at that.

“Dumb people repeat. Smart people imitate. Let be explain what I mean. Some sucker will hear from somewhere or other that Teddy Roosevelt is a good man. So he’ll offer that up as his unabashed opinion. A slightly more clever man will say, ‘People say that Teddy is a good man.’ An even more clever man will say The New York Tribune endorses Teddy for re-election. And an even more sophisticated man will say that Collier’s Weekly has come out in a big way for Teddy. I suppose you can over-step yourself, and say that Washington, Jefferson and Lincoln all would of heartily endorsed Teddy, if they was still around. That’s something we’ll never know.

“Y’see, Yob, even if a man resents being ordered around, you can bend him to you will all the same–simply persuading him that somebody smarter than hisself has already got everything figured out, and has graciously consented to regale us all with the fruits of his knowledge. Didn’t Eve herself fall prey to this syndrome?’The serpent beguiled me, and I did eat.’ Genesis 3:13. Look it up.

“Sure, and ain’t it just like a zook, too–to lay the blame for all her misfortunes on a second party!”

1*SALUTATION

RUN MOUNTAIN
J.E. MAINER’S MOUNTAINEERS
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JRhXnF5oLFo

ALSO SEE:
LIVIN’ OFF THE LAND
HOLY MODAL ROUNDERS
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eXxbuyfP05c&index=5&list=PLVqZMDLDR9SZ6DDN9-kOFoQMF-0rADpaz

 
SEE ALSO:
HACKBERRY RAMBLERS
VINTON HIGH SOCIETY
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_TfyxCzcSss&index=13&list=PLgbYjM47H9sQF6tK3EVCBUCD-v6-w1tq7

 
2*REFERENCE
THINGS THE ALT-RIGHT NEVER TALKS ABOUT

James Baldwin once remarked that segregationists weren’t truly driven by the cliché concern of preventing black men from marrying their daughters. Rather, he said, “You don’t want us to marry your wives’ daughters—we’ve been marrying your daughters since the days of slavery.”
www.newyorker.com/news/news-desk/the-segregationists-daughter

ALSO SEE:

THE WILMINGTON INSURRECTION OF 1898


 
3*HUMOR
GILBERT SHELDON
LITTLE ORPHAN AMPHETAMINE
 


4*NOVELTY 
LEARNING FROM LYRICS

www.learningfromlyrics.org/songsatoi.html


ALSO SEE:

DON’T BE A SUCKER (1947)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=23X14HS4gLk&feature=youtu.be&t=134

 
PROPAGANDA TECHNIQUES (1950)
https://youtu.be/UtKnVo6j6-A
 

SEE ALSO:

THE 48 LAWS OF POWER (ANIMATED)
 
5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST

White Nationalist “Stachebro” From Virginia March Attack Is A Mass Local Named Matt Colligan And He Doesn’t Like Being A Newly-Famous Racist
turtleboysports.com/white-nationalist-stachebro-from-virginia-march-attack-is-a-mass-local-named-matt-colligan-and-he-doesnt-like-being-a-newly-famous-racist/

 
ALSO SEE:
CRYBABY NAZI
http://www.rawstory.com/2017/08/im-terrified-neo-nazi-blubbers-like-a-baby-in-video-reporting-hes-wanted-for-arrest-in-charlottesville/#.WZR0A7fuC0h.twitter

 
6* DAILY UTILITY
FIFTY THINGS THAT EVERY COMICS COLLECTION TRULY NEEDS
 
 
7*CARTOON

The Ren and Stimpy Show S2 E04 – Man’s Best Friend (The ‘Banned’ Episode)

 
ALSO SEE:
LOST MEDIA WIKI

http://lostmediawiki.com/Home

 
8*PRESCRIPTION
TWENTY-ONE TV SHOWS THAT SHOULD NOT HAVE EXISTED
 
TEN TV SHOWS THAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN BANNED
 
FIVE WEIRD DOCUMENTARIES
 
ALSO SEE:
PINK LADY AND JEFF
GUEST-STARRING JERRY LEWIS
Just about the worst thirty minutes ever shown on television.
 

SEE ALSO:

HEIL HONEY, I’M HOME
ANIMATED OPENING
 
FIRST AND LAST SHOW
 
9*RUMOR PATROL
THINGS YOU REALLY SHOULDN’T SEARCH ON GOOGLE
 

 

10* LAGNIAPPE

Joe Williams’ Washboard Blues Singers

BABY, PLEASE DON’T GO

This is far and away the greatest version of this song I have ever heard.

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

THE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF PULP HEROES
BY JEFF NEVINS
TABLE OF CONTENTS
http://jessnevins.com/tableofcontents.pdf

12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE

THE APOLOGY EPIDEMIC
GILBERT GOTTFRIED
http://www.playboy.com/articles/stop-saying-sorry-on-twitter

THE INFORMATION #954 AUGUST 18, 2017

THE INFORMATION #954
AUGUST 18, 2017
Copyright 2017 FRANCIS DIMENNO
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com 
 

Always do right. This will gratify some people and astonish the rest.–Mark Twain

 
WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE 
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN 
CHAPTER ELEVEN: PART THIRTY-EIGHT: DAYS OF WRATH
 

“I’m telling you, Yob,” said Count Victor Justin to young Cadger Tandy, “when them Masons conduct an initiation for a side degree, they don’t fiddlefuck around.”

As they walked, Tandy noticed that it was just after midsummer, but that it was already cool and there was a decided hint of autumn in the breeze. This made him ineffably sad, for a reason which he could not immediately fathom.

“Personally,” said the Count, “I think practical jokes are strictly for the all squares from Delaware. I do not cotton to that variety of humor, so-called. They are stupid and vulgar. I was brought up amid country bumpkins, you know, though of course I was never allowed to play with them once I passed the age of about seven. The first thing I noticed about them was that they talked with a drawling accent which I was forbidden to emulate. My father didn’t mind so much, but my Momma was hell on proper diction and all of that. She said that you could always tell if a person had class and manners by the way they talked, although she didn’t use those exact words.She said that if everybody took the trouble to learn their grammar and spelling, the world would be a better and more equal place. But it was her contention that very few people, relatively speaking, had the intellectual equipment to conform to those rules. Everyone else was either stupid or lazy–at least, in her view. Where she got these peculiar notions I don’t know, but I can well guess. Why, she got them from her own father, whom she adored. Now, there was a formidable gentleman. Six feet tall, 180 pounds, and ramrod straight. He had long white hair and wintry-white whiskers like icicles, and he always sported a great-coat and a pince-nez, which were the fashion of his day. And a cane with the gold head of a lion.

“Anyhow, practical jokes are about as far removed from actual wit as we are from the monkeys in the jungle. Speaking of which, attending one of the Masonic rituals is a good deal akin to watching the antics of the denizens of the monkey house at the Zoo. A great many people, it seems, never develop much beyond the age of nineteen. I’m not talking about soldiers or ministers, or such-like–their problem is that they have grown old too fast. No, I’m talking about the mass of ordinary mortals. This is a true fact about men, that they are, in essence, boys, and most women know it. That’s why the zooks all look at us with ill-concealed disrespect–once they’ve gotten their hooks in. Just like no man is a hero to his valet, no husband is a sensible adult to his wife–once they get past the honeymoon.

“It is well for the menfolk that the honeymoon only lasts around three or four weeks. If they had to take care of a squalling bairn while they were still in the throes of puppy-love, they would probably drop the kid on the stone pavement in a fit of swoony goofiness. Anyway, I think it is well that most men are not entrusted to the care of small babies. They’re little better than babes in arms their own selves is why. Witness the initiation rituals at the Masonic Hall if you happen to doubt the veracity of this asseveration.”

“Huh?” said Cadger Tandy.

“The truth of this claim.Yob, you had better learn yourself some vocabulary words, other than the thieves’ cant and argot that they spout over t’ The Seven Stars. In any event, let’s say you join a lodge and they ask you if, in the bargain, you also want to join the Mystic Order of the Veiled Prophets of the Enchanted Realm. You gotta say yes because you can’t say no. In for a penny, in for a pound. That’s how the lodges make their money, you know–with the side degrees. And the older guys always get a great big kick out of putting the younger Yellofs through unmitigated hell. That’s how the old folk manage to show their resentment of the fact that they don’t love their wives no more, while the young guys still do, mostly. There’s more than a little bit of agfay action going on with these idiotic initiation rituals and side degrees. I dunno why they don’t just fuck each other and get it over with and out in the open, instead of dancing around the question. But don’t ever suggest any such thing–no, no–or you’ll be banished from the sight of ‘decent’ men. 

 
“I’ll tell you something, Yob–these secret rituals get a bit kinky at times, what with the fake electric branding irons and the spanking machines, and the electrified carpets and the trick collapsing chairs. You know, it’s a typical square John mentality–you let people in authority shit all over you, then you pick yourself up from the muck and mire with a great big grin, like a cat eating shit out of a hairbrush, and you say please, Sir, more. That shows you’re a ‘good sport’ and a ‘hail-fellow-well met,’ which is the single most valuable attribute a man can have in that stuffy and musty old lodge world. It’s a peccadillo of the middle and the lower classes, these lodges. Rich Yellofs–old money, by and large–have their trig and exclusive wood-panelled clubs which they retire to, and they countenance absolutely no vulgar behavior from mere arrivistes. If you go to the Washington Club or the Hamilton Club or the Algonquin Club or any of those clubs which tend to be named after founding fathers or extinct Injun tribes, you will soon discover that they don’t go in for idiotic gadgets like electric benches or trick mirrors or a box of cigars rigged up to administer an electric shock. This last is a real cute stunt, because even if you don’t get shocked, once you light the cigar, about one-third of the way down is an exploding load. It should go without saying that any Yellof who tried a stunt like that at any of these swank members-only establishments would be tossed out on their ear, and likely blackballed all over town to boot. The rich are different from you and me, Yob–they have a more refined sense of humor. They’d rather be horsewhipped than to do something that might make them look like a buffoon in front of the members of their tribe. And here’s a dirty little secret–a great many of them will actually pay to be whipped. By zooks. In secret. But you didn’t hear about this from me–capisce?
 
1*SALUTATION
THE FREEZE
IT’S ONLY ALCOHOL
 
2*REFERENCE

Why Are Opioid Users Overdosing in Libraries, and How Should Librarians Respond?
By Samantha Sanders
Librarians across the country are witnessing opioid overdoses on the job. Here’s how some library systems are responding.
https://catapult.co/stories/at-work-opioid-overdoses-at-the-library-when-librarians-are-first-responders

3*HUMOR
GRATEFUL DEAD PARODY
COCAINE EXPRESS


4*NOVELTY 
 
5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
RICHARD NIXON FAREWELL SPEECH

“Others may hate you, but those who hate you don’t win unless you hate them, . . . . and then you destroy yourself.”

 
8*PRESCRIPTION
PIMPLES

9*RUMOR PATROL
VOCAL FRY
 
ALSO SEE:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/12/15/vocal-fry-raspy-voice-speech-trend-pattern-young-women_n_1151293.html

10* LAGNIAPPE
SINEAD O’CONNOR
BLACK BOYS ON MOPEDS
 
 
11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
THE MINE SHAFT DRESS CODE

Some college friends and I were slumming in NYC and we tried to get into the Mine Shaft circa 1978.

We got as far as the top of the stairs and then we learned they wouldn’t let me in because I was too well-dressed.

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mineshaft_(gay_club)#Dress_code

 
12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE
ICE CUBE

BLACK KOREA


Every time I wanna go get a fuckin’ brew
I gotta go down to the store with the two
Oriental one penny countin’ motherfuckers
That make a nigga mad enough to cause a little ruckus
Thinkin’ every brother in the world’s out to take
So they watch every damn move that I make
They hope I don’t pull out a gat and try to rob
They funky little store, but, bitch, I got a job
“Look, you little Chinese motherfucker
I ain’t tryin’ to steal none of yo’ shit, leave me alone!”
“Mother fuck you!”
Yo, yo, check it out
So don’t follow me up and down your market
Or your little chop suey ass’ll be a target
Of the nationwide boycott
Juice with the people, that’s what the boy got
So pay respect to the black fist
Or we’ll burn your store right down to a crisp
And then we’ll see ya
Cause you can’t turn the ghetto into black Korea

Translation:
BLACK KOREA
I have recently noted, to my great displeasure,
That each and every time I am at my leisure,
And wish to procure an alcoholic beverage,
That due to my cultural disadvantages I have no leverage,
With the local Asian-American entrepreneur,
Whose profit margin is not entirely secure,
And who therefore must proactively respond regarding shrinkage and theft;
His lack of tact leaves my sense of equinaminity bereft.
He seems to think that every African-American is a desperate felon,
And he therefore surveills my activities with the passion of a zealot.
He is apprehensive that I will behave as though I am his nemesis
And attempt to commit an armed assault upon his premises;
His faith in humanity has been destroyed;
However, I, for one, am gainfully employed.
So Sir! Refrain in acting with biased intemperance,
Or I shall review my legal alternatives with a vengeance.
I have considerable influence with the stakeholders in the community,
So you can no longer practice your activities with impunity.
You must hereafter treat me in a non-discriminatory fashion,
Or else I shall explore my extra-legal alternatives with a passion.
You stand accused before the court of public opinion as a practitioner
of misanthropy–
Because you cannot treat a socioeconomically deprived neighborhood as
your personal satrapy!

THE INFORMATION #953 AUGUST 11, 2017

THE INFORMATION #953
AUGUST 11, 2017
Copyright 2017 FRANCIS DIMENNO
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com 
 

There is a theory going around that the U.S.A. was and still is a gigantic Masonic plot under the ultimate control of the group known as the Illuminati. It is difficult to look for long at the strange single eye crowning the pyramid which is found on every dollar bill and not begin to believe the story, a little. Too many anarchists in 19th-century Europe—Bakunin, Proudhon, Salverio Friscia—were Masons for it to be pure chance. Lovers of global conspiracy, not all of them Catholic, can count on the Masons for a few good shivers and voids when all else fails. –Thomas Pynchon

 
WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER ELEVEN: PART THIRTY-SEVEN: DAYS OF WRATH


“Like I said before, Yob, the Masons are a pretty handy bunch to know,” said Count Victor Justin to Cadger Tandy. “You know, Jesus was a Mason. Or could have been. He was a carpenter, after all. A pretty handy guy with tools. I once partnered up with a flim-flam man who called himself Dick Earningtum. He was a Mason and one time when I got him drunk he told me on the q.t. what the Masons were all about.

“It’s not what you think. It’s not some big secret organization that controls everything. Masonic Halls are just gathering spots for men as want to get away from their nagging wives and smoke cheap cigars, drink beer, and play 500 and other card games with their rummed-up cronies. All because their daddies never paid any attention to them when they were youngsters, so they have to go and seek solace in the company of other more friendly he-men. Some of whom just happen to be sword-swallowers, if you get my drift. But never mind that. All the so-called fraternal organizations are in the same racket and pretty much all do the same thing. It’s just that the Masons have pride of place in being there first. There are all sorts of these outfits, like The Woodsmen of the World and The Oddfellows, not to mention the ones we’ve all heard of, like the Rotary and the Elks and the Moose. The difference being, the Masons like to give themselves airs. They describe their stupid little club as a Peculiar system of morality, veiled in allegory and illustrated by symbols.

“The thing about the Masons is, they think they’re so high and mighty when in reality, in their utter credulity, they’re no better than wide-eyes sprats you drag off to a two-bit circus. Look, Yob! Watch bears chained to stakes being tormented by hot pokers shoved up their assholes to make ’em dance! Observe the spiteful monkeys hiss at one another, and throw their shit around! See the wonderful elephants trumpet their disdain while depositing heaping piles of steaming dung on the sawdust, and every now and again mauling an introspective clown who gave them a rotten peanut in Cincinnati back in 1893. Meanwhile, be aware that, behind the scenes, the sideshow midget is in love with the haughty lady equestrienne, and the cruel strong man spurns the lovesick fat lady and runs off with the beautiful trapeze artist. A sad-faced Joey gives the crippled blind girl a beautiful flower and makes her smile for the very first time. And the worried owner will do anything to keep the circus going–he’ll even allow a con man onto the midway to fleece the rubes in exchange for a cut of the loot–so he can meet his payroll and pay his overhead. A Beautiful system of morality? Huh! More like the morality of the circus tent. Morality is just a fancy word to cover up what the Masons really like to do, which is to get drunk and play practical jokes on each other. Especially during their idiotic initiation rites.

A Mason’s insipid idea of grand and glorious fun is to lead the prospect into a room with a blindfold on and tell them to stick out their tongue. Once the prospect does so, the ringleader sings out, ‘Diabolo! Fetch the red-hot branding iron!’ And, quick as a wink, the prospect’s tongue goes right back in his mouth. Bug haw-haws all around. Or they have him kneel at an altar, also blindfolded, and they give him a hotfoot. Or else, a man who pretends to be a billy goat comes up behind him and butts him on the ass. Mason’s find this kind of bawdy agfay humor to be simply hilarious.

“Now, the Masons is got all kind of gew-gaws to advertise to the world that they just happen to be Masons, which is pretty suspicious seeing as how they’re supposed to be a secret organization and whatnot. They have Masonic cuff links and Masonic belt-buckles and Masonic collar tabs and even Masonic money clips and Masonic aprons. I’m guessing that’s in case they have to bake a fucking cake or something. God knows they sure do like their sweets. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a skinny Mason. But I guess ‘Masonic Lodge’ sounds better and a whole lot grander than ‘Fraternal Order of Fatsos’ or ‘The Mysterious Gathering of the Pinguid and Benevolent Jellybellies.’

“I suppose that one reason to want to pass yourself off as a Mason is that a lot of Judges and lawyers are Masons. That’s supposed to give you an advantage when you’re up agin it, and on trial for your life, and you make a secret sign, and the Judge says ‘Innocent,’ because he supposedly knows that any man who is a Mason can’t be a murderer. No, Yob–no Mason has ever been executed for murder, or so the story goes. But I have it on good authority that this is more or less a true fact. Masons are pledged to help each other out. Like, if a howling mob is after my scalp and about to tar and feather me, if you’re a Mason and I give you the secret sign, you’re supposed to hide me, and do so free and gratis. Or if I’m a Hobo and you’re a farmer, and I give you the magic handshake, you’re supposed at the very least to let me sleep in the barn, and send me off with a piece of Maw’s homemade pie wrapped in a lump.

“I can well believe that most judges are also Masons. Because most judges are also fat. They eat well, while the poor wretches they sentence to prison are forced to subsist on bread and water. I’ll tell you something else about judges, too. Many of them are just plain incompetent. Did you ever hear of Judge Rance Sniffle? They call him’Old Necessity’–because he knows no law.

“Tell me something, Yob: Do you really think that judges, once they’re appointed or elected to the bench–do you really think they pay any attention whatsoever to their law books? No–most of them are as idle as the day is long. Or else they’re political hacks appointed as part of an urban machine, and as corrupt as Satan himself. Those types of judges I can do business with. They accomplish no good, but nor do they do any real harm. No–it’s the judges who take a more active role that you have to watch out for. They tend to be tyrants. Power-drunk. Power-mad. Proud of their greasy eminence.

“I’ll tell you one thing that all Masons and all judges have in common–whether they be Masons or not. They are all drunks. All of them. Just like cooks, and painters. Why, I know one judge who kept a flower vase in his chambers. It was filled with gin. He’d retire to his back room every now and again and, quick as a wink, he would empty that vase down his capacious gullet. And then he’d chew a clove, so that nobody could smell it on his breath.

“The only people who become judges are by and large burnt-out lawyers. Keep that in mind, the next time you’re up on charges and they give you a choice between a judge and a jury trial. Better yet–always keep about 200 bucks sewed up in your clothes in case you take a fall. If you’re slick, you can eliminate the bail bondsman and the lawyer and the crooked judge altogether. And simply bribe the jailer with it. It’s a very modern and compact system.

“Eliminate the middleman. That’s my motto. “

 
1*SALUTATION
STUFF SMITH
MY BLUE HEAVEN
 
3*HUMOR

Jimmy Stewart watches a nuclear holocaust.
https://youtu.be/AgJdZeM2iZk

 
4*NOVELTY 

CRAZY GUGGENHEIM
A retarded drunk with the voice of an angel.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1ic5vMbXQvU

 
5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
EARTH OVERSHOOT DAY
http://www.overshootday.org/about-earth-overshoot-day/

 
6* DAILY UTILITY
ADDALL

The best way to price books online.
http://www.addall.com/

 
7*CARTOON
BUZZY THE FUNNY CROW
THE DEBUT APPEARANCE OF A BELOVED RACIST STEREOTYPE.
 
8*PRESCRIPTION
THE NIXON MEMORIAL
BY JEFF SHESOL
“Can you imagine what this man would have been had somebody loved him?”–Kissinger, on Nixon

http://www.newyorker.com/news/news-desk/nixon-memorial

9*RUMOR PATROL
LOVE
MAYBE THE PEOPLE WOULD BE THE TIMES….
 
11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA

THREE RING CIRCUS (1954)
STARRING DEAN MARTIN & JERRY LEWIS

 

This movie is a horrible, maudlin piece of shit.

The overwhelming impression I receive from this film is that people who attend circuses are morons.

And circus performers are scarcely more intelligent than the animals they train to perform degrading tricks.

32:38 into the movie. Jerry Christ is being kicked in the ass by a drunken clown. A little girl stands up to protest this mistreatment. JESUS, JERRY LEWIS IS SUCH AN ASSHOLE.

40:51. Jerry talks to elephants and they respond. Saint Jerry of Asissi? O Christ what a shit-show.

55:53. Dean talks to a Raven. Later, he sings “You’re a gay Santa Claus.”

58:10. Two chimps kiss. Dean mugs.

1:36:20. A crippled little girl laughs because “The clown is crying.” OH JESUS GOD SOMEBODY PLUCK OUT MY EYES!

At least we now know where Jerry got the idea for “The Day the Clown Cried.”

(The clown’s name in that unreleased masterpiece is ‘Helmut Doork’. Oh–I get it. “Dick Head.” Some more of that sophisticated Jerome Levitz humor.)

Dean (allegedly at Jerry’s insistence) gets all of the unfunny lines. In this film Dean is little more than a beefcake gigolo for the already long-in-the-tooth Zha Zha Gabor.

It must be a pretty shitty circus when the star attraction is a 37-year-old trapeze artist.

What this movie teaches us, first and foremost, is that anybody who gets in the way of Jerry Lewis gets their well-deserved comeuppance at the hands of a just God.

And that Jerry is so greedy for laffs that if there happens to be just one hold-out who doesn’t respond with hilarity to Jerry’s inane bumbling antics–say, a crippled little girl wearing leg braces–then Jerry will bend heaven and earth to subject that person to his will.

Don McGuire, who wrote the script, has written much better scripts than this gawdawful piece o’ shit–notably “Bad Day at Black Rock” and “Tootsie.” He has a service background, incidentally. This comes in handy.

Because the entire film can be read as a (largely spurious) foundation myth for the origins of the celebrated team of Martin and Lewis.

In the film, Jerry’s alias is ” Jerricho the Wonder Clown.” Or just plain “Jerry.”

Dean’s alias is “Paul.” Which also happens to be his actual irl middle name.

They met in the service. (Not so. Neither of them served.)

Jerry was a bumbling asshole. (True. Incidentally, in middle and junior high school, Jerry used to be called “Ug” and “Id”, short for “idiot”.)

Dean was a somewhat louche gambler from Steubenville Ohio. (True.)

They honed their world-renowned act in a circus and carnival setting. (Not true. They honed it in mobbed-up nightclubs.)

I have recently thought that a father need say only this one thing to his boy children to ensure their mental health.

“You’re a good boy, and I love you very much.”

It is clear that nobody ever said this to Jerry Lewis.

His entire career was a futile search to earn that elusive love.

And it made him a monster.

 
ALSO SEE:
2017: The American Circus R.I.P.
 
12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE
DEATH WISH TRAILER
I actually wouldn’t mind seeing this.
The 1974 original spawned comic book “heroes” such as The Punisher. And the Punisher, in turn, seems to have influenced this remake.
It’s a recursive loop!

MODERN WISDOM NUMBER 226 AUGUST 2017

MODERN WISDOM: AMERICA’S ONLY HUMOR MAGAZINE
NUMBER 226 
AUGUST 2017
 
1. ARTICLES I PLAN TO SUBMIT


1) Papal boinking during the Renaissance.
2) Changing uses of the term “Pitiful helpless giant” since the 1970s
3) Swinburne’s feud with Emerson and the use of the term “autocoprophageous.”
4) Richard Wright and the use of the word “Naw” during the
early-20th-c. American South.
5) Resolved: The Black Death was neither black nor death-y.
6) The history of “abject opium addiction” in Southeast Asia.
7) Bordello ownership among public office holding-officials in early
20th-c. Chicago
8) The political origins of the devolution of the European “flaneur”
to “lounge lizard”
9) British imperial policy toward Indian snake charmers.
10) “We don’t sort books by their fucking color,” and other unexpressed
throughts of disgruntled bookstore clerks

 
2. HEY–WHAT ABOUT THAT CRAZY CELEBRITY?


If you’re like most people–and who isn’t?–then you’re probably just
like everybody else.

You think about celebrities 24 hours a day.

You wonder what makes them act this way, and perhaps you realize that
pondering this dilemma has given your own insignificant life added
meaning.

I mean, I don’t want to beat this topic into the ground, but–they’re just nuts!

Not a day goes by that you don’t look at the front page of the paper
and see the following:

CLEVER HEADLINE!

Remember that controversial musician?

Prosecutors declare the notorious musician will soon be investigated
for battery.

“My lawyer has instructed me to not comment at this time” says the
musician to reporters.

And as for me–I. too, bask in the reflected glory of my own
controversial opinion regarding this matter–one that is identical to
millions of others.

In fact, it seems that everybody who makes the news for whatever
reason is, de facto if not de jure, a celebrity.

Because all too often, this is what you read in your typical
establishment newspaper:

STODGY HEADLINE

Remember that controversial sports figure/politician/criminal?

Fans/pundits/prosecutors say/think/declare the notorious sports
figure/politician/criminal will soon be investigated for
drugs/corruption/murder.

“My lawyer has instructed me to not comment at this time” says the
sports figure/politician/criminal to reporters.

What we really ought to be writing about is something like this:

CLEVER CENOTAPH!

Remember that controversial species?

The planet they called “earth’ was made an uninhabitable hellhole by
what one of their number deemed “the damned human race”.

After 16,000 years they have been replaced by a more clever race of
silicon-based androids.

Or maybe even this:

STODGY BUT UNIVERSALLY UNDERSTOOD HEIROGLYPH ON ASTEROID

The Universe began collapsing yesterday.

In spite of its name, the Universe, also known as the “cosmos,” is
survived by other, more distant star systems.

The expanding universe was 13.73 Billion Years old.

3. HAPPYLAND: REJOICE, THOUGH GRIEVING


The worst, slummiest house I’ve ever been inside of belonged to a
family called the Alders. They lived on the aptly named Leech Street,
around the corner from 3 35th St in Pittsburgh, where me, my mother
and my Grandmother lived in what is still known as the Lawrenceville
neighborhood.

Lawrenceville, abutting the Allegheny River and Herr’s Island,was a down-at-the-heels neighborhood formerly populated by steel-driving and dockworking Bohunks. By 1966 its population had become almost entirely Black below 35th Street (in the area formerly known as Croghansville), and almost entirely Polish above 35th Street. We lived at 3 35th Street. The Black folks across the street, recent transplants from the
South, listened to James Brown and partied on Saturday until hours wee
and recovered from their inevitable run-ins with the fuzz and from
their ensuing billy club breakfasts all day Sunday.

Meanwhile, on any given Saturday night, the Poles, with heads the size
and shape of jowly suitcases, would belly up to the bar, downing
whiskey-and-beer boilermakers, scarfing greasy fried fish sandwiches
that cost a quarter–yum yum eat ‘um up–and crying into their sleeves
because all the mill and riverdock jobs were drying up. On Sundays
they would either lay abed nursing their aching noggins and chasing
the previous nights debaucheries with a raw-egg-and-hot-sauce
katzenjammer remedy, or they would don their ill-fitting and
purpose-worn off-the-rack suits and drag their weary work-broken
carcasses to Church.

In Pittsburgh, then as now, other than the Church–and perhaps even
there–the only aesthetics were the aesthetics of Moloch.

The Alders were Old English stock, I assume, but gone very much to
seed. The Dad was a layabout drunk whose one modus vivendi seemed to
be angry hollering, and the mother was one of those prematurely
superannuated, overstressed neuropaths who don’t know how they’re ever
going to get through the day. Given this environment, it is small
wonder that, even at age 10, little Johnny Alder was beginning to go
as nutty as a shithouse rat.

Johnny Alder lived in unusual squalor–how could I ever forget his
house, with its awful mildewed living room sofa that reeked of sour
beer; the scratched and scarred dinner table; the filthy worn
carpeting stained a color beyond characterizing but best represented
by a deadly shade of green and gray?

He no doubt saw his brief life already scarred beyond any possible
future remedy; his past was a nightmare; his present, an ordeal; his
future, a joke, an interval to be filled, if at all, with acts of
heedless and headlong spite and despair.  So the usual downward
trajectory was in firmly in place for him: gang membership, petty
theft, drug use, illicit sex. His sister, older than him by a year,
was very likely destined to be a high school dropout who went to work
as a washerwoman and married far too young.

The family’s every attempt at some sort of normal existence seemed to
be undercut by their dismal surroundings. They lived in a dreadful old
tumbledown shack, a shanty-style house behind which grew sinister
Catalpa trees, evil interlopers overhanging a gully. Every fall, these
trees gave forth poisonous cigar-shaped seedpods that never flowered.

“They’re Coming to Take Me Away (Ha Ha)” was the song that, in the
late summer of 1966, the neighborhood urchins would sing
when little Johnny Alder drew near, and started acting more crazy than
usual, probably because of his drunken Dad and his big sister had both
been teasing him about the fact that when he was two years old, he got
up on the Thanksgiving table and pissed all over the Turkey.

I well understood his feeling of wild and lonely desperation. My own
Mother was recently divorced, and drunk, it seemed, nearly all the
time, and she’d take me to bars with her where she’d hang out with her
drunken cronies and get into fist fights and the only contemporary
songs on the jukebox would be Herman and the Hermits’ “I’m Henry the
Eighth I Am,” an insipid and odious bit of music hall whimsey for
those who were too old to appreciate the Beatles, and “Winchester
Cathedral,” a novelty tune by the New Vaudeville Band, and the name
says it all.

The other songs would be blowsy big band standards and Sinatra and
Tony Bennett and Bobby Darin and local-boy-made-good Perry Como and
Dean Martin moaning about “Strangers in the Night” and the whole
atmosphere was grim and dank and smoky and the ambiance was of ill-lit
and ill-fated potential assignations.

It seemed as though the old folks in the mid-to-late sixties treated
sex, not like a sacrament or a pastime but like a sordid and dirty
business transaction. Unlike the nascent Hippies on the West Coast,
they weren’t looking for a secret land of bliss where they could carve
out some kind of modern-day Sleepy Hollow and enjoy the stolen fruits
of a sexual cornucopia; instead, they were seeking an unspeakable
fantasy–Shirley Temple’s face on Jayne Mansfield’s body. Was this how
the Alders met?

More than 40 years later, the Alder house is no longer there. The
ominous Catalpa trees are long gone; the gully has been filled in; it
is now a parking lot. What became of Johnny Alder I have never been
able to learn. But I am certain of one thing–like the ghost said to
dwell on Herr’s Island, which the gully once overlooked, the spectral
presence of the Alders still haunts terrible Leech Street.

Do their mortal remians now populate nearby Saint Mary’s Cemetary? I don’t know.

But I am sure of one thing. The Alders may have departed this life,
but they may never depart that neighborhood, at least, among those of
us who still remember them.

Life may be sad past saying,
Its greens for ever graying,
Its faiths to dust decaying;
And youth may have foreknown it,
And riper seasons shown it,
But custom cries: “Disown it:
“Say ye rejoice, though grieving,
Believe, while unbelieving,
Behold, without perceiving!”
–Thomas Hardy


4.YOUR VERY OWN PORTABLE CAVEMAN FOR PENNIES A DAY


This is not one of those essays in which I get all squishy over the

formerly quotidian antics of my (now-deceased) adorable kibble-hucking red-tick Beagle Fluke and his older pal, a superannuated Black-and-Tan Coonhound named Blue.


Sure, Blue’s delightful habit of jumping on my bed to slobber over his
rawhide treat is
 absolutely adorable, and Fluke’s amazing ability to
torrentially piss on just that spot on the carpet I am guaranteed to
walk over in my bare or stockinged feet is cunning, and the misdeeds
of that mischievous duo could very well be the subject of a mighty
swell short feuilleton which might very well make for boffo laffs
among big-stick whittlers and other yokels off in the far hinterlands.

But we sophisticated city dubs are far too savvy to wax sentimental
over our adorable pets, n’estces pas?

Well, actually, no.

But I am not a goony old coot given to committing the pathetic fallacy
in regards to my companion animals. They are neither my offspring nor
my surrogates.

No, I keep these animals around me in spite of their maddeningly
persistent parasites and snappish behavior around foodstuffs for one
reason only.

Owning a dog is an anthropological education. It’s like having your
own little caveman running around.

I note their caveman-like behavior more when thunder roars and
lightning flashes cross the heavens. Into the closet cowering goes the
otherwise fearless big dog, a brute who once nearly attempted to
excavate a significant chunk of gristle from the leg of a full-grown
woman when she imprudently attempted to extricate a paper bag
containing a stale doughnut from the iron jaws of that slavering cur.

I also note with the keen and coldblooded interest of a heartless
adherent of the scientific method the shrewdly anthropoidal instincts
of the little dog when the room is cold and the lights are low. Onto
the bed he hops, and arranges himself uncannily close to my backbone.

I have not yet attempted to discover whether they are afraid of fire,
or willing to trade shells and colorful glass beads among themselves
to procure goods. Nor am I entirely convinced that, left alone for a
sufficient period of time, they would proceed to erect a ziggarut to
Moloch or whatever god du jour happens to reign amongst the canine
set.

But I am convinced that observing them is very much like peeping
through a window into the distant past. That’s why I keep them.

Plus, I just happen to like dogs.

 
5. NON-CONFORMITY

“Non-conformity–it’s not for everybody. But then–it doesn’t try to be.”

But as for Conformity–Everybody knows that it’s God-given.

The ubiquity of commonality.

The apelike ritual urge to insist on regularity in all things.

Damn the defiant. Oddball out. The sport must be bitten; the queer,
smeared; the jabbering fluke, stymied.

 

We underestimate its power at our own peril.
 
6. STALIN, CINEASTE

In an interview with Theodore Van Houten, published in Van Houten’s
book on Trauberg, the veteran director asked his interlocutor:

‘But do you know what Stalin’s favourite film was?’

‘The Youth of Maxim ?’

‘No, no, it was a very famous film. A very good film. A very good
film, with Spencer Tracy ‘ Boys’ Town. Stalin saw it 25 times. There
is a sequence in the film where the boys are fighting. At that moment
Stalin would grab the arm of the person sitting next to him, he would
squeeze and say: ‘Look at that, look at that . . .’ The projectionist
told me personally.’

Boys’ Town was a 1938 Hollywood movie, directed by Norman Taurog and
admired for Spencer Tracy’s performance as a priest who rehabilitates
juvenile delinquents in a kind of camp, through what we might call
‘tough love’, but not a film that would normally be considered a
masterpiece. I imagine it must have suggested to Stalin that his own
camps and re-education programs could be seen in a sweetly
beneficent light.

Stalin, like Hitler, was also a big fan of musicals

.
 
7. A NATION OF CALIGULAS

The world of standup comedy is a nation of Caligulas.

Comics, like boxers, are all a little crazy.

Writing stand-up is an awful lot like writing poetry, with the added
difficulty that it simply MUST be funny.

There are types and degrees of funny.

The fellow who likes Dane Cook probably wouldn’t understand S.J.
Perelman, and vice versa.

As for the merits of various pretenders to the stand-up throne: my
philosophy is simple:

Different strokes for different folks.

You simply cannot categorically declare that a person is “not funny”.

The mob mind imagines that it speaks for all minds.

The wise man knows that he speaks only for himself.

You can, however, say they are:

1) Way past their sell-by date
2) “Esoteric”
3) Corny
4) Over-exposed
5) Tired

I think a lot of whether we find someone funny has to do with our
overall aesthetic preferences,

No one person can be an infallible judge of humor….

But I think Carlos Mencia’s brownface act is squirm-in-your-seat awful.

Joe Rogan claims it isn’t even his own act

Mencia is even stealing material from Bill Cosby

Now, comics have always been accused of stealing from each other.


And with good reason.

Because they always have.

Back in Vaudeville days, before radio, comics would “share” material.
One comic would use a set’s worth of material on the West Coast, and
another one would use it on the East Coast, and yet another one in the
South.

Milton Berle was called “The Thief of Bad Gags.”

So many people stole Will Jordan’s Ed Sullivan impression that Ed
wouldn’t book him anymore. For his big comeback, Jordan came up with a
Hitler routine; Lenny Bruce is said to have stolen Will Jordan’s
Hitler bit. Then Mel Brooks turned around and stole it from Lenny. You
may remember it; it was called “The Producers”.

In 1984 the writer Mark Evanier (very well-versed in the California
entertainment scene) wrote a comic book story about an (unnamed) comic
whose entire act consisted of material stolen from other comics.

I have no doubt that Mencia steals material. Lots of comics do. But
most of them at least try to put their own twist on it. Seems like
Mencia just basically takes it outright. But that’s not why I dislike
it. It’s because his whole schtick seems fake and flat and forced.

What’s really odd is when two comics come up with the exact same bit
independent of one another. I know from personal experience that it
happens….

And the reason that it happens is that there are certain topics that
are just ripe for comedy, and it’s practically inevitable….

So it is remotely possible that Mencia came up with that Mexican wall
bit all by himself.

But after reviewing the evidence it’s pretty likely that no jury in
the land would fail to convict him….

So–who really is the funniest stand-up performer ever?

Bill Hicks?

Debatable but defensible.

It’s a hard call.

If we assume that by stand-up comic you mean the post-WWII period,
then there are a great many contenders.

Shelley Berman, for one. Lenny Bruce, for another.

In any art form, there are the craftsmen and the innovators.

And Hicks was an innovator like Lenny Bruce, no doubt about it.

 

For my money, I’d have to go with Richard Pryor.

.
 
8. WHERE ARE THEY NOW?

Cecil the Sea-Sick Sea Serpent is now living in Castro’s Cuba.

Sgt. Carter fled in the wake of a passion slaying and is living in
Mayberry under an assumed name, where he is ruthessly abused by Gomer
Pyle.

Banker Drysdale lives out his declining years working in a bait shop
near Venice, CA.

Jughead: Big league alcoholic who lives in a boarding house in one
filthy room with the floor covered with old newspapers.

Holden Caulfield: Held for observation at MCI Bridgewater since 1966.

Fuckface Connie: Has her own reality tv show.

The smooth, polished stone that as a child you so cruelly tore from
its Pleistocene creekside home now adorns the rock garden of a fascist

suburban pig.

 
9. WHERE ARE THEY NOW? PART TWO


The Old Witch
At 152 years old, the beloved horror icon presides over “Tubby’s
Trough,” an all-you-can-eat emporium in Dalhart, Texas.

Barney
Gunned down in a filthy alley after a dope deal went south.

Conan the Barbarian:
Runs a website for transsexuals. Username: Onan the Barbarian.

Arnold Layne:
Will be eligible for parole in 2017.


Midge:
Runs a battered woman’s shelter far from Riverdale.
Mickey Mouse:

Blows sailors for chump change on the Atlantic City Boardwalk.Horace Horsecollar:
Drinks for free at Vesuvio, telling wide-eyed tourists profane
personal gossip about Uncle Walt.

Superman:
Now the Prosecuting Attorney of Franklin County and has never lost a case.

God:

Dead.
 
10. ALCOHOL SPEAKS!


I unfortunately remember (albeit with great fondness) four Superman
comic book stories from my ghastly misspent youth in which the
narrator was a garrulous and rather whiny piece of kryptonite.

For more about this see:
http://sacomics.blogspot.com/2007/04/green-kryptonite-speaks_18.html

I have, I confess,  torn a leaf from the now-mildewed pulp pages
rendered by the the anonymous scriveners at DC Comics and have
composed my own version.

ALCOHOL SPEAKS
I am beer. I LOVE you, man.

I am wine. I’m not an alcoholic, I just like a glass of–IS THERE
SOMETHING WRONG WITH THAT?

I am whiskey. Who are YOU looking at? VOMIT? NOT MINE!

I am vodka. I think I’d better lie down for a minute.HEY–WHO STOLE MY PANTS?


I am absinthe. Strawberry…GROTTO!

I am grain alcohol. HEY! Who turned all the lights out?

 
11The Ten-Cent Plague: The Great Comic-Book Scare and How It Changed America

http://www.amazon.com/Ten-Cent-Plague-Comic-Book-Changed-America/dp/0374187673

I’ve finished reading Hadju’s The Ten Cent Plague, and I’ve noticed
several things that give me pause.

Although a highly readable account of the whole controversy, and very
well researched on the ground (he interviewed a great many comic book
creators and cited numerous primary sources), Hadju makes several very
elementary mistakes. I attribute this in part perhaps to his editors,
who may have made him eschew boring exposition for exciting literary
flourishes of dubious accuracy.

The problematic aspects of his historical account start near the very beginning.

In his prologue, Hadju states as his thesis that “Through the near
death of comic books…postwar popular culture was born.” But he fails
to demonstrate this in any significant way.

He also mentions that the controversy was also about “class and money
and taste,” but he seems blissfully unaware of the writings of
historian Staughton Lynd, not to mention those of Russell Lynes (who
in 1949 formulated the “Lowbrow Middlebrow Highbrow” formula), and
Dwight Macdonald. He also fails to even so much as mention the work of
Adorno, Walter Benjamin, or any of the members of the Frankfurt
School.

To give Gershon Legman’s “Love and Death” a scant paragraph seems
misguided, since he was well-known to Wertham, who eventually wrote a
book-length expose of comic books. Hadju doesn’t even mention
Neurotica, in which chapters from “Love and Death” were serialized. He
doesn’t mention McLuhan’s THE MECHANICAL BRIDE, in which crime comics
are given the once-over (chapters from which were also first printed
in NEUROTICA).

Also: The famously vindictive gossip columnist and political
commentator Walter Winchell had a good deal more to do with EC’s
decline and fall than he supposes. If Hadju had actually read
ShockSuspenstories, he might have been interested to learn that they
published a devastating expose of Winchell titled “Mightier than the
Sword.” The story was written by EC’s then-business manager Lyle
Stuart.

J. Edgar Hoover also took a deep interest in EC comics. Had Hadju
consulted the website “The Smoking Gun” he would have learned all
about it.

Nor does Hadju seem to have read the comic book source material in any
more than a spotty or cursory way. He provides no evidence of having
read more than perhaps a representative sample of the problematic
comic book genres such as Jungle, Amazon, Horror, Crime, or
Romance–except perhaps such as have been anthologized in
compilations. If the topic is as significant as he attempts to claim
(and even if it isn’t), there’s really no excuse for such
dilettantism.

Hadju does get some things right. The role of the Catholic Church in
the controversy. and the various state initiatives to ban the comic
book. And his overview of the Kefauver hearings is well-presented,
though he reveals nothing of Kefauver’s personality other than the
most superficial details. (It is well-known that in later life
Kefauver was a notorious womanizer who was being blackmailed by the
very mob he had initially set out to investigate.)

Nor does Hadju tell us very much about Wertham’s personality, or the
numerous errors that bestrew his book, Seduction of the Innocent
(which incidentally, was not a Book of the Month selection but an
ALTERNATE Selection. A small, but telling inaccuracy). In fact, he
barely seems to have read either that book, or any of Wertham’s myriad
others, which he merely name-checks. Had he done so, he would have
realized that as late as 1957, Wertham was still harping on crime
comic books, even though the Comics Code, which had been implemented
in 1954, had driven all of them off the stands. Hadju also fails to
mention the work of other comic-book denigrators such as Geoffrey
Wagner’s “Parade of Pleasure” and, even more significant, Robert
Warshow’s 1955 COMMENTARY essay called “Paul, the Horror Comics, and
Dr. Wertham,” reprinted in his book The Immediate Experience (1962;
the revised 2001 edition also reprints a previously omitted review of
Legman’s “Love and Death”).

Worst of all, perhaps, his section on EC Comics perpetuates the error
(perhaps owing to editorial elision) that Gaines turned the comic book
MAD into a magazine to elude the ACMP comics code. Only in a footnote
does he clarify that it was possibly because Kurtzman had been offered
a magazine job that Gaines made the conversion. He also makes several
errors about EC’s output that an intimate familiarity with it would
have obviated. For instance, he states that the EC title “Piracy” was
part of EC’s “New Trend”. It was not. It preceded it by several
months. (Had he even carefully read Geissman’s comprehensive book on
EC he would have realized his error.)

The book closes, not with a bang, but a whimper, with an almost
perfunctory interview with Robert Crumb about the influence that MAD
had on the undergrounds. This is a serious omission–he could have
spoken to countless others who would have given him much more detail
regarding the intrinsic link between the eight-pagers, MAD, and the
undergrounds. But Hadju doesn’t even mention the eight-pagers–which
are the real ancestors of both MAD and the underground comics. He
doesn’t even seem to be aware of them. It would be as if I had
presented myself as a Shakespeare scholar without knowing that
Shakespeare wrote in English but had also adapted the works of
Plutarch to the stage.

In sum: The book succeeds as journalism, But as history, it is a
grievous disappointment.

THE INFORMATION #952 AUGUST 4, 2017

THE INFORMATION #952
AUGUST 4, 2017
Copyright 2017 FRANCIS DIMENNO
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com 
 

It is far easier to see brave men die than to hear a coward beg for life.― Jack London

 
WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE 
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN 
CHAPTER ELEVEN: PART THIRTY-SIX: DAYS OF WRATH
 

“Of course,” said Count Victor Justin to his young protege (the by now thoroughly shocked Cadger Tandy), “Maybe if Jesus came to Noxtown he wouldn’t be any sort of businessman at all. Maybe he would go west and be a crook–The Gethsemane Kid–a notorious train robber–him and his twelve known associates. And leave us not forget about Kid Judas, the Dirty Little Coward that Shot Mr. Howard and Laid Pore Jesse in His Grave.

“But, then again, maybe He wouldn’t turn outlaw for long. Maybe He’d make Him that one last big score and lam it down to Mexico, like all the smart Yellofs do. If a Yob is frugal he can live for a long time on very little, down in old Mex. Leastways, as long as he leaves the Senoritas alone. It’s warm there, and the people are friendly. He might even grow a thriving cult, down there in the desert. What need would he have for money? It might just suit Him to have none. After all, to Him, I suppose, money is a false God. Render unto Caesar, et cetera. But then again, in America, money is the only God that people worship with any sort of conviction–and always with the great faith that money can do anything. Unlike praying to God, which does nothing.


“You will find, Yob, that unscrupulous businessmen–robber barons and their ilk–are there any other kind?–are very similar to the people who are called outlaws and brigands. And it has to do with the lust they have for gold. And they way they treat people in order to get it. Fair play? Faugh–a man who goes strictly by the rules is a pushover; a chump; a Yellof who deserves to be swindled; a Squarehead; an oaf; not very far removed from a greenhorn or a sucker. There is one thing you have got to learn about the world–and that is the way the world works. You cannot go through life as though you were deaf dumb and blind to all the corruption that takes place all around you, every minute of the day. You know what I say to the man who demands a Square Deal? I say ‘Root hog or die.’ To those people–reform pimps and poverty pests and such, who rail about corruption from their pristine and simon-pure soapboxes while they secretly dine on prime rib in the comfort of their own homes, I say ‘Facts is facts and that’s the way it is and if you can’t be like the rest of the world then shut your filthy gob.’ I don’t know why the God-gaspers and gospel-garglers and bible-pounders ever got the job of giving people free advice–those birds know fuck-all about life–at least, life the way it is really lived. You might as well consult a eunuch regarding his opinion about the best nigra whorehouses in Storyville.
“Small businesses are slightly different. A small business thrives on the kindness and gullibility of its customers. People take a personal interest in the small storekeeper; and, on the other hand, it’s their good will that keeps him in business. And so naturally he takes a personal interest in all his customers. At that level, it’s just good business. The Pharmacist asks how’s your lumbago; the grocer gives out free penny candy to all the little crumb-crushers the proud Mammy drags into the store; the cobbler who doubles as the mush-faker repairs the occasional bumbershoot gratis. But none of them birds is in business to lose money.  They don’t lend their dough to floozies, or their improvident younger brothers, or to their slightly dotty uncles.  Not if they expect to prosper. 

 

“The big boys, on the other hand–their motto is The Public Be Damned–and rightly so.  What does the penny-pincher ever do for them, except cost them precious ooftish with their vague complaints and querulous demands? Nobody ever forms a romantic attachment to their bank, or to the power company, or to the streetcar line. So those magnates will crush the kind-hearted without a second thought. Not only because they like to–but because they can. There’s one thing you absolutely have to learn in this world–you can’t argue with money.

“Now, you will find that the easiest people to exploit are the ones who consider themselves sympathetic. They have a certain image of themselves as kind-hearted, and you can milk them until they run dry with a sob story that would be enough to make a stone gargoyle cry. ‘I am a helpless orfink,’ you can say. ‘My Mama was an angel who died when I was but two years old. I learned to read a little, and to cipher by the rule of three, and I’m not afraid of hard work. But at the age of seven I was yanked out of school to be thrust into the cold hard world. I was made the ward of a wicked drunken farmer who starved me and beat me and worked me worse than a mule.’ See if you don’t make enough to buy you coffee and cake with that line of wretched patter. I tell you, it’s a dead cert! The patsy might even offer to blow you to a feed. By all means, let ’em! Be sure to order meat and other nourishing provender when they do. Don’t eat the hard rolls–they’ll settle in your stomach like a lead sinker–but be sure to put ’em in your napkin and take ’em along for later.

“The classic sob story works on women much better than it works on men. Nigras also tend to be kindhearted, even though they usually don’t have much. Germans? Forget it. They’d sooner die than un-ass so much as one red cent. Irishmen will come across, if they’re a little tipsy. Forget Englishmen. They’re moochers themselves, a lot of them, and they hate a fellow piker

 

“Now, there are some folks who will want to put you to sweat for your pittance. Carry bags, chop wood, run errands. Tell ’em to go to plumb straight to Hades, unless you’re absolutely desperate. And that you should never be–once you know the ways of the world. The first time you get into some money, buy yourself a Masonic ring, and learn the signs and the handshake. They just might get you out of a lot of trouble someday. And it certainly don’t hurt to carry a Bible along with you at all times. Lots of coppers are Catholics, and will look favorable-like on a Yob as can spout scripture gibberish.

“Above all, you’ve got to look the part of what you’re going to play-act. Only an amateur goes out as neat as a pin to beg for ooftish. And when they do, they usually get what’s coming to them–which is precisely zilch.”      

  
1*SALUTATION
LAURA NYRO
SAVE THE COUNTRY

This list reminds me of how Elizabeth Bishop used to tell us that she did not want her work included in anthologies of female poets.

She considered herself first and foremost a poet.

She refused to allow herself to be ghettoized.


This was probably a weighted list chosen by a committee. (Composed entirely of women. As though gender were itself a criterion for the determination of gender-based musical quality.) Thus virtually guaranteeing special pleading, and mediocre results. Notice how they had to stretch to come up with 150 selections.
The Roches, Laura Nyro, the Raincoats, and Sinead should have been ranked higher.

Madonna and the Runaways, lower.

They must think The Roches really suck to rank them at #150
https://youtu.be/GX4yI4sv_t8

And what– No love for the Tammys?
https://youtu.be/Er8PN385PEA

 

And I guess Phil Spector must be a woman. How else to explain the inclusion of #20?

 
3*HUMOR
4*NOVELTY 
UNCLE DAVE MACON
RAILROADIN’ AND GAMBLIN’
 
7*CARTOON
WHEN GREEN LANTERN MET JESUS
8*PRESCRIPTION
THE DECLINE AND FALL OF VAN MORRISON

WHAT IS THIS FLACCID JAZZ CRAPOLA?
https://youtu.be/gOWb8dZeHFA

And what’s with all the shouting sycophants?

And what the hell kind of lyrics are these:

Ahnn…uhnnnnn…uhhh uhh uhh
And when heaararararararararrt is open and when heaararararaararrt is opened
You will change just like a flower slowly openin’
And when heaeaeaeaeaeaARRRRRRRRRRRRRRrt is opened
You will change just like a flower slowly openin’
https://youtu.be/71C66Z83On8

AND THEN THERE WAS THE FOLLOWUP:
web.archive.org/web/20080621143245/http://www.rollingstone.com/rockdaily/index.php/2007/05/14/rolling-stones-15-worst-albums-by-great-bands/

And what in hell is this happy horseshit?
https://youtu.be/204CSW9wGsE

10* LAGNIAPPE
ARETHA FRANKLIN
SKYLARK
 
11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA

Ruminations on Mortality While Listening to the Ramones

When I consider how my life was spent
Listening to the Ramones and sniffing paint
And Carbona and glue and other jive
I think myself lucky to be alive.

*11A BOOKS AND MOVIES REVIEWED
100 MEDIA MOMENTS THAT CHANGED AMERICA. WILLIS. ***1/2
AQUAMAN 1. THE DROWNING. ****
BATGIRL & THE BIRDS OF PREY 1. WHO IS ORACLE? ***1/2
BLACK WIDOW 2. NO MORE SECRETS. ***
BATMAN: DETECTIVE COMICS 1. RISE OF THE BATMEN. ***1/2
BATMAN: NIGHT OF THE MONSTER MEN. ***1/2
BATTLING BUTLER. [FILM] ***1/2
BATWOMAN. RUCKA & WILLIAMS III. ***1/2
THE BEAST IN THE NURSURY. PHILLIPS. ****1/2
BLACK SPRING. MILLER. 
THE BLOOD OF EMMETT TILL. TYSON. ****1/2
BOUNDLESS. TAMAKI. ****
THE COMPLETE PISTOLWHIP. KINDT & HALL. ***1/2
COMPLETE PUBLIC ENEMY ALMANAC. HELMER & MATTIX. ****
COSMIC ODYSSEY: THE DELUXE EDITION. STARLIN. ***
DEADPOOL. BAD BLOOD. **1/2
EQUALS. PHILLIPS. ****1/2
EVERYBODY LOVES SOMEBODY SOMETIME. MARX. ***1/2
EVERYONE’S AN ALIEBN WHEN UR A ALIEBN TOO. SUN. ***1/2
THE FACTS OF LIFE. KNIGHT. ***1/2
FANTE BUKOWSKI 2. VAN SCIVER. ****
FORBIDDEN BRIDES. GAIMAN. ***1/2
FORENSICS. MCDERMID. ***1/2
GOING SANE: MAPS OF HAPPINESS. PHILLIPS. ****1/2
GREEN LANTERN: HAL JORDAN 1. ***1/2
HAL JORDAN & THE GL CORPS. SINESTRO’S LAW. ***1/2
HOSTAGE. DELISLE. ****
HOUDINI’S BOX. PHILLIPS. ****1/2
INSANE CLOWN PRESIDENT. TAIBBI. ****
INSTRUMENTAL. CHISHOLM. ***1/2
JUST A PILGRIM: GARDEN OF EDEN. ENNIS & EZQUERRA. ***1/2
KILLER ON THE ROAD. STRAND. ****
LAST EXIT TO BROOKLYN. [FILM] ****
LEAVING LAS VEGAS. [FILM] ***1/2
LOST CAT. JASON. ****
A MAN CALLED DESTRUCTION. GEORGE-WARREN. ***1/2
ON THE CAMINO. JASON. ****
THE OUTLAW BIBLE OF AMERICAN ESSAYS. KAUFMAN, ED. ****
THE OUTLAW BIBLE OF AMERICAN LITERATURE. KAUFMAN, ED. ****1/2
PITY THE BILLIONAIRE. FRANK. ****
PUNISHER 6. CONFEDERACY OF DUNCES. ENNIS. ***1/2
ROAD TO RIVERDALE 2. ***
ROVER RED CHARLIE. ENNIS. ****1/2
RAI 1. KINDT. ***1/2
ROUGH NIGHT. [FILM] ***
SCOOBY APOCALYPSE 1. ****
THE SOUND OF THE WORLD BY HEART. BEVILACQUA. ***1/2
SUICIDE SQUAD 1. THE BLACK VAULT. ***1/2
SUNBURNING. ROBERTS. ***1/2
TROPIC OF CANCER. MILLER. ****1/2
TROPIC OF CAPRICORN. MILLER. ****1/2
UNITY 1. KINDT. ***1/2
UNITY 2. KINDT. ***1/2
V FOR VENDETTA. MOORE. ****
VELVET. BRUBAKER. ****
WIRES AND NERVE. MEYER. ***
WOLVERINE: OLD MAN LOGAN 3. THE LAST RONIN. ***1/2
WONDER WOMAN 2. YEAR ONE. RUCKA. ***1/2
WORD PLAY. BRUNETTI. ***1/2
12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE
WHARFRATS
DRUUG AND ALCOHOL FREE GRATEFUL DEAD FANS

THE INFORMATION #951 JULY 30, 2017

THE INFORMATION #951

JULY 30, 2017
Copyright 2017 FRANCIS DIMENNO
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com 

Every living man is a museum that houses the horrors of the race.–Henry Miller

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE 
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN 
CHAPTER ELEVEN: PART THIRTY-FOUR: DAYS OF WRATH

“I suppose I mought well envision the Second Coming,” said Count Victor Justin to Cadger Tandy, who, despite his unease at this blasphemous line of palaver, struggled to remain poker-faced and unmoved. “I’m supposing, once Jesus arrives in town and makes his way past the usual officious immigration authorities and is quarantined for tuberculosis and syphilis and sprayed for fleas and lice, he will likely be assigned a room in a flophouse and told that thereafter it is his own lookout as to how to earn His crust, and he would be urged to sink, swim or fly.”

“And I can easily imagine Christ coming to Noxtown. That deluded bearded nomad. Not trying to raise a ruckus. Not out to cause no trouble. No rabble-rousing, not this time. No, just trying to find a job; some way to make a living, that’s all. Experience: some light carpentry; a little bit of deep-sea fishing. A short spell as a short order cook. And, of course, public speaking. Some inspirational speechifying, in a modest way. I would imagine, though, that not being able to speaka da English would hold Him back some. Unless you hold with the Southern Baptists and happen to believe that The Bethlehem KId was 100% American and spoke pure unadulterated English all the time–and nothing else.

“Quite naturally, He would have to follow the beaten path, roll with the punches, and run with the pack. He would have to get cleaned up. After all, we can’t have the Messiah going about looking like a low-down Stewbum. And, in most parts of the United States, sandals aren’t exactly considered formal attire. Perhaps a lonely old widder-woman could be persuaded to front the Christ some ooftish to get a decent haircut, and maybe she could give the snorky Nazarene one of her husband’s natty old suits. I suppose that if’n He needed to raise some pocket change, well, we all know that He is a past master of turning water into wine, so I reckon that He could probably earn quite a few coins by providing skid row winos with plenty of their favorite vin ordinaire. I also suppose that then He could work his way up and make quite a racket out of supplying Bohunk weddings with plenty of the good old stuffy-wuffy.

“In my estimation, once He got Himself a small stake, He could take to the road as a traveling huckster, just as I once did. He could be a peripatetic pedlar. An itinerant road-agent.  Mush-faker, scissor sharpener, pot-walloper. A wandering hobo–is there any other kind?– who will chop wood and perform other odd jobs around the house, including goosing the stray old maid or maybe even jazzing the grass widow–whose most precious possession just happens to be…a framed picture of Our Lord and Savior! Kind of makes you think, now, don’t it? Yes, if Jesus came to Noxtown he could easily become a prophet of small profit and no fixed address.

“There are natural and unnatural hazards to such a harum-scarum existence, however–an ass full of rock-salt buckshot from Mr. Whiskers, the billygoat-faced farmer, just for starters. He would have to learn to read the signs the hobos leave! Ugh, how I used to dread the stupid gaunt faces of those country younkers when I was a wild drummer boy and a wandering fool. But never fear, Yob, I got my own back on their kind. And in spades.

“I fancy that if Mr. Jesus applies Himself to his job of selling broken toys to sick monkeys with the same dedication as He showed in preaching His well-known Sermon on the Mount, before too long He will have accumulated quite a grouch bag full of pretty, shiny shekels, which He, no doubt, would transfer to a tin box–a wonderful tin box–and I’ll bet He’d commence to watching over it like a hawk. I’m pretty sure that Jesus would be a wise investor: He wouldn’t work for His money; He would make His money work for Him. Never mind all that guff about him turning over all them tables and hollaring about making His Father’s temple into a house of thieves–I’ll bet He was just sore on account of the Jew boys wasn’t giving Him a cut of all the do-re-mi they were pulling in with their money-changing racket.

“Pretty soon, I swan, He would become a real merchant prince. And then the fun would begin. He would entertain three-day-wonders and other out-of-town clients by taking them, on the first night, to the the-ay-ter, probably to see some solemn and boring and thoroughly respectable production of something or t’other. That would no doubt be for the benefit of the chumps as pen the gossip columns. ‘Mr. Jesus K. Reist, the prominent merchant, escorted Mr. K. Herod and Mr. P. Pilate to see a production of Ten Nights in a Bar-Room, now playing an extended run at the Lyceum Theatre.’

“The next night, of course, Jesus and his new Pal would paint the town all manners of red and work their way through every beer garden, gin mill, and bucket of blood from Jivetown to Brand Plaza. And they wouldn’t be drinking dope or any other kind of soda pop.  I imagine Mr. The Christ knows His way around wines, even if his knowledge of fine vintages is dated by about 1900 years. In fact, I’ll warrant that Mr. J. knows more than anybody else about the grape, seeing as how His blood is made of wine.

“On the third night, I’m guessing that good old Jerusalem Slim and his client would make a grand tour of all the low down dives, questionable resorts, and gambling hells from Olde Mystick Village to The Ponderosa. Being as how Good Old J.C. has a way with all the Magdalenes, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if his client got his ashes hauled and went home a very happy man–though not without first signing a fat contract with The Merchant Prince of Peace…AND his twelve business partners.”

1*SALUTATION

SCRUFFY THE CAT

BIG FAT MONKEY’S HAT

https://youtu.be/H3CvUKY2Puo

ALSO SEE:

LUXURY CONDOS COMING TO YOUR NEIGHBORHOOD SOON

https://youtu.be/JH8yo4M2zx0

2*REFERENCE

WELSH RARE-BIT

“The Welsh are said to be so remarkably fond of cheese, that, in cases of difficulty, their midwives apply a piece of toasted cheese to the janua vitae to attract and entice the young Taffy, who, on smelling it, makes most vigorous efforts to come forth.”

books.google.com/books?id=89pUAAAAcAAJ&pg=PT239&dq=%22the+welsh+are+said+to+be+so+remarkably+fond+of+cheese%22&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjSq6HUyJXVAhWsx4MKHZ0xDrcQ6AEIMTAB#v=onepage&q=%22the%20welsh%20are%20said%20to%20be%20so%20remarkably%20fond%20of%20cheese%22&f=false

3*HUMOR

LENNY BRUCE 

WHAT I WAS ARRESTED FOR

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ew2OJNFEisA

ALSO SEE:

THE PALLADIUM

“God-damn Son, you’ve got a knack for making people vicious!”

https://youtu.be/Bo750ByNnc8

4*NOVELTY 

THE APATHY FESTIVAL

http://ajournalofmusicalthings.com/explains-pretty-much-dont-go-outdoor-festivals-anymore/

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST

HOW TO SUCCEED WITH BRUNETTES (1967)

https://youtu.be/_vVV8hRTxgE

6* DAILY UTILITY

BERNARD HERRMANN

JASON & THE ARGONAUTS

https://youtu.be/8VGa9mnm6n4

7*CARTOON

HELL-BENT FOR ELECTION (1944)

https://youtu.be/oa1bUH8nV64

8*PRESCRIPTION

MEGG MOGG & OWL
www.vice.com/en_us/topic/megg-mogg-owl?topic_id=58477f277c4c6902806fcb71

9*RUMOR PATROL

Rumor: Japanese engineers have created a robotic bear to aid in assisted suicides.
www.snopes.com/politics/science/suicidebear.asp

10* LAGNIAPPE

NEGATIVLAND

FROM DYSPEPSI:

THE GREATEST TASTE AROUND (VIDEO)

https://youtu.be/xWxW-7vTo2Y

BITE BACK

https://youtu.be/8QCTk8_f_-U

ALSO SEE:

JOAN CRAWFORD

DON’T FUCK WITH ME, FELLAS

https://youtu.be/h4UTxAeUiwU

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

CLIVE JAMES ON HUMOR

“My petite amie, who turned up sobbing drunk with a Marine on either arm.”
books.google.com/books?id=o-eJ46m2c3MC&pg=PA308&lpg=PA308&dq=perelman+%22sobbing+drunk%22&source=bl&ots=ApRUhFCBIu&sig=52trjOAL1xFUtaASF6uFVxwgLz8&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjcqJ7OmpjVAhUE2T4KHWwyBHkQ6AEIJDAA#v=onepage&q=perelman%20%22sobbing%20drunk%22&f=fals
e

12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE

Muppet creator’s family says fired actor played Kermit as ‘bitter, angry, depressed victim’
www.washingtonpost.com/news/morning-mix/wp/2017/07/19/muppet-creators-family-says-fired-actor-played-kermit-as-bitter-depressed-victim/?utm_term=.c273014a6056

THE INFORMATION #950 JULY 23, 2017

THE INFORMATION #950
JULY 23, 2017
Copyright 2017 FRANCIS DIMENNO
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com 
 

“Yes, I’ll wait my turn in line. But if you want to give me dirty, impatient looks, to make tension or push your way in front of me because you don’t think that trash like me belongs in the line, then you have got to expect trouble from me.”–Dee Dee Ramone 

 
WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE 
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN 
CHAPTER ELEVEN: PART THIRTY-THREE: DAYS OF WRATH
 
“I tried more than once, Yob, to walk the straight and narrow,” said Count Vicor Justin to his young protege Cadger Tandy. “You’d be surprised how many times I managed to soft soap my way into a job for which I was utterly unqualified–either through bogus references, or the gift of plying the mark with soothing bullshit, or by outright lying, or all three. The first thing you have to do when you start a job, or course, is to not work too hard, else they’ll expect you to perform at peak capacity every day. Next thing, after you get the lay of the land, is you have to worm your way into the confidences of the Big Boss. There are plentiful ways to do this; however, I have always favored the direct approach, which is sheer blarney. You flatter old Bosso by imitating him at every turn. If he wears spats, then, by the Neddy Jingo, so do you. If he whips the peasants, you stand by with kidney fat and tallow to grease the tip. The trick is all in the fake sincerity that you use. You have to give the impression that you’re not good at flattery. Not good at all. So you are prone to simply blurting out compliments about your boss. Preferably within his earshot. As if you don’t know that he is listening to every word.
 
“Everybody loves it when you pat them on the back. Even those rare individuals who are astute enough to know what you’re up to. It’s human nature the world over, Yob. Collar some fat old ugly hag on the street and blurt out how pretty you think she is, and watch her face just light right up. Before long, you’ll have her eating right out of your hand. She might even want you to throw her a fuck. People always want to be praised for their good qualities. Tell them they’re looking good, and they’ll adore you. Tell them that they are intelligence personified, and their critical faculties will fly right out the window.
 
“But suckers are especially keen on being praised for qualities which they don’t actually have, but would like to have. It’s always a good idea to go rummaging around through your boss’s desk when he ain’t there. You can gather up a lot of ammunition to use in your flattery campaign. It is also very useful to cultivate the skill of reading upside down. That’s because most bosses leave certain important papers on their desk without even thinking about how valuable the information might prove in the wrong hands. 
 
“To get ahead, you have to sabotage the other guy. That’s one reason I got out of working in a business setting. I was too good at it. There are 100 ways to make your rival look like a slob, while you come across as a golden boy. One way is very simple–you never call the Boss by name. You always use some title, like Chief or Captain, or even Boss if you have to. Don’t listen to what they tell you–‘Call me Mike,’ they’ll say. Bullshit–they just eat it up when you call them Sir or Bossman. Especially if they have some kind of military title. Referring to your Boss as ‘Colonel’ is good for an extra twenty dollars a month. Believe me, I know whereof I speak. Sycophancy pays. In fact, the very same qualities that are conducive to business success also come in very handy in the grifting game. Listening to your boss gassing as though his words were pure honey, instead of last year’s baloney. Thanking him profusely for every small favor he grants you, as though he were the mightiest king of kings come down to earth to grant a great boon to a mere mortal. Or–get this–taking out a whisk brush and brushing the lint off his shoulders. I’ve seen it done! I’ve seen men get down on their hands and knees and start shining the boss’s shoes! There’s practically no limit to the amount of degradation you can subject yourself to in the interests of getting ahead at work. 
 
“Bosses usually have a pretty good idea of the pecking order among their employees. They know who is in, who is out, and who the deadwood is, and who’s the busy beaver. And a shrewd boss will use that knowledge to pit one man against another. They will allow one Yellof to come and go as he pleases, and watch the other Yellof like a hawk. Of course, this puts the other Yellof on notice that he has incurred the displeasure of the Grand Poobah, and he’ll most likely tread extra careful and will come to work walking on eggshells. This will go on for years, until they hire another Yellof, and the boss plays the same trick, only this time the second Yellof is on top, and it’s the new Yellof who has to start watching his ass. Divide et impera–the Romans had a name for it–divide and rule. 
 
“Now, sometimes your bosses will use flattery on you. They’ll tell you that you’re doing a good job. They’ll praise you for your perseverence. They may even invite themselves to dinner at your home. That is, of course, a cynical attempt to squeeze as much work out of you as humanly possible. They probably use the same tone of voice when they’re playing with their dog. 
 
“Now, those are the GOOD bosses. There are very few of those in the whole wide world. Many men do not know how to convey their authority. That’s why so many people are always griping about their bosses. You’ve looched about in taverns; you’ve heard it with your own ears. If it’s not the mother-in-law and the damn furriners who bedevil a man, it’s nearly almost always his god-damned boss. Most people don’t know what to do when their boss starts in with criticizing them, except to keep their heads down and work harder than ever. But it’s downright hopeless, in many cases. Once the boss has formed an impression of you, that’s the impression that will stay with him until the day you leave, or he fires you. Or you retire, with a gold watch which you no longer need and an admonition–here’s your hat, what’s your hurry?–to not let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.
 
“And just try to find another job after you’ve been fired! It’s one chance in a hundred. That’s because the other ninety-nine employers pay heed to the biased opinion of your former boss. He doesn’t have to say much. Just that you had the wrong attitude, and you weren’t a good fit for the organization. I’ll tell you this much: Jesus Christ God Almighty his own self could come to Noxtown and try to find a job–and they’d all blubber he ‘had the wrong attitude’, and he ‘wasn’t a good fit’!” 
 
 
1*SALUTATION
BROTHERHOOD OF MAN
UNITED WE STAND
 
ALSO SEE:
WRECKLESS ERIC
WALKING ON THE SURFACE OF THE MOON
 
 
2*REFERENCE
THE 15 WORST COMICS EVER PUBLISHED
 
3*HUMOR
 
4*NOVELTY 
DOUG CLARK & THE HOT NUTS
A SOLDIER
 
ALSO SEE:
THE BLENDERS
DON’T FUCK AROUND WITH LOVE
 
SEE ALSO:
THE CLOVERS
THE ROTTEN COCKSUCKER’S BALL
 
 
5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
THE ZANIES
THE MAD SCIENTIST

6* DAILY UTILITY
BATTLE OF THE BASEBALL MASCOTS
 
7*CARTOON
THE TANTRUMS OF LIL’ BESS (1945)
 
8*PRESCRIPTION
LESLEY GORE
BRINK OF DISASTER
 
ALSO SEE:
HARPERS BIZARRE
JESSIE
 

 

10* LAGNIAPPE

Man With Ax Arrested Outside Kiss 108 Studios After Song Request

http://boston.cbslocal.com/2017/07/10/kiss-108-standoff-song-request-swat/

 

Hey, juggalo, what you doin’ uptown?
Hey, juggalo, you chasin’ our women around?

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

Where do I see myself in five years?

I see me, in a stretch limo, sipping from a Dixie Cup™ of Courvoisier, a foxy whore on either arm, and my fists dripping with fuck-you money.

And I see you, your filthy coat covered with snot and vomit, trying to peddle Watchtowers to undercover policemen, and coughing and gasping as I leave you in a cloud of my diesel dust.


12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE
ALLEN GINSBERG READING “HOWL”

www.openculture.com/2015/09/banned-books-week-howl.html