THE INFORMATION #1105 JULY 10, 2020

THE INFORMATION #1105  

JULY 10, 2020

Copyright 2020 FRANCIS DIMENNO
dimenno@gmail.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com  

Our wretched species is so made that those who walk on the well-trodden path always throw stones at those who are showing a new road.– Voltaire  


WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK FOUR: AND IF THE DEVIL COME SHOOT HIM WITH A GUN
PART FIVE

14. TRUE BLIGHT

So then it was back to our circuit of squalor. I was starting to get depressed and remember thinking that this wasn’t what I had signed up for when I went to the academy.

Haag, who never said much even at the best of times, said nothing. Who knows what he was thinking. Who knows if he even thought. But if he did, I wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t something along the same lines. 

Him and me weren’t exactly what you’d call close, but he could live with me and I had no beef with him.

So we crawled the grid in silence. Back down Elm, where we passed  the old Grange Hall. And a bunch of bars. The Three Cups. The Three Tons. The Lion. The Man in the Moon. The Knock-Out Place. Big Al’s. All the way to Sergeant. Then east one block and back up Chestnut. Here was the printing presses for The Daily Chronicker. There were also some dive bars, an apartment complex, and some flophouse hotels. The Colonial Inn. The Den at the Hotel Astor. The Eight Ball Café. The Commodore Nutt Lounge. The General Tom Thumb Hotel. And at the Corner of Route 14, The Bisons Lodge. The Elite Motel, which was anything but. A swish bar called The Cherub’s Rest. A bohemian beer joint called The Cheap Loaf. 

A block north of these was the most notorious high school in the whole area. A place called the W.E.B. DuBois High School. A real dungeon, built in 1915. Not a good or even a healthy place to spend four years, and it seems that few kids actually did. Either they dropped out or were kicked out. Full-fledged high school graduates from that establishment were as rare as hen’s teeth.

Then we swung down Maple. On the four corners of Maple and Route 14 were the Public Library, The Men’s Club, The Mercantile Building, and a place that stank to high heaven of sweet-smelling hair spray and sticky insecticide, called Champagne Eyes Beauty Products. The insecticide was because the ladies were afraid of all the ants and roaches and spiders that infested the place. And still more bars. Bigtown must have more drinking joints per capita than any town outside of the Old Wild West, or a Yukon logging village. You had The Moose Hall, where the soft-hatted lodge boys went to play penny poker and lush the night away. If you got kicked out of the Moose, within staggering distance there was The Crown. The Cracker’s Club. The Pick Rick. The Juke Joint. The Lobby Bar. The Soho Club. The Roxy. The Shuttle. And the Glove, a rickety shack hanging off the side of a man-made hill and overlooking the gigantically proud squat liquid gas storage facility. 

Then east along Sargeant one block to High Street. At the intersection with Sergeant Street, running north along High Street was another big stretch of deserted paper mills and warehouses, about two blocks west of the railroad tracks and three blocks west of the canal.  The Fireworks factory. Umberto’s Coney Island. Cheapwine Import Co. The Anschluss Corporation. As you proceeded north, there were also two fraternal halls in fancy buildings; The Elks, and The Oddfellows. Right next to those, a Trailways bus station and the YMCA. At the four corners of High Street and Route 14, you had The Aardvark Body Rub Studio. Triple XXX Books, The Terminal Café, and  some godawful hippie breakfast nook called The Hip Bagel. Then, just North of Route 14, more bars. These catered to the winos and drunks from the projects nearby. The Planter’s Café, The Old Log Inn, The Jumping-Off Place and The Golden Horn. Notorious dumps. No white man with any sense would be caught dead in any of those spots, or else he might be carried out that way. North and east of those were the four Sojourner Truth Homes housing complexes, also known as the Projects. Number Four was near the hospital. Number Three was just north of that, near the park. Number One was next to the canal. But the worst one of all, Number Two, was off of High Street, just five blocks north of Route 14.

But Jesus, all the Projects were awful. It was like some robot designed them. I guess if you wanted to take a snapshot of how far we’d fallen in only ten years, you’d first show a picture of the moon landing, and side-by-side of that a picture of the projects covered in gray snow by moonlight.

Patrolling this moonscape, it felt like we were hunting caged beasts let loose from their pens by some laughing devil. The people who lived there had reverted back to savagery not so far removed from where they likely came. I didn’t feel sorry for them. Choosing to live there at all was their first bad choice, and they kept right on making bad choices. They lived for the moment and never saved even a dime. They bought flashy clothes on lay-away even though the rent was overdue. They didn’t seem to know what a bar of soap looked like but they could always find a way to splash themselves with cheap perfume and cologne. Garbage piled up along the street because the garbage men were afraid to come and pick it up. There were dead rats festering in the alleyways, and junk food wrappers everywhere. Shards of broken wine bottles littered the streets, the sidewalks, and the parks. They were always hollering about dignity and their rights, yet they never picked up their litter and they lived like animals, with no thought for tomorrow. If I had gotten stuck in one of those projects I would have done anything to get away. But these people seemed to be comfortable in their so-called misery. As long as the food stamps and the welfare check came, they were perfectly content. What they couldn’t afford to buy, they would steal, and some of them were quite good at it, but nearly all of them got caught. I guess for them, one jail was just as good as another.   

The thing that really struck me about those people was how self-obsessed they were. They would holler at each other across the street as though they were the only two people on earth. Their women would shriek the vilest curses at each other no matter whose kids were in earshot. They spent their food stamp money on liquor and cigarettes and never cared if the baby went without milk. At least once a week we called social services to come and take away some sickly baby trapped alone in a house overrun with rats and roaches.

And let’s say you actually had a job. You’d probably have a hard time even sleeping, since, most nights, the residents were up until 0200 and sometimes 0400, staggering down the street, puking, crying, screaming, and carrying on. Furthermore, your good neighbors, like as not, would react to your good fortune by mugging you on your way home from work come payday. 

My real regret about these projects was that they weren’t on some island somewhere where the strongest would win out and the bridges to the mainland could be blasted away. Instead, they were right on the fringes of the center of town, and they spoiled every street for miles around. They were more than an eyesore.

They were a contagion. 

Once upon a time, when I was not so wise as I am today, I thought that if you could be a cop you could put up with just about anything. But I hated the projects. Black faces in cheap clothes and every one of them looked liked they’d be just as happy as not to chuck a brick or bottle at your head from the top of one of those spooky high rise towers. 

It was a bad place to be; a gothic nightmare, particularly on Halloween.

We were keeping a sharp eye out for activity along that particular street because exactly four years ago, back in ’75, some Black Nationalist types took it into their heads to start a bunch of Halloween arson fires as a way to stick it to the man. Mostly in those warehouses and the like, and maybe they were paid by the Mob to do it, who knows? But for the past year or so the arson stuff had quieted down to maybe some shed or parking lot guard station being torched, but with no major structures going up in flames. 

So our main job was to look for rowdy teens on a smash and grab expedition. Not much action there, either. We drove all the way up High Street to the projects hinging on the outskirts of the center of town. At that late hour we didn’t expect to see much, and for awhile we didn’t. 

A thought occurred to me then. Why would black people want to have anything to do with Halloween? They wore a mask every day. Servile robots festering with hate.

There were some older kids in costume, seven of them, but they weren’t doing much. Just walking in the middle of the street, but because there wasn’t any traffic at 12:40 am, they weren’t causing much of a scene. And, anyway, when a kid wearing a blue windbreaker walking point in the rear guard spotted our bubbletop crawling up behind him, all seven of them veered like a flock of geese, or maybe I should say crows, right back onto the sidewalk.    

What really gets me about these people who live in the innermost part of the inner city is how loud and trashy they are. Most ordinary folks might think things to themselves but never say them, or only discuss them in private among themselves, but the code of the streets and the law of the jungle specialized in upside-down thinking. You do everything you’re not supposed to and you say whatever is on your mind whether you ought to or not. It’s like they were all on speed; all they did was jabber out what they were thinking about whether anybody was listening or not. And these weren’t elevated thoughts by any means. “I can do what I want” seemed to be at the root of all they said and did. And so they were also hot-headed; worse than squirrels that flinch when you so much as come near them; bump into them by accident and out comes the Ubangi toothpick and you had to be ready for a skewering. 

So these kids got back up on the sidewalk all right, but like most of those people there, each on of them had to give us a little lip. 

“Chumps!” (They way they said it, it sounded like “chomps”.)

“Faggots!” (Again, they said it more like “faggits”)

“Pigs!”

“Oinkers!”

“Fuckers! (But it sounded more like “Fokahs”.)

“Assholes!” (But it came out sounding like “azzhoes”. And the first part was a long and drawn out razz, a buzzing sound, like “AZZZZZ.” )

The usual guff. Mostly, we paid it no mind. We were used to it. And as for me, I figured that they were saying these things more to impress each other than to make an impression on us. You could almost say that what they were really doing was calling themselves those names.

But the kid in the rear guard overstepped himself. He pulled out the topper. “Cocksuckin’ motherfuckers.” 

He didn’t say it as loud as the others.

But he said it loud enough. 

Maybe he knew he would really be pressing our buttons with that one.

Because that was the worst thing he could have said.

Haag was pissed.  He wasn’t a kid anymore; he was in his 40s. But he was still a hothead. He took it personal. Nobody talked about his mother. He slowed down and made to stop the car, but first he turned to me and said, “Should we roust ‘em?”

I said “Naah.” 

Because I saw in advance just how it would all go down. And it was like a bad motion picture unspooling in my head. We’d stop the squad car and before we even got out they’d go tearing off in seven directions back to the projects, which they knew all the nooks and crannies of like their own hands, and if we were lucky we might catch one apiece, and if we were unlucky we might be heading into an ambush and have bricks thrown down on our heads from the roof or even get shot in the back by a sniper.

I didn’t bother explaining all this to Haag, and, the way I figure it now, that was probably a mistake. But at the time I guess I thought he would figure out the very same thing for himself, and know why I didn’t want to take the chance.

Because if I were killed then who would solve the Corbett case?

So we continued driving in the ten-block circuit for an hour or so, occasionally crossing over the Canal to Main Street, or heading north to the fringes of Heritage Park, but the night was quiet and all but dead. We had an eye out for trouble, but other than those seven kids, trouble was in hiding, or maybe it was asleep.

Maybe because it was Wednesday-going-on-Thursday morning.

When Halloween falls on a weekend, like it did back in ’75, that’s when you have to watch out.  

At about 1:30am we drove up and down Rose Street, and the streets running parallel to it to the north (English Street) and south (Stuart Street). We would park on Rose every once in a while and get out of the squad car to crack our backs and stretch our legs. 

Even in the daytime Rose Street is depressing as all hell. Boarded up warehouses right next to the big old sandy granite castle of the Public Library, which used to be the Armory. It’s a wide grimy littered street, and as you crawl down it you can see it for what it mostly is: a slum district. Boarded up storefronts, and the ones still open for business were barred and gated liquor stores. Bodegas, fortune-telling clip joints, once-fancy theatres flashing triple-X movies on their marquees, grimy drugstores, flyspecked grocery stores, dingy barber shops, second-story churches, and here and there a piss-poor travel agency, or car repair shop, or carpet warehouse, or prosthetic supply store. 

I only mention the last because, back of it, there was this place where the cops would go to get their non-regulation gear. Cops only; they had a file and took your name at the door. 

By non-regulation, I mean there were all these gloves with lead shot in the fingers, and saps, and pepper sprays and gas canisters, and also, if you knew the password, with a wink or two you could also get confiscated behind-the-counter stuff like leapers and ‘ludes and Tylenol with codeine, which might strike you as kind of odd, but apparently the department knew all about it and turned a blind eye. 

It was also pretty sneaky, though, because the old ex-cop who ran the place could also put a word in the captain’s ear maybe about who was gulping down leapers like candy or stocking up on baggies full of the old dope.   

Anyway, Haag spent a lot of money in that place on all the latest under-the counter gear, and he was keen to try out some of his new toys, so he suggested we drive up to the projects and see what was what. I said sure, and at about 0225 we were back at the intersection of High Street and Dwight Street. I knew that what Haag was doing was looking for those seven kids, but of course, they were long gone. So he suggested we go up to Heritage Park and do our usual foot patrol. We separately covered the perimeter and that took about twenty minutes. 

At 0250 Haag suggested we swing by the projects one last time. I wasn’t especially keen on the idea, so I just grunted. Haag took that as an affirmative, or at least a non-veto, and so off we went.


*1 SALUTATION
SAMBA WORLD PERCUSSION, AUSTRALIA

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bo_fSTN5irs&feature=youtu.be  

*2 REFERENCE

Surfaces and Essence: : Analogy as the Fuel and Fire of Thinking

https://www.researchgate.net/publication/260289837_Surfaces_and_Essence_Analogy_as_the_Fuel_and_Fire_of_Thinking  

3*HUMOR

15 STRANGE FOODS PEOPLE REALLY ATE IN 18TH CENTURY AMERICA

4*NOVELTY

‘You’re Still Here?’: A Brief History of the Movie Post-Credits Sequence

https://www.vulture.com/2014/04/brief-history-of-movie-post-credits-sequences.html

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST

Language is a telling clue to unacknowledged racial attitudes

https://www.economist.com/books-and-arts/2020/06/12/language-is-a-telling-clue-to-unacknowledged-racial-attitudes

6* DAILY UTILITY

LITERARY DEVICES & TERMS

*7 CARTOON

BEATNIKS IN COMICS

https://kb-outofthisworld.blogspot.com/2011/03/beatniks-in-comics-sampler-part-1.html?_sm_au_=iVV73Qllmj42PjBV803WKK6HVL2M2

https://kb-outofthisworld.blogspot.com/2011/03/beatniks-in-comics-sampler-part-2.html?_sm_au_=iVV73Qllmj42PjBV803WKK6HVL2M2

https://kb-outofthisworld.blogspot.com/2011/03/beatniks-in-comics-sampler-part-3.html?_sm_au_=iVV73Qllmj42PjBV803WKK6HVL2M2

8*PRESCRIPTION

THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE BATTLE OF BANNOCKBURN

http://iainthepict.blogspot.com/2013/06/the-anniversary-of-battle-of-bannockburn.html?_sm_au_=iVV73Qllmj42PjBV803WKK6HVL2M2

9* RUMOR PATROL

FACE MASK EXEMPTION CARDS ARE FAKE

https://www.cbsnews.com/news/face-mask-exemption-card-freedom-to-breathe-agency-fraudulent/

10*LAGNIAPPE

PERE UBU

WHAT I HEARD ON THE POP RADIO

THE ROAD AHEAD

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

MALCOLM X ON FRONT PAGE CHALLENGE (CBC)

12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE

COVID HOT SPOT MAP

https://www.forbes.com/sites/suzannerowankelleher/2020/07/01/dont-travel-before-checking-harvards-covid-19-hot-spot-map/#380d2e6d49e7

ALSO SEE: 

MISTAKES MADE BY BUSINESSES AS THEY RE-OPEN

https://www.businessinsider.com/avoid-making-5-mistakes-when-you-reopen-business-after-pandemic-2020-5

MODERN WISDOM NUMBER 264 JULY 2020

MODERN WISDOM

NUMBER 264
JULY 2020
 
Copyright 2020 Francis DiMenno
dimenno@gmail.com
http://www.dimenno.wordpress.com 


1. ELVIS FOR INTELLECTUALS

1. You Are Not Actually Something Other Than a Hound Dog
2. Hooray for the Mecca of Vice Erected in the Desert by Members of the Criminal Underclass!
3. States of Consciousness in Which One Ascribes Secret Base Motives to Others.
4. Cerulean Satellite of the Dark and Bloodied Ground.
5. The State of Affairs Which You Posit is Agreeable to Me, Mother.
6. It Is a Matter of Indifference To Me Whether Our Solar System’s Celestial Body Continues To Emit Photons Located On the Ultraviolet Spectrum.
7. Marie is the Nomenklatura (of the Latest in a Long Succession of Serially Monogamous Relationships and it Too Shall Undoubtedly Terminate Once the Antagonist is Apprised of the Fact that I, Too, Have Had Her As My Concubine).
8. Cheap Hostelry Reserved for Those Wronged by Cupidity.
9. Kindly Refrain from Lachrymosity, Male Parent.
10. In the Socioeconomically Deprived Portion of the Inner City Traditionally Utilized to Warehouse Members of What Some Sociologists Have Designated as The Permanent Underclass.
11. ‎I Am Disturbed By Symptoms That Include Confusion And Tremor And Pruritus And Disequilibrium Whose Source Might Be Physical But More Likely Is Romantic.
12. Be Amorous to Me in the Manner of That Which Can Be Offered in Satisfaction of Debts.
13. A More Than Merely Sizable Allotment of Testosterone, Estrogen, Adrenaline, Dopamine, Serotonin, and Oxytocin Acting in Concert to Create a Feeling of Contentment Often Spoken of By Traditional Songwriters.
14. Would You Be So Kind As To Refrain from the State of Affairs in Which You Find that You Are No Longer Attracted to Me as a Viable Mate?
15. It is a Matter of Indifference to Me, Infant, That You Are Thoroughly Conventional in Your Outlook.
16. Bonus Track: In a High-Powered Performance Vehicle With Its Traditional Dimensional Limitations There Is Inadequate Space Wherein To Perform a Dance of Caribbean Origins.


2. I FEEL SO MUCH BETTER WITH A CLEAR HEAD I’M SURE THAT MAYBE SOMEDAY YOU’LL SEE WHAT I MEAN

 Ever since I stopped drinking–lessee, it was four years, three months, and…six days ago, I’ve had so much more energy and–waiter!  can you bring me another cup of coffee?–get up and go;  in fact sometimes my wife used to say maybe I ought to get back on the sauce again, because ever since I quit for good I’ve become “unsufferable” she said (I think what she meant was “INsufferable”) and that I “never stopped talking” but you know what I say? I say behind every player there’s a hundred haters and I’ll tell you again that I never felt better in my life but now here’s the sad part, all my sad ole drunken pals say I’m no “fun” anymore, and say all I ever want to talk about is how they’re fucking up their liver and their brain cells but I swear to God I never mentioned it more than once or twice a week because it was my DUTY and besides, they weren’t really my friends anyway, they just loved the funny drunk but that wasn’t me, that was the alcohol. HEY, WHERE’S THAT COFFEE! Sheesh, you just can’t get any good service anymore these days and HEY! WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO DO TO GET SOME SERVICE AROUND HERE? Finally! Hey, thanks, I know you’re busy, I appreciate it, I really do. (But we’re all busy, aren’t we? God damn lazy….) Hyper? Me? Well, maybe, just a wee little bit, but… can’t yuh see?–that’s the OLD me, and that…that’s because about three, three-and-a-half years ago for the very first time since I STARTED drinking I’m back in touch with my true feelings again, I mean most people don’t have the COURAGE to feel their own pain they have to mask it behind something or other but I say it takes a real man to face up to EXCUSE ME THIS COFFEE’S TOO HOT I NEED TWO CREAMS AND THREE SUGARS AND SNAP IT UP WILL YOU? Thanks, I really do appreciate it. No, I don’t miss it, not much, I mean I’m not exactly a brain surgeon and I haven’t really studied it very much but clinical trials have shown an increase in the binding sites for dizocilpine in neurons chronically exposed to alcohol. In other words, in layman’s terms, it’s a vicious cycle! And I’ve gotten OFF that train! You know, it’s really great to wake up in the morning and not have to worry about making it through an entire day with a hangover or where I’m going to get my next drink or the vomit on my shirt, oh now I’m exaggerating a little I was never that bad, except maybe about the vomit part, and I have no problem with social drinkers although studies have shown that even so-called social drinkers who in my opinion are well on their way to to becoming full-blown alcoholics experience brain shrinkage which is why I think so many of those people who say to me, you know, you really should start drinking again or at least not talk so much about it all this while clinking the ice in their cool cool glasses of white wine on a hot summer day and the way the water sort of sweats down the glass? You know? Brain damage. that’s what makes them talk like that, brain damage, pure and simple. More specifically, shrinkage of cortical gray matter, meaning the alcohol has made them unable to tell just how ridiculous they sound to a clear headed individual like HEY, WHERE’S THAT WAITER, I NEED ANOTHER REFILL HERE! Actually, I, sometimes I feel like saying to them, Hey, if it was heroin or something you wouldn’t be talking like that, like, “You were so much fun back when you were STRUNG OUT ON HEROIN and scrounging in a filthy alley ready to cut somebody’s throat just to get the money for an wonderful fix.” Would you? I mean, why do you think they call it inTOXICation, it’s because it’s toxic, maan, and no, I don’t need to smoke a reefer and mellow up, or out, or whatever; what I tell ’em is listen, what I need to do and what I suggest you do is YO, CHIEF! I’M GROWING A BEARD WAITING FOR THAT COFFEE HERE is feel your own pain. And grow the fuck UP! What the fuck is that waiter DOING back there? Huffing a dong? Hey–the Greeks had a word for it. Sapere Aude. “Don’t be a sap.” But then again…how smart could THEY have been? I mean, I hear they drank an awful lot of wine. FINALLY! Thanks. Shall we go? Can we have the check please? Thanks. No, I got it. I have lots of money these days. Hey–did you know that booze actually SHRINKS grey matter? Yeah! They  used a 1.5 Tesla GE Signa machine to take MRI brain scans!  I’ve got pictures! Yeah, me too. Guess we’d both get back to work. Gotta pay that alimony!  HEY! Nice seein’ ya! We’ll have to do this again sometime…REAL SOON!

3. Contra Hipsterism: Some Guidelines

1) Fascination is subjective. Nobody is interested in the bike with a cool banana seat you used to own when you were eight years old.
2) Fame is not vicarious. Having a cousin who knows a lot of famous people does not make you famous.
3) Creativity is the highest human goal. Origination is good. Regurgitation creates a stench which never goes away.
4) Mass media is mostly a stained-glass window for imbeciles.
5) All fashion is merely protective coloration.
6) You cannot know very much unless you know history. You cannot know history until you actually study history. A lot of history. Owning an Abraham Lincoln bobblehead does not make you a civil war expert.
7) Talking face to face to actual human beings is far more important than owning things.
8) Your knowledge is always merely a more sophisticated form of ignorance.
9) Free your thinking. There is nothing beautiful about a caged animal.
10) Before you condemn anybody, look deep into your own heart. 


4. THE HIGH SCHOOL FOOTBALL COACH AS TORMENTED CLOSET HOMOSEXUAL”I have a theory that one of the reasons we are in this awful recession is that too many clueless business managers have man crushes on famous coaches.”–Will Manley, Booklist 9-1-2010

In every literary production I have ever read or witnessed, the football coach is nearly always a tormented closet homosexual. Why is that?

Because people who author such productions were once unfairly tormented by morphoditic football coaches?

But really, there is a long list of such productions, starting with “Tea and Sympathy” and ranging from The Last Picture Show to American Beauty.
And also see:
http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/ArmouredClosetGay

And then there’s the icing on the cake:
Lou Reed’s nauseating paean about wanting to “play football for the coach”:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZPrIulnAblk


5.  GUNS

I maintain that guns are not the problem. The problem is actually guns in the hands of homicidal maniacs who hear voices saying “Kill kill kill for the love of killing kill for the love of Kali look out black helicopter black helicopter oh Dear Jesus truly these are the end times don’t worry dear Messiah is coming they will take my gun away when they pry it from my cold dead fist I’m not crazy you’re the one who’s crazy, read my file let it flow red river.”


6. SPELL CHECK

Does everyone who owns a computer with spell check think they’re the next William Shakespeare? 

People should use these tools to write simple, logical English prose that can be comprehended by literate people.

People should not always use these words to regurgitate incomprehensible misspelled screeds to blast the presence of alien or underclass interlopers.

People should not use these words, oozing with overstated hyperbole, to mindlessly rehash the antics of celebrities and useless so-called “heroes”.

Admittedly, regardless how these words are used, the world will very likely stay the same.  


7. PENFORT STREET 

It’s three o’clock in the morning, and there’s a baby standing on the corner.  Don’t worry; it’s a big baby. And it’s a well-lighted street. Corner of Penfort and Lamar. It’s what the realtors once called “a friendly neighborhood”. Now it’s guard-gated. Residents-only in rows of grim red-brick blocks on rocky dirt and brown scrub grass. The guard shack black necktie white-shirt ofay is propped on his wooden stool, his stomps on his desk. Rattling snores. Dreamland.   Smoke-window purple widowmaker car oozes on by the dozey cracker, scrapes past the crunked-in ankle-high guard rail. Twin-cam. Front-wheel drive with rear-spoilers; flashing rims. Sugah at the wheel. Big man. Takes up half an elevator. Just knocked over a two-bit bodega, solo. Leaper sweats. Uppers grinding on granite jaw lowers. Those inside meemies. Needs him a drink. Sugah drinks and fingers and snaps his good luck red wrist string. Drinks. Again. Harder. Needs. Music. Loud. Sugah…got a mean glow on. He cranks the soundtrack. I’LL CUT A FOOL Sugah be cool now. Cameras on the lamp-posts. I’ll cut a fool Crawling up Penfort Street. Dog moon. I’ll cut a fool Wired rozzers prowl on nearby Mount Pleasant. Garbage cans brattle. Tomcats scamper. Scary XXXL rats. Back off, moggies, muy pronto. The baby’s mother is on the corner telling Sugah she CAN’T get in the car; she’s wearing an ankle monitor. Sugah laughs, says he’ll pay extra. Flashes his show backroll. Tells her to read the number on the money. I’ll cut a fool Attracted by a greasy smoldering light, the baby has wandered up Penfort Street and around to the trail back of the row of three-story projects. Some enterprising small boys have fanned out down from the high dirt trail and are firing the grassy hill. Flames dovetail. Baby drops his teething ring. I’ll cut a foolI’ll cut a foolI’ll cut a foolAnd his bitch Some sixth scene sense kicks in. Sugah guns it and splits. Sure enough, see: blue lights. Pin-eyed rozzers rump up to the baby mom. And listen: Wailing fire engines. Brushfires burn. Somewhere a hoarse bum hollars “Stop!”


8.  HUB SCENE REPORT
*Thee Quick-Acting Hypnotics may be signed to the Akashik records label.

*The band Milk Of Amnesia was mentioned on the daytime soap “All My Children”.

*S.E. Hinton was seen in the audience at a recent concert headlined by Gonna Do It For Johnny.

*Acid Is Groovy Kill The Pigs will be mentioned in a new book to be published by Feral House in October.

*Laugh It Up Furball came in second in West Warwick’s annual “Rock Unt” competition.

*Rumor has it that a song by Gorilla Crime Boss will be heard on the soundtrack of the next Batman movie.

*The Scum Bozoes have reunited after a six-month hiatus.

*Circuit Of A Dogma will entertain the troops at an unspecified location overseas.

*Syndrome of a Down will be mentioned in a forthcoming issue of Spin Magazine.

*The Drizzlin’ Sh*ts have a new demo recorded on–get this!–a cassette!

*The Beatnik Jet Pilots are to star in a video to be aired on CCTV.

*The Stompbox Wankers are relocating to Vegas.

*The Minor 6145 Choir can be heard every Sunday at the Ranch House in Marshfield.

*Three members of The Blowjob Alibis are decorated Marines.

*Me Love You Long Time will be playing at the opening of the new Johnny’s Foodmaster in Malden.

*Kenny Chambers has named Smash Ugly “a band to watch”.

*Inspector Pig recently performed on the roof of Hi-Fi Pizza, until the police closed the show down.

*At a recent performance, The Sphincter Monkeys caused a ruckus by throwing firecrackers into the crowd.

*The Pork Messengers have been denied a visa to Saudi Arabia.

*The Vagina Puppets have been condemned by the Archdiocese of Boston.

*After 19 years, The Fat Little Nothings are breaking up.

*The music of the Spit-Backs now appears in a public service ad for stroke victims.

*Apex Predator from Wakey Wakey Eggs and Cakey claims that the “scene out West is better by far than anything you got going in Boston”. He suggests that we “check it out, maan.”

9. KING WAS A REPUBLICAN

https://humanevents.com/2006/08/16/why-martin-luther-king-was-republican/


Human Events is a far-rightie journal of opinion. (Reagan’s aides used to hide it from him!) I prefer to rely on historical scholarship for my opinions, not editorial sermonizing. People should know better than to take second and third-hand opinion pieces written more than 40 years after the fact as gospel. Let’s just say that King was a conservative Baptist preacher in certain respects, but pretty close to a socialist in economic and social matters.

I’ve read the above article, and, on its face, it is largely accurate, but selective reporting and sly elisions skew the text in such a way that what is unsaid becomes of more consequence than what the author claims.

The author ignores the fact that the Democratic party became a coalition of working class interests in the 1960s.

Furthermore, certain key adjectives are omitted, which make the historical record look more cut and dry than it actually was. One example: It was Republican President Dwight Eisenhower who RELUCTANTLY pushed to pass the Civil Rights Act of 1957 and sent troops to Arkansas to desegregate schools.

The article is biased and deceptive in that it distorts the historical record by deliberate omissions of inconvenient facts. It’s an editorial, not a truly historic account, and is sophistic in both intent and execution.


There are also outright distortions of the historical record that would make a Nixon scholar cry foul: Nixon’s “Southern Strategy,” for instance, was not an attempt to recruit values-oriented Christians (where is the author’s source for THAT, I wonder), but to undercut Wallace’s independent campaign by appealing to “law and order,” which was a coded reference to urban riots. Furthermore, for all of LBJ’s bandying about of the word “Nigra”, it was Nixon who shared his racist, anti-Semitic, and ethnically biased opinions with his cronies, as the white house tapes reveal.

I could go on. This article is historically inaccurate. It is merely a partisan attempt to whitewash the republicans–who do deserve some credit–and tar the democrats, who do deserve some blame.

ALSO SEE:
Diversity and the Myth of White Privilege

By JAMES WEBB
Forty years ago, MORE LIKE 65 YEARS AGO] as the United States experienced the civil rights movement, the supposed monolith of White Anglo-Saxon Protestant dominance served as the whipping post for almost every debate about power and status in America. [CITE YOUR SOURCE FOR THIS AMAZING GENRERALIZATION.] After a full generation of such debate, WASP elites have fallen by the wayside and a plethora of government-enforced diversity policies have marginalized many white workers. [HOW MANY?} The time has come to cease the false arguments and allow every American the benefit of a fair chance at the future….

I have dedicated my political career to bringing fairness to America’s economic system and to our work force, regardless of what people look like or where they may worship. Unfortunately, present-day diversity programs work against that notion, having expanded so far beyond their original purpose that they now favor anyone who does not happen to be white.
[EXAMPLES?]

&C., &C. As President Reagan once said, “Facts are stupid things.”

This doesn’t pass the bullshit test. A history professor at a community college would give this farrago of distorted history and strained rhetoric a C-.

Viz:
My dear Mr. Webb: You cite your sources only when they suit your purpose and ignore contradictory evidence. You rely on dubiously-sourced statistics and generalized recaps of history to fit your argument. News flash: The argument leads to the conclusion. It will not do to shape your thesis around a predetermined conclusion. It’s bad science, and bad history.

SOURCE:
http://www.realclearpolitics.com/2010/07/22/diversity_and_the_myth_of_white_privilege_238179.html


10.  DERIVATIVE WORKS

There is this phenomenon spoken of locally (i.e. Boston) as “Dad Blooze”. It’s pretty darned awful. And I should know. I MC’d the Blues Jam at the Middle East for…um, I think it was five years. Then it became a Reggae Jam. The Blues guys still showed up. But the only songs they were allowed to essay were “I Shot the Sheriff” and “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door.” (!)  The Blues is one of those idiosyncratic forms in which–how can I say this without seeming cruel?–if you are an eighty-nine year old cotton-chopping sharecropper with one tooth in your rotting skull, then you are automatically imbued with the gravitas to perform it. Otherwise, wait your turn. It is quite possible that the world would be a better place if everyone else were to simply leave it alone. I love Henry Thomas, Robert Johnson, Blind Lemon Jefferson, Reverend Gary Davis, and others in the country blues mode. I’m also very fond of city blues singers like Mamie Smith, Ma Rainey and Bessie Smith. But people who attempt the style without the range of life experience to back it up are just…sad. As for country, much the same thing holds. It seems that a great many people have never been exposed to the real giants of traditional bluegrass, such as The Monroe Brothers, Jim Eanes, Gid Tanner, Wade Mainer, The Carter Family, Charlie Poole, Dock Boggs, Uncle Dave Macon, and many others. As opposed to modern country music, I’d rather listen to the true giants.


 As for the likes of R.L. Burnside, what do I know? I’m just a rock critic. I listen to his version of “Shake ’em On Down,” and its OK as it goes, but it seems needlessly flashy when you compare it to Mississippi Fred McDowell’s majestic performance:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1W7KkvtsGMY 

And insufficiently nuanced when you compare it to Bukka White:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JjCXIdLrD58 

Most folks don’t care if a work is derivative. Musical appreciation is, after all, based a good deal in misguided sentiment and nostalgia poisoning. But I’m one of those snobbish purists, I’m afraid. (I am also fed up with grown adults who write derivative novels, like Matthew Pearl and Caleb Carr. Write your own damn book, damn it, instead of coasting on the rep of someone infinitely better than you.)


 Not that a little tip of the hat every now and again is completely unsanctioned.  Listen to Lennon’s “Free As a Bird”. The part that goes “Whatever happened to…”? That’s a direct lift from “Walking in the Rain” by the Shangri-Las. But this is nothing new. Such incorporation is the exception rather than the rule. Blues and country exemplars did it all the time. There is a now little-used critical term for the phenomenon of wholesale lifting which I’m hoping to revive: “Knock-off pseud.” It dates from the late 1960s, when rock critics were having this same debate. It’s not the fact that a given rock song might be derivative–nearly all of ’em are. It’s that the people you swipe from–i.e., your musical tastes–define where you stand as a artist. In other words, “Steal only from the best.” Maybe that’s why critics were so fond of jeering at Zep and Tull. Hardly anything truly original about those two. (Also, Tull employed scab musicians, and the lefties were therefore righteously indignant.) Point being: Fads come and go. And politics will always interpose its noise to signal. What counts is if the work is of lasting merit. Ultimately, the originators always seem to outlast the copycats. As Melville said, “Better to fail in originality than to succeed in imitation.” (Some claim that what Melville wrote weren’t really novels at all, but that’s another story.)


11. THE END OF THE CONVENTIONAL BOOK

One matter which isn’t much discussed: Writers now have the capability to be sculptors. To take existing blocks of text and hew and reshape them. The internet revolution is all to the good when it comes to applications such as this. But it is not the be all and end all of the literary culture, which has endured very nicely for 600 years, with its highly literate aficionados at the apex and the great mass of readers at the base of the pyramid. Library literature talks about this all the time, to the exclusion, it sometimes seems, of nearly anything else. As a library director with about 50 things to do on any given day, it’s kind of tiring to be on the receiving end of all this. This debate is a small aspect of the nuts and bolts of practical librarianship. What we’re more concerned about is that virtual books will be used as a justification by town planners and suchlike to make public and even school libraries into internet kiosks, in which books are optional. But the book will not go away. Every new technological development is an echo of an old platform. Example: The expression “Never mind that.” First used (as far as I have been able to tell) in English novels of the 1830s as a transitional segue, it migrated, respectively, to the stage, tho radio, to talking films, and to television, where it is still used today. I suspect that the book will always be around in some form for those who wish to make use of it.  


12. INDIE COMEDY

Indie comedy as opposed to just plain “comedy”? I guess because it’s “edgy” and “out there” and…just not that funny. Because if it were, there’s a perfectly good name for that phenomenon. It’s known as COMEDY.

Maybe what is actually meant is “theatrical comedy”:

The theatrical genre can be simply described as a dramatic performance which pits two societies against each other in an amusing agon or conflict…. two opposing sides… a “Society of Youth” and a “Society of the Old”.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ Comedy


13. ART LINKLETTER

Hula hoop promoter, Disney Legend, and television bon vivant extraordinaire, the recently deceased Canadian native Art Linkletter (July 17, 1912 – May 26, 2010) was at one time phenomenally famous; the cynosure of horny bored housewives and addled oldsters alike.

His ubiquitous visage could be seen upon the covers of bestselling books (“Oops! Or, Life’s Awful Moments,” “Drugs at my Door Step,” and “Women are My Favorite People”), television programs (“Art Linkletter’s House Party”) and even board games such as The Game of Life (“I Heartily Endorse This Game”).

Linkletter was his adoptive name, for he was born an abandoned child named Gordon Arthur Kelly, in Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan. He claims he never attempted to contact his natural parents.

He was so insanely famous that the death of his self-defenestrated daughter electrified the world, or at least, that portion of it which received television transmissions.

But he now IS vitually unknown. Art longa vita brevis.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Art_Linkletter

14.DEAD LAUGHTER

What’s horrifying about laugh tracks is that, until about maybe 40 years ago, they were pretty much all the same–based on laughter captured by primitive recording technology, reproduced by a rudimentary sampler, and manipulated via a soundboard. You just know that toward the end, many of the people whose laughter was being so manipulated were LONG DEAD. So what, in essence, we were listening to was the laughter of GHOSTS. If you really think about it, most of the animals you see in old movies are also long dead. Somehow, this bothers me even more than the thought of being haunted by the superannuated hoots and chortles of boneyard fodder.

THE INFORMATION #1104 JULY 3, 2020

THE INFORMATION #1104  

JULY 3, 2020

Copyright 2020 FRANCIS DIMENNO
dimenno@gmail.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com  

Our wretched species is so made that those who walk on the well-trodden path always throw stones at those who are showing a new road.– Voltaire

  
WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK FOUR: AND IF THE DEVIL COME SHOOT HIM WITH A GUN
PART FOUR

12. YOU KNOW YOU’RE FROM CRUICKSHANK, IF…

…you become aware, once you leave it for any length of time at all, just what a miserable little patch of dirt the place really is. Every year they’d have this fair, and, when I was a kid, it was fairly tame–just a bunch of rowdy drunken townspeople tearing up the gaffed wheel of fortune when someone would whisper in their ear that they’d been cheated. Then they’d become like wild animals fighting over scraps. They say that when you’re hungry enough, for long enough, you’ll swallow anything. That’s kind of the way it was in Cruickshank–all the roughnecks and troublemakers looked forward to that one time in the year, always in early August, when they play the fool, with the assurance that they police would generally stand down. Problem being, during the early 70s, things started getting out of hand, and you would see someone get shot, stabbed, or jumped at the Cruickshank Fair.

And take the Cruickshank High School. There are more cops around Commodore Perry High then there are in the entire city of Cross Country Plaza. And the other big event in the town was the high school graduation, which took four hours, and which maybe about forty per cent of the teens were eligible for–the rest had dropped out, or they said “fuck you” to the teacher and tried to beat them up. So now they’re living with a space heater in their parents’ unheated garage, smoking reefer and making noises about getting their G.E.D., but never actually doing anything, until they get caught stealing cars and do a jolt in county and/or they knock their sweetheart up and had to get a job at the factory, which was a decent living when the factory was still there, only it had to close down round about 1978 and all those people who’d been making good money had to go work at a gas station or start their own painting “business” and their wives had to leave the baby with grandma and work at the supermarket or the local department store. No wonder they cheat on their husbands! They wanted to be a rich man’s darling–not a poor man’s slave.

As I said, if to make up for the fact that so few students actually graduated with their class, the damn ceremony was literally four hours long, and by the end of it most people watching it were drunk–even the little old grannies, because Cruickshank was and is a hard-drinking town. Fifty liquor stores to every bookshop–and there ain’t no bookshop. Cruickshank was one of those towns where you could walk down the street drinking out of an open bottle and nobody even notices. The bums offer to wash your car or cut your grass for some booze money, but you never take them up on it because you’d have to be a lunatic to trust any of those rummies to so much as get you a stick of gum. Of course, one of those rummies might very well be one of your current wife’s ex-husband.

Because in Cruickshank, everybody knows everyone else. For instance, there’s the guy they call The Homeless Guy. Everybody knows his family history…his folks had money, his brother was the top paid cop on the police force, and he went crazy after his wife died and now he walks around Cruickshank pushing a shopping cart and reciting the multiplication tables in a high-pitched voice, as though he were five years old.

In Cruickshank, you quickly become a creature of habit, if you know what’s good for you. You don’t drink coffee anywhere else but at the Golden Cafe. You get your french fries at The Roadhouse. You go to old Doc Sloan, and to nobody else.

During the summer dusk there’s fireworks–every night without fail. Or is it gunfire? The man who drives the ice cream truck is a former bank robber. He probably still peddles some reefer. He’s living with some fat divorcee with six children, all from different fathers. You get to know where all the potholes are–potholes the size of a Volkswagon. Half-wild German Shepherds roaming the streets.

So you get a divorce and before you know it, your baby Mama is spending your child support money on having a wild time with her friends, only you don’t say anything because she’s got too much on you. You get to know their neighborhoods of Cruickshank like the back of your hand: “on the Grudge, in Weedy, over to Goodwich, or on the Zoot line.”
 
You never tell people where you’re really from. You tell prospective lady friends that you live in Iodine, Knox, The Village, The Heights, Happy Hill, Mistake Island, Shankbrook, or the DMZ. But not in Cruickshank–that’s the kiss of death.

13. THE GRID

So, anyway, when all of this got started, there I was; it’s Halloween, and me and my partner Haagenti are prowling the near-deserted streets of Bigtown in his 1971 Plymouth Road Runner 440 Six Barrel with a tan bucket seat interior,. A beater with worn tires, a cranky transmission, and a busted heater. We’re out looking to see if anyone is fixing to start trouble.

Haag was an older guy. A cagey lifer. I was kind of his project. Guess Dad put a word in his ear, told him to try to toughen me up. As a favor.

It was Haag driving; me, not paying much attention to the street, thinking about the Corbett girl, mostly.  Steaming.

We were driving in a ten by eight block grid in the center of town. First, down Rose Street, Route 14. Then we bang a right down onto Sycamore Street.

There were all these boarded up warehouses and sure as hell no fucking sycamores in sight because the last one probably died sometime around 1917.

Up and down Sycamore there were a bunch of chophouses and greasy spoons and breakfast spots and Eye-tie joints, mostly catering to the working-class trade.

The Pig ‘n’ Patio. With a picture of a beaming pig in a chef’s hat cutting pork chops out of his own belly. Disgusting. Though I’ve eaten there on more than one occasion.

Tubby’s Trough. Some “all you care to eat” joint, only if you have any brains at all you don’t care to.

The Friendly Little Eating Place. (What kind maniac would givename his place of idiot would eat in a place with a name like that?)

Al Dente’s Spaghetti House. Their cook was from Italy and he was a drunk and the food mostly tasted like shit. Who would think you could fuck up spaghetti? Of course, all the cops ate there, gratis. All the mobsters, too. I have a feeling they got all the choicest cuts.

One block North of Route 14 you had this bar called the Billygoat Tavern where the cops liked to drink, and, one block north of that, the Tip Inn, right next to the Light Cemetery, where the ambulance chasers would go to knock back a few.

At the intersection of Route 14 and Sycamore is a fast-food burger joint, and next door to that, this dive bar called the Black Kat Saloon, Also Adam’s Ribs & Bar-B-Que, and this moldy-smelling joint named Chop Chop’s Chinese Eats, which everybody called “the Chinks’”.

We followed Sycamore all the way down to the underpass at Sergeant Street, the warehouse district. Sergeant Street ran clear to the canal and had no residential housing. Mostly, it was zoned for light and heavy industry, such as were still hanging on in the teeth of hard times. There were lots of warehouses and weird stores all down it.

Like the depot for the Big Town Cab Company.

Big Town Asphalt.

Twelve Keys to the Kingdom Religious Supplies.

The Lith and Let Litho Printing Press.

Bigtown Big Boy’s and Fat Man’s Shoppe

The Fly By Nite Travel Agency

The Big Town Sperm Bank.

Then Big Town Baby Furniture, Big Town Driving Instruction School, Big Town Builders & Wreckers, and, all the way at the end,  right next to the canal, Liquid Gas Consolidated, an enormous storage facility for liquid natural gas.

Then there was a boatyard with a trailer with a sign that said “Inland Boats”, and, next to that, a dismal wooden shack housing a nightclub called “Club Silesia”.

We were always getting calls to Club Silesia at  around 2 AM to break up fights between the so-called punk rockers and other local troublemakers, but we hardly ever bothered to respond. Let the kids have their kind of fun, and if it meant beating each other silly, so be it.

Just north of that was the Train Station, an old castle-shaped building, cavernous and always nearly deserted except for junkies and perverts and assorted bums and magenta-faced drunks.

We drove all the way down Sergeant Street and almost all the way back until we were only one block from where we had started. Then we took a left up Locust Street.

There were a lot of drinking establishments along this stretch. The further down you went, and the further from Route 14 you got, the more sketchy they got.

The worst places by far were Dizzy’s Lounge, The Play Den Disco Strip Club, and the The Tee Many Martoonis Club, just off of Sergeant. These were places you went to when you had a mean glow on and you wanted to get into a knock-down brawl, because there were plenty of bruisers there who would gladly oblige you, and not all of them worked behind the bar.  

Then there was The House of Joy, which ran prosties; The Sports Haven Bar, full of old lushes and haywire rednecks;  The Red Barn, always crammed to the rafters with locals who took no guff; and The Last Stand, where even on-duty cops were afraid to enter.

The slightly less belligerent crowd usually would up at The Player’s Club and The Pleasure Bar, just two blocks from Route 14.  

Then you had your swish joints; The Purple Zebra and The Silly Boy Lounge. We hardly ever bothered answering complaints out of those places, and when we had to go in, usually to break up a slapping party between two aging pantywaists, we always wore our rubber gloves. Per Claiborne’s orders.

The elite crowd, such as it was, always roosted at The Patricians Club, or drank at the wood-paneled bar of The Old John Raines Hotel.

At the four corners of Locust and Route 14 were local landmarks; Kip’s Flophouse, The Hotel Morovache on the north side, and the House O’ Good Eats and our Police Precinct House on the north. We had to walk three-quarters of a block to park our cars in the Muni garage, but that was no great hardship, except in the deadest part of winter.  

We drove all the way up Locust just past Route 14 and one more block up to Salisbury Street, well named–because all the skels on the street had faces like chopped meat. Because they were career Winos reduced to doing nothing all day but mooching enough coin to scare up another bottle of Sneaky Pete, and to pay for a bunk at The Old Temperance Hotel, which nowadays stood for anything but temperance.

That’s where you would also find the Twenty Per Cent Pawn Shop, and a rather sketchy storefront church called Temple of the 10,000 Voices of God, that we were always getting complaints about because they sent their members panhandling from door to door in the few remaining somewhat affluent neighborhoods of Bigtown.  

Across from the Hotel was The Hop Joint & Coffeetime Lounge, a holdover from the beatnik era, where certain of the High School kids from Judge Crater High School one block to the north liked to hang out, and where even some of the college kids from Nob Hill a few miles away liked to go slumming.

All was quiet in that neck of the woods, so then we took a swing down Linden Street, a scary part of town because half of it was boarded up warehouses, and the other half were sketchy and down at the heels business enterprises. At the intersection of Route 14 it wasn’t so bad; on the south side of the street you had the Muni garage and on the North side you had the once reputable places like the old Card’s Department Store, which looked, however, like it had fallen on very hard times indeed.

At the other three corners were Big Town Accountants, Flipside’s Records, and The Plate House, a particularly dirty greasy spoon that was open at six am and shut down at two am, and right across the street from the Muni garage, so nearly all the cops ate there at one time or another. Though if you weren’t used to the food, it would make you sicker’n hell.

But then, as you drove further down Linden you’d see this ominous ugly-looking squat white building that called itself the Every Child Is Special Day Care Center. You also had this basement nightclub called The Rize Klub, sitting under a nearly threadbare dress shop called Hussey’s Ladies Wear. Down the street you had the fenced-in Rovina Wrent-a-Wreck lot, and the Hire-a-Temp Temp Agency. Locals called it “Hire-a-Wino”, and you could guess why. Then there was The All-American Installation Company, housed in a tiny storefront, and allegedly run by gangsters. All the way down to Sergeant, on one side you saw a warehouse that called itself The Big Store, and another warehouse across the street that imported cheap junk and weird foodstuffs from the Orient called Chow Down Imports.

We turned left down Sergeant one block, and swung back up, bearing north along Oak Street. There you had the Oak Hill Cemetery, the Oak Hill Funeral Home, The Oak Hill Elder Housing Complex, which was kind of a Nursing Home, and the Oak Hill Hospital. The hospital and its parking lot were just north of Route 14.

This time, two blocks north past Route 14 and then onto Dwight Street, named, I suppose, after good old Ike because, if you turned right and then right again, you got onto a broad Boulevard, Beech Street, also known as Route 222, built with government money back in the 50s.

I guess at one time Beech Street was a big shopping district, but I’m guessing from the looks of it that the last time the place was jumping was probably back in 1963. Because now you look at the street and you see burned out department stores, greasy spoons with steel doors and steel shutters on the windows, and dingy little dollar stores where some welfare slob might go to pick up a cheap-ass piece of junk jewelry for his common-law wife, in-between whipping her ass with a coat hanger.

And of course, there were liquor stores—always a thriving enterprise in a slum like this. Four of them. All just north of Route 14. One was Main Line Liquors and was for mostly the winos; one was Rock’s, and that was for the ghetto criminal element and specialized in 50-cent vodka nips, with the top shelf stuff stashed behind the counter; the third was Beech Street Beverages and catered to what few decent citizens were left in the vicinity; mostly downtown office workers who parked in the second Muni lot at the south corners of Beech and Rose Streets. And then, about two blocks north, there was Project Liqour.  Just past the hospital parking lot. I kid you not. That was its name. Liqour. And that’s how they spelled it, too. All the people in the Projects went there because the owner set his clocks back by fifteen minutes in the morning and set them forward by fifteen minutes at night to circumvent the local ordinances. Convenient location for it too, right near the hospital, because a lot of would-be robbers of Project Liqour immediately entered the Oak Hill Hospital as victims of a shotgun blast.

And I guess I’d better not forget the infamous Midnite Munchies 24 Hour Store, about a block up from Route 14 near the intersection of Salisbury, in a side street just off the main drag, which openly sold bongs and whippets and other doper paraphernalia from behind a glassed-in display counter. (When I first started police work I was so dumb I thought a whippet was a kind of dog, until Claiborne finally pulled my coat and told me it was a metal canister filled with compressed nitrous oxide that dopers used to inhale to induce a forty-five second “trip”.) I probably don’t need to tell you that this place was another big favorite with the college crowd.

We swung down Beech all the way back down to Sergeant, then up Pine back up to Dwight, and down Walnut back down to Sergeant, and up Elm back up to Dwight. Pine and Walnut are where nearly all the Government buildings are. City Hall, the Fire Station, and the Jail, which took up one-and-a-half blocks. Lots of parking garages, a fairly clean convenience store, Ching Chaw’s Corner Newsstand, some breakfast-and-lunch joints like The Spa, The Snak Shak, and The Coffee Bean, and even an honest-to-God bank. You also even had some specialty shops that weren’t miserable fly-by-night junk stores, like the Wedded Bliss Bridal Shop, Welkin’s Floral Shop, and The Firefly Tavern, right next to the Fire Station where all the smoke-eaters hung out. There was even an honest-to-God French Restaurant called Chez Swank. And a first-run movie house, The Bijou Theatre. This area was an oasis in the dead center of Bigtown. Deserted, though, by about 1800 hours, except for the movie theatre, where the last show let out at 2300. And by now it was 0030.  


*1 SALUTATION
ELVIS COSTELLO15 PETALS

https://youtu.be/Ptphle0MUmI

COMPLICATED SHADOWS

https://youtu.be/PWW8s8IyRH0



ELVIS COSTELLO & BILL FRISSELL

DEEP DEAD BLUE

https://youtu.be/cSoPVGjHoqY

*2 REFERENCE

OLD MUSICAL INSTRUMENT CATALOGS

reverb.com/news/gallery-vintage-music-gear-catalogs?utm_source=braze&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=20200624%20D&S%20US&utm_content=  

3*HUMOR

STONER FOUND IN PILE OF DORITOS

thelibertarianrepublic.com/stoner-calls-police-too-high-on-marijuana-found-in-pile-of-doritos/  

4*NOVELTY

CRIME DOES NOT PAY

Carlo Barrone, The Murderous Bully
digitalcomicmuseum.com/preview/index.php?did=15324&page=5
digitalcomicmuseum.com/preview/index.php?did=15324&page=6
digitalcomicmuseum.com/preview/index.php?did=15324&page=7
digitalcomicmuseum.com/preview/index.php?did=15324&page=8
digitalcomicmuseum.com/preview/index.php?did=15324&page=9
digitalcomicmuseum.com/preview/index.php?did=15324&page=10
digitalcomicmuseum.com/preview/index.php?did=15324&page=11
digitalcomicmuseum.com/preview/index.php?did=15324&page=12
digitalcomicmuseum.com/preview/index.php?did=15324&page=13
digitalcomicmuseum.com/preview/index.php?did=15324&page=14
digitalcomicmuseum.com/preview/index.php?did=15324&page=15
digitalcomicmuseum.com/preview/index.php?did=15324&page=16
digitalcomicmuseum.com/preview/index.php?did=15324&page=17
digitalcomicmuseum.com/preview/index.php?did=15324&page=18  

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST

KURT COBAIN GUITAR AUCTION

www.rollingstone.com/music/music-news/kurt-cobain-unplugged-guitar-auction-1018229/  

6* DAILY UTILITY
THE GRAINS OF SAND

THAT’S WHEN HAPPINESS BEGINS

https://youtu.be/rD3BMv6vmxY

*7 CARTOON

FUNNY FACE DRINK MIX

8*PRESCRIPTION

HENRY ADAMS QUOTES

https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/20404.Henry_Adams

9* RUMOR PATROL

SNEAKY LITTLE HOBBITSES

10*LAGNIAPPE

PERE UBU

GOODBYE

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

WHEN THE HIPPIE CAME TO TOWN

I think that you should cut all your hair.
And maybe do something about your breath,
Because last night a stranger, a bearded stranger,
Done tickled my baby to death.

Mister, I don’t like them whiskers,
Mister, I don’t like your smile,
Mister, I don’t like them whiskers,
Mister, I don’t like your style.

You smoke a lot of dope,
You need a bar of soap,
I wish I had a rope

Mister, I don’t like them whiskers,
Mister, I don’t like your smile,
Mister, I don’t like them whiskers,
Mister, I don’t like your style.

You don’t belong round here,
You look just like a queer,
You made me spill my beer

Mister, I don’t like them whiskers,
Mister, I don’t like your smile,
Mister, I don’t like them whiskers,
Mister, I don’t like your style.

I think that you should cut all your hair.
And maybe do something about your breath,
Because last night a stranger, a bearded stranger,
Done tickled my baby to death.  

12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE

ROBERT JOHNSON & PERE UBU & THE BEATLES

Nobody likes it when you blast Robert Johnson over your speakers. Or Pere Ubu. Or both.

Nor do they like it when they tell you they want you to play something else and you tell them that the suckers in hell want ice water…but they ain’t a-gonna get it. 

I think that someone should start a band called Beatles Ubu, in which the Beatles cover Ubu and vice versa. Songs could include “My Name Is Dave (Look Up the Number)” and “I’m Sixty-Four Now!” and “Back in the Chinese Radiation”.  

MODERN WISDOM NUMBER 263 JUNE 2020

MODERN WISDOM

NUMBER 263
JUNE 2020
 
Copyright 2020 Francis DiMenno
dimenno@gmail.com
http://www.dimenno.wordpress.com 


1. THE BIG MAN’S BOOK OF ANSWERS

1. Q: Is it OK if I ask some questions about the Big Man?

A: Dat’s up to you, punk. 

2. Q: What does the Big Man want us to do?
A: Whatever he says. Savvy?
3. Q: Whenever I ask a question, why do you tell me to run it by The Big Man?
A: Because the Big Man has all the answers. He calls the shots.
4. Q: What if the Big Man’s not around?
A: Don’t kid yourself, Jamoke. The Big Man is everywhere.
5. Q: How can we tell what’s right from what’s wrong?
A: Ask yourself–Does the Big Man like it? Then all right. Does the
Big Man say No Likey? Then Nix. Don’t do it.
6. Q: Why is it a bad idea to get on the wrong side of the Big Man?
A: You just don’t want to make the Big Man sore. That’s why.
7. Q: How come people do wrong when they know it’s wrong?
A: They don’t realize that the Big Man has operatives working round
the clock. That’s how come.
8. Q: How does the Big Man decide what’s right and what’s wrong?
A: Never mind. You don’t need to know how. Just listen to what the Big
Man tells you.
9. Q: If the law says something is wrong and the Big Man says it’s
right, then who do I listen to?
A: Listen up, Stupe–around these parts, the Big man IS The Law.
10. Q: What is morality, then?
A: Morality is something that saps like you pay lip service to. But
it’s something that Friends of the Big Man can safely blow off.
‎11. Q: What if, like, by accident, I do something that The Big Man
doesn’t like, only I don’t know it?
A: You only get one chance with the Big Man, so watch your step.
12. Q: What about my conscience?
A: The Big Man is your conscience now. Don’t make him sore.
13. Q: How do I get in good with the Big Man?
A: Why don’t you get wise to yourself? You don’t, see. You best just stay out of his way.
14. Q: What if the cops are after the Big Man? Should I lie to the
cops to protect him?
A: Listen, goof–you can always hand them snoopy cops a line of fancy
bull. But there’s no way can you outsmart the Big Man. Do I have to
spell it out for you?
15. Q: Why does the Big Man have all these rules?
A: For your own protection, Chump. Otherwise, the Big Man might get
sore. You wouldn’t like the Big Man when he gets sore.
16. Q: Is it OK for his men to go to a movie every once in awhile?
A: Yeah, sure. But don’t make a habit of it. The Big Man wants his
Boys to be strictly business.
17. Q: Why doesn’t the Big Man want us to have fun?
A: Who says you ain’t having fun? The Big Man says you are.
18. Q: Does the Big Man care if I have a couple of drinks?
A: Listen, Lusho–you can gamble, steal, and lap up all the bad hooch
you want. Just don’t get sloppy. The Big Man hates it when one of his
Boys can’t hold his liquor.
Q. 19: Is the Big Man angry when we make mistakes?
A: No. Everyone makes mistakes. Everyone…except the Big Man. And the
thing about Big Man? He don’t get mad–he gets even.
Q. 20: How can you get back in favor with the Big Man after you goof up?
A: Glad you asked, bright boy. You can’t, see. Just try to stay out of
his way. Either the Big Man will let it go this time, or else you’re a
gone goose. If he decides… to let it go, then see it don’t happen
again. If you value your health.
Q. 21: Is the Big Man married?
A: The Big Man can’t never get tied down to a Frail. See, they can’t
touch him, but they might try to get to him through his Twist. But
don’t worry–the Big Man gets plenty of trim, believe you me. And how!
Q. 22: How do you get a private appointment with the Big Man?
A: You don’t call on the Big Man–he calls you. And first you gotta
see his secretary. And don’t get any phony ideas, Casanova–she’s
strictly off-limits to crumb-bums like you. And everybody else.
Except–it goes without sayin’– the Big Man.
Q. 23: Why do area businessmen have to fork over half their profits to
the Big Man?
A: Tell ’em that the next time they ask that question, the Big Man’s
rake-off is gonna be double that.
Q. 24: The Big Man just gave me a couple grand. Why?
A: What are you, a Blockhead? He wants you to buy a couple of good
suits. Shoot the works. He likes to see his boys dress sharp.
Q. 25: Does the Big Man think he’s better than everybody else?
A: Maybe. Maybe not. But one thing’s for sure–he’s bigger than
everybody else. You best remember that, Gink, the next time you go
around shooting off your mouth.
Q. 26: Who’s t…he next in line in case the Big Man gets pushed aside?
A: Never you mind who. The only way the Big Man is ever going to leave
this racket is in a coffin. And he’ll sure as hell take everybody else
with him. And you can take that to the bank. Say–you don’t listen
very well, do ya, Jasper? What did I tell you about askin’ so many
smart aleck questions? Listen–the Big Man don’t cotton to loose talk
like that. And you better not make him sore.
Q. 27: No, you got me all wrong! I, I…Say–the Big Man has a sense
of humor, right? I mean, I hear he’s a real swell guy who likes to
have a laugh or two. All I’m sayin’ is, he don’t mind if we k-k-kid
around a little, right?
A: Listen, Simp, and listen good. The Big Man is at least five steps
ahead of Punks like you at all times, so nothing you can say can
possibly hurt him. Sure, he likes a laugh. But if you disrespect him,
he’ll get sore. And believe me–you won’t like the Big Man when he
gets sore.
Q. 28: Well, what would happen if some reporter, who after all is only
doing his job, er, what if he were to make some discreet inquiries,
and let’s just say, just for the sake of argument, that this here
reporter, he just happened to print something that the Big Man didn’t
like?
A: Never mind. The Big Man has a special way with snooping news hawks.
Let’s just say that that would be the last story the nosy ink slinger
would ever write. Hard to write when all your fingers are
broken–ain’t it?
Q. 29: I, I, I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. Honest! B-b-but, I mean,
it’s a free country, ain’t it? Why does the Big Man get to tell
everybody what to do?
A: Don’t worry. I know you didn’t mean nothin’. Let me get back to you
on that one. Gimme your name and address, and the Big Man will send
his Boys around to give you the complete low-down. Now amscray,
Punk–you’re startin’ to get on my nerves. And don’t forget that two
grand I put in your jacket pocket. Oh, and one more thing–don’t try
to leave town. The Big Man will be watching you.
-30-  


2. GIVING US BACK THE TACOS

I am sincerely man from country far away,American girl love money or so they say.I think you are worth a crispy dollar bill.Come to my room fat honey and I give you a thrill.I bought for you tacos, what more do you want?I am your big boss man, I will walk in front.What is this? Why you no have sex?Are you spoiled American fat girl just like the rest?


Chorus: Giving us back the tacos!And the cheesy nachos! I bought for you the Mexican, So giving me the sex you can! 


3. LIBERAL CONSERVATIVES AND CONSERVATIVE LIBERALS

Liberal Conservatives believe any wild conspiracy theory they hear and
adduce it as proof that “they” control everything. Conservative
Liberals parrot every liberal piety unquestioningly, all the while
buffing their ‘question authority’ buttons to a high sheen.


4. KAFKA AND SUPERMODELS

Supermodels are like Kafka’s Hunger Artist in nearly every particular. And both tattoo buffs and concentration camp inmates are surely anticipated in “In the penal Colony”

 
5. From HELL: THE MUSICAL 

[Blue stage lights. Sound of celestial choir, which abruptly ceases. Enter SAINT PETER.]

SAINT PETER: I wonder just what my angels would get up to were I to grant them a special day to do just what they want?

Hmm….Doubtless, a carnival, the feast of fools–the whole notion of king for a day. The bottom is the top and and the top is the bottom.

[Scratching his chin] Something just now occurs to me: heaven is HARD WORK.

[Touching his nose] Do I ever get a day off?  

Maybe…[Rubbing his eye]

Maybe I should put my nebbishy assistant in charge.That goofball Saint Rocco.

[Scratching his head] I’ll bet that idiot would probably take it into his empty head to implement some newfangled ideas.
[Snorting] All having to do with bringing some fun into boring old heaven.

[Sniffing] And I’ll bet it would turn out to be just what you’d expect. Strippers, honky-tonk …a slob’s idea of a good time.

[Rubbing his eyes] Why, I’m sure he could even make a Hell…of Heaven!
 [Stage lights shift to bright red.]
Enter LOUIS ARMSTRONG, who sings:

HELLO, MOLOCH!
Hewwo Mowoch,……well, Hell, oh, Moloch
It’s so nice to be in hell where we belong
You’re lookin’ swell, Moloch…….here in hell, Moloch
Hell is glowin’…hell is growin’…hell is goin’ strong
I feel the doom loomin’……while the bell’s tollin’
One of your old favorite knells from way back when
So….. purse your lips, demons….taste his whip, demons
Moloch’ll never go away….I said he’ll never go away
Moloch’ll never go away again!

6. JIMMY DURANTE

Fact: Jimmy Durante once subsisted entirely on pie crusts.

Also, in his New York saloon days, he had an act titled “Wood Wood Wood” where he and some cronies would chant the title (in the same cadence as Kipling’s “Boots Boots Boots”) while piling up every piece of furniture in the saloon in the middle of the room.

During the ‘eats only pie crusts’ period, some fellow on a train accosted Durante and said “You know, I never did like you”. Jimmy went into an eager song and dance, asking the fellow if there was anything he had done to offend him.  The man replied, “Now I can see why so many people do like you.”

Whereupon Jimmy, beaming, says to his manager, who has just walked in, “Lou, this fella says he likes me!” Lou replied: “So?”

All three stories from Gene Fowler’s Schnozzola, by no means the best of Fowler’s books, but one of the most entertaining
.

http://www.harpers.org/subjects/SchnozzolaTheStoryOfJimmyDuranteBook


Everybody everywhere seemed to love Jimmy. Is he quite possibly the last person about whom that could be said? Nowadays eidoloclasty is a default mode rather than the avant garde.

In fine, Durante was living proof that a great humorist is an unconventional logician, viz: “I hate music, especially when it’s played.”
http://workinghumor.com/quotes/jimmy_durante.shtml


SEE ALSO:
Umbriago
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0vihJmnPqFI


It doesn’t have to be witty or smart, just as long as it comes from the heart.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iauLtTRlfnE


ALSO SEE:
“My sister married one a them!”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iauLtTRlfnE


What’s My Line (1965)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iauLtTRlfnE


7. TOTEM AND TABOO

Totem ‘n’ Taboo would be a wonderful title for an ongoing comic strip, or perhaps even a more ambitious undertaking. I’ve half a mind to set to work on a script this very weekend. I see a tall, scary-looking, moronic, but basically gentle-hearted John Totem, invariably accompanied on his travels by a runty, muscular, ferret-faced man of dark countenence and irascible temperament, Jimmy Taboo. Perhaps, someday, their various misadventures, including “Totem just wants to pet the rabbits” and “Taboo gets drunk” would form the basis of a serio-comic but ultimately darkly mordacious “road” film. It’s gotta be but terrific!


8. SUPERMAN IS AUTISTIC

I mean, not to make fun of a man with this tragic condition, but doesn’t he have nearly all the symptoms? The big red flag for me is that he never seems to need to sleep. I mean, what’s up with that?  And that monotone voice! Also, he has a restricted behavioral repertoire–I mean, he’s always trying to RESCUE people, as though that’s his JOB. (Holden Caulfield, call your office.) I have also observed in him a marked inability to engage in social play. When is the last time you saw the man laugh? What, in fact, would MAKE him laugh? I can’t even IMAGINE it. OK, and get this–isn’t he ALWAYS attending to irrelevant stimuli? Like, “Excuse me Perry, I, err, there’s an emergency”–and he flies out the window! No explanation, no nuthin’! Creepy! Plus, he engages in physical overactivity, always juggling planets, capping volcanoes, rescuing people from tsunamis and earthquakes, and such-like–and, not satisfied with all that, he also wastes his time subduing angry robots, and even nabbing small-time bank-robbers and stickup artists! I mean, couldn’t BATMAN be doin’ that stuff? And he’s definitely oversensitive to noise, which he actually chalks up to “super-hearing,” as if there’s any such thing! Talk about DENIAL! Plus, he’s impervious to pain, or, at least, he professes to be. Get this–people are SHOOTING at him, with REAL bullets–and he just stands there! I’m surprised he doesn’t hug himself and mumble in a cracked sing-song while he’s at it! These are all symptoms. And all that is just for starters. Need I go on? Clark Kent, if possible, is even worse. He always wears the same clothes, AND he is often impersonated by a ROBOT–and nobody ever even NOTICES! And here’s the real capper–he’s described as “mild mannered” even though he’s a REPORTER–that’s right–A REPORTER–and tell me–when’s the last time YOU ever met a mild-mannered reporter? Listen, if I were a shrink, that right there would convince me–inappropriate affect, no body language to speak of, inability to swim in the social world–and remember, this guy is supposed to be a REPORTER! Hey–don’t take my word for it. The pictures posted below are worth a thousand words. 

INAPPROPRIATE AFFECT

http://praxeology.net/lois-lane-blonde.PNGhttp://superdickery.com/index.php?Itemid=45&id=28&layout=blog&option=com_content&view=categoryhttp://superdickery.com/index.php?Itemid=45&id=28&layout=blog&option=com_content&view=category&limitstart=2http://superdickery.com/index.php?Itemid=45&id=28&layout=blog&option=com_content&view=category&limitstart=3http://superdickery.com/index.php?Itemid=45&id=28&layout=blog&option=com_content&view=category&limitstart=5 

LACK OF IMPULSE CONTROL

http://goodcomics.comicbookresources.com/2008/05/17/cool-comic-cover-gallery-superladiesman/http://superdickery.com/index.php?Itemid=45&id=28&layout=blog&option=com_content&view=category&limitstart=252http://superdickery.com/index.php?Itemid=45&id=28&layout=blog&option=com_content&view=category&limitstart=246http://superdickery.com/index.php?Itemid=45&id=28&layout=blog&option=com_content&view=category&limitstart=219http://superdickery.com/index.php?Itemid=45&id=28&layout=blog&option=com_content&view=category&limitstart=212 

DELUSIONAL BEHAVIOR

http://superdickery.com/index.php?Itemid=45&id=28&layout=blog&option=com_content&view=category&limitstart=4http://superdickery.com/index.php?Itemid=45&id=28&layout=blog&option=com_content&view=category&limitstart=225 

FASCINATION WITH SHINY OBJECTS

http://superdickery.com/index.php?Itemid=45&id=28&layout=blog&option=com_content&view=category&limitstart=223http://superdickery.com/index.php?Itemid=45&id=28&layout=blog&option=com_content&view=category&limitstart=215 

CLAPPING BEHAVIOR

http://superdickery.com/index.php?Itemid=45&id=28&layout=blog&option=com_content&view=category&limitstart=205 

ODD PLAY

http://superdickery.com/index.php?Itemid=45&id=28&layout=blog&option=com_content&view=category&limitstart=206 

DIFFICULTY MIXING WITH OTHER PEOPLE

http://superdickery.com/index.php?Itemid=45&id=28&layout=blog&option=com_content&view=category&limitstart=214 

RESTRICTED BEHAVIORAL REPERTOIRE

http://superdickery.com/index.php?Itemid=45&id=28&layout=blog&option=com_content&view=category&limitstart=202 

INTO RULES

http://superdickery.com/index.php?Itemid=45&id=28&layout=blog&option=com_content&view=category&limitstart=200


9. THE CROAKING RAVEN

The Croaking Raven is a non-commercial, viable, well-funded, austere,
businesslike, cold sober, determined, grim, honest, meditative,
no-nonsense, unsmiling, weighty, and, above all, deeply contemplative
band whose wise songs focus on the question of whether the absurd
mockery of life makes any sense at all and if so, what is living for
and why are we here playing our sad roles in this grim farce and what
does it all matter? This groundbreaking music will induce massive
paradigm shifts in the stodgy music industry. This is not for the
phlegmy fat pigs in the three-piece suits. This music will rock the
world.

The band is now in the market for a GUITARIST, BASSIST, DRUMMER, and
MINISTER OF PROPAGANDA. If you have the talent and drive to be in a
successful rock band, and you are not a phlegmy pig in a three-piece
suit, this is the opportunity for you.

SET LIST:
The Anguish
The Apple-trees Bud, But I Do Not
Ashes Of Life
Blight
By Goodness And By Evil So Surrounded
Childhood Is The Kingdom Where Nobody Dies
The Curse
Deep In The Muck Of Unregarded Doom
Desolation Dreamed Of
Elegy Before Death
Gone Over To The Enemy Now And Marshalled Against Me
Here In A Rocky Cup Of Earth
How Did I Bear It–how Could I Possibly As A Child
How Naked, How Without A Wall
In The Grave No Flower
Indifference
Intense And Terrible, I Think, Must Be The Loneliness
Justice Denied In Massachusetts
Mortal Flesh, Is Not Your Place In The Ground?
My Heart, Being Hungry
My Spirit, Sore From Marching
Over The Hollow Land
The Shroud
Some Things Are Dark
A Visit To The Asylum
We Have Gone Too Far; We Do Not Know How To Stop
What Savage Blossom
When Caesar Fell
When It Is Over


10.  THAT’S WHAT I LIKE ABOUT THE SOUTH
Is it true what they say about Dixie? Does that sun really shine all
the time? Are there sweet magnolia blossoms, round every neighbor’s
door? Do folks sit eating possum, ’til they can’t eat no more? (I
suppose there are better things to eat than ‘possum, but ‘fried
chicken’ just doesn’t rhyme that well.) Is it true what they say about
the Swanee? Is a dream by that stream so sublime? (Here, my memory
fails me….)

Southerners are friendly fanatics. Except when they’re angry. When
southerners are angry, they always talk like they would if they were
taking a shit. But the South is the real America. A farm for Athletes
and Soldiers, our genetically inbred warrior noblemen.

Southern pride was no doubt mortally offended by the Sage of
Baltimore’s singularly savage essay “The Sahara of the Bozart”:
http://writing2.richmond.edu/jessid/eng423/restricted/mencken.pdf 


11. THE BALLS

See the Rock Star with his balls —
Swinging balls !
What a world of misery his lack of melody foretells !
How he stumbles and he tumbles,
In the world’s most hostile scene !
Would-be star is over-hyping
All the heathens fall to sniping
With a saturnine delight;
Heaping slime, slime, slime,
In a sort of Punic war,
To that sad abomination that so musically repels:
Saying balls balls balls balls balls
Balls, balls, balls —
To the moaning and the groaning of his band.


12. MEMORANDUM: TO AN ANONYMOUS ANTAGONIST

Know what I’m thinking?

Alas, poor stalker, I have never met you.

This is what I’m thinking.

Clearly, Sir, you are an eater of Ramen noodles with perpetually bloodshot eyes who parrots Rush Limbaugh, buys booze in bottles with plastic handles, pays for sex, owns a post office box to receive clandestine porn, harbors plates of food under your ratty sofa that you dug from a trash heap, sleeps 15 hours a day on a mattress on the floor, wears elastic waist jeans, sports an ironic beard, and never misses his daily viewing of “The Yogi Bear program”. I am sure you are the semi-homeless man I saw digging food from the trash can in the dumpster alley near where the Tower Records store used to be. You also have extensive personal experience with the phenomenon known as cock burn,

My guess is that you are also an eater of Beefaroni straight out of the can, you always scratch your balls in public whether any “pretty ptitsas” are watching you or not, and you think that Howard Stern is totally original and “really out there” and wil divulge this fascinating information to anyone who cares to listen.

For a treat, you raid convenience store “leave a penny-take a penny” bins until you have accumulated eleven cents, and then you gather up 36 discarded empty bottles, then take the ensuing funds and invest in one stick of store brand butter ($0.74), and, for solace, late at night, spread it inches thick on day-old store brand white bread ($1.17), and then lay back in bed, slowly chewing, in an ecstasy of starch and fat.

Your favorite song is “Theme to ‘Wally Gator’,” and you never miss your daily reading of The Boston Herald, which, to your infinite credit, you always contrive to fish out of a trash can. You are also known to go trolling around the hidden dumpster at Finagle a Bagel and retrieve bag-fulls of the day’s leavings. On a rainy day you examine closely the bin books at Goodwill on the off-chance that someone might have left a twenty-spot in one of them.

And you didn’t have sense enough to pound sand in a rat hole.

That’s what I’m thinking. 

THE INFORMATION #1103 JUNE 26, 2020

THE INFORMATION #1103  

JUNE 26, 2020

Copyright 2020 FRANCIS DIMENNO
dimenno@gmail.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com  

None but a poet can write a tragedy. For tragedy is nothing less than pain transmuted into exaltation by the alchemy of poetry.–Edith Hamilton


WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK FOUR: AND IF THE DEVIL COME SHOOT HIM WITH A GUN

PART THREE

10.

AND SO I SIT BETWEEN ALL STOOLS FOREVER

So. Like I said, where I’m hiding out is in the sub-basement of a little pumping station right next to the Spider Gates Cemetery in the little town of Cruikshank. 

The man who looks after the graveyard is a Mr. James Velvet. I know this because I’ve known him since I was a boy. I also know this because he owns a pickup that has his name painted on the driver-side door. 

Across the river from the bone yard is a long-deserted saw mill. About a mile north up the river is the Boffinville Dam, where every summer the town clowns pull up in their bubbletops and haul in all the dead-end no-hope teenage boys who just don’t care if they live or die, who like to dare each other to jump off the top of it. 

Hang around the Town Hall for a day or two and you’ll learn that a lot of the townspeople are still in shock about a furtive and bizarre murder that happened well over eight years ago.

They all still talk about it, even to this day. It’s as though the very thought of that murder had become some semi-legendary physical thing. 

The folks in this town talk about it like you might talk about Pretty Boy Floyd, or Cotton Eyed Joe. “Over there,” they say, “In the Widow Black’s back forty. Where they found the body. The Murder Yard.”

Or they won’t say the Watergate hearings were in 1974. They’ll say it was, “Two years after the killing in The Murder Yard.” 

Funny how one death can tear out eight thousand souls and turn their world into a web of darkness. Knock them from their silly perches so that they feel like they’re falling into endless nothing. 

Cruikshank can be a hard place . Pussies don’t last long. The shit we did.…

No one would ever understand. 

But that’s another story.

I have found that whenever I talk, people are always trying to get an edge in word-wise.

But I am not stupid.

Not at all. 

I know a great many things that ordinary people will never know.

That poor young Kitty Genovese was a slut.

Yogi Bear is a filthy hobo.

Little Red Riding Hood was asking for it.

And you don’t know what you are until you lose it.

Because listen, my friends. Here are a few more things you may not know:

Love, and a cough, soon dies.

You can be surrounded by friends just as surely as by enemies.

Fear is the father of happiness.

Your will power is also your tyrant.

100,000 men and 100,000 dollars are never wrong.

Free will is not free. Or maybe we will all have free will if only we submit ourselves to God’s word.

Anger is better than a laugh.

We’re all on a train to nowhere.

And the world is a playground where madmen grow dizzy.

11.

KEEPING THE WHITE MAN DOWN 

I have always wanted to be a cop.

Most people grow up not knowing who they are and what they want to do.

I knew who I was from the very outset, and I also knew exactly what I could do and what I was made to do and what I would do.

But–what is wrong with this picture? Two years of community college, nearly ten years on the force, and–me still crawling a beat.

And it’s not like I don’t potentially have at least some juice with the boys upstairs.

There’s Dad. Old Cappy they call him. Runs the Madport P.D. He was overjoyed when I first joined the force. “I’ll help you out in any way I can,” he said. That quickly changed, as I slowly went nowhere. Now he whistles a different tune. “You have to make your own way,” he says, on one of the few occasions he decides to talk to me at all.

I guess I’m a disappointment to him. 31. Not married. No kids. Hey—I make my own decisions. All that happens will happen in my own good time.

Or maybe the buck stops here.

So if it isn’t my job performance and it isn’t Dad exactly standing in my way, I got to thinking, then what was keeping me down?

Maybe I’m just stubborn when it comes to what’s right.

So maybe the whole thing started because I wanted to get ahead. So I was looking into a murder case, strictly on my own time, in that very same little town of Cruikshank about 12 miles south of the city.

Nobody asked me to or told me to. It was just one of those crazy ideas I had. I was working off my own head of steam. 

An eleven year old girl named Martha Maddox Corbett.  Lived in Cruikshank where she grew up all her short life. Missing from Bigtown on the first day she was bussed to school. 

September 13, 1971. That date was burned into my brain.

Over eight years had gone by, and it was a cold cold case. I just happened to see it again when I was rearranging some files down in the basement. I was looking at the jacket of a baddie named Frank Cooney. Swindler, reduced from booze and pills to change his M.O. to sneak thief and cat burglar. I pulled the CO file and out slid the Corbett file, which fell onto the floor.

After I finished with Cooney I picked up the Corbett file to put it back.

If I could turn back my life I suppose at that point I should have quickly slid it back into its proper place and never opened it at all.

Because maybe then I wouldn’t have been preoccupied on Halloween night. Thinking about her.

Then maybe none of this wouldn’t have happened.

Suspended. Fired?

Lying low.

Hiding out.

And waiting for the axe to fall.

But I didn’t put it back, and everything that did happen as a result did happen.

What I saw made me sick. 

I remembered how the Corbett girl had been shipped off to W.E.B. DuBois Junior High, the worst school in the entire City, all because some chuckleheaded judge in Old Town decided that racial equality was something that ought to be achieved on the backs of the working stiffs.  I know I sound bitter and prejudiced but that’s what it amounted to. And I’m not the only one who thought so at the time. A lot of men on the other side of the fence who I ordinarily take issue with also agreed. Maybe not all of them at that time, but a little bit later.

Anyhow, there she was again. Her picture. A little white girl with the kind of angel face that makes you go ‘Awwwww’. An Irish Rose. With the Irish measles. Freckles all over her cute little face. A cunning little gap between her left incisor and third molar. For Christ’s sake, she even had a little pink ribbon in her hair.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a sentimental guy. I don’t go in for the cute. But something about the little kid choked me up. Because there she was…dead, and who can say why. Long dead. The fucking case was never solved and her assailant was no doubt still out there and still breathing free air.

And it burned me.

Because all through the seventies, law enforcement was lax around Bigtown and the other neighborhoods of Noxtown south of Bigtown. I don’t have to go into all the reasons why. Let it suffice to just mention a few.  Disrespect for authority. Willingness of citizens to sue for so-called brutality. And orders from the top dogs to look the other way when it came to drugs.

Plus, though I hate to say it, a lot of cops were on the arm. I might have been too, only I didn’t need for word of this to get back to old Cappy. So I was the hold-out. Most of the guys in the precinct understood why I had to watch my step, but they didn’t hold it against me none. I never got on my high horse about what was their business, and I never threw my weight around about my Dad who was a Police Captain.

But people talk.

If there’s one thing–in my world or any other–that you very quickly learn, it’s that…people talk.

You don’t ever want to be the Rose of anybody’s eye in this world, except maybe your mother’s.

Because people talk. First they say nice things, then they start to wonder to themselves and then they start to wonder out loud just what it is you do on your own time, then they start to whisper, and the next thing you know, they’ve tagged you as a loner and a nut.

Doesn’t matter if you play by the rules, their rules, and you always try to do right. People talk. And there’s always going to be one or two people in the precinct who just don’t like you.

I’m on the night shift. We have a nickname for ourselves: the Coast Defenders. Don’t ask me where that got started. If anything, we’re doing little more than batting cleanup because we’re overrun by the poor slobs who we’re always busting for petty misdemeanors. Plus, on the graveyard shift, a lot of our job is rousting rowdy college kids who wander down from Nob Hill, looking for a good time. Can’t roust them for underage drinking; the age was lowered to eighteen a few years back. Can’t haul them in for puking on the street. Can’t haul them in for being stupid, as much as you might like to. You never really know who their daddies are, and whether the beef might get back to the Sarge or skip the chain of command altogether, and you’re hauled before the Captain of the Bigtown Precinct.

Captain Claiborne doesn’t much like me. He always refers to me as “old-timer” even though I’ve only just turned thirty-one and the old fuck is fifty years old if he’s a day. He’s as much as told me to my face that I’m a loser and a fuck-up. And lazy.

Lazy I’m not. That’s where I took offense. “Look, Cap,” I told him flat out. “I make mistakes. But I always clean up my own mess. And don’t call me lazy because I’ve never cooped. Ever. Not one time.”

That shut him up. Sort of. Every other guy on graveyard has cooped, and he knew it. But instead, he said “What’s this I hear about you cutting a perp a break whenever it suits you?”

I got hot. “Look, Cap, I’m not going to waste an hour filing a report on some 80 year old dame caught in some all-night Bodega sticking a couple of cans of cat food in her handbag. Can’t I just be let go to do the real job?”

And then, like any politician, when he’s faced with a question he can’t answer, he changes the subject. “I don’t know what you think this job is all about. But I do know that I want you to do the job you’re paid to do. I’m putting you on notice, and I’m going to be keeping my little eye on you.”

Claiborne is about as slick as they come, always dodging bullets, and I’m sure that crack about cleaning up my own mess just stuck in his craw, because he was always palming off his own mistakes by saying it was bad police work by his men. I had my own private name for Claiborne. He was Captain No-Go Showboat. Looks good in the showroom, but was never meant to be taken out on the road. 

He hates me because I’m the exact opposite. Office cops like him are a dime a dozen., I’m one in a thousand. I’m a 1968 Fury III, a two door semi-fastback hardtop 383 Super Commando with a 4 barrel and special cam and a four speed manual transmission with floor-mounted shifter.

When the Corbett case first came up, Claiborne had just been promoted to Lieutenant, and although much hoo-hah was made in the papers about extra manpower and every available officer on this case and all that other guff, I have a feeling that all that was more for show.

Why? Because Corbett’s people weren’t anybody important. 

What Claiborne actually did was order one of the squad bosses to tell the men to work on the case on their own time, and then he just promptly forgot about the whole thing. You got the distinct impression that the murder of some little girl just wasn’t a very high priority.

Especially if it risked riling up the militant elements in the black community. 

Because you just knew that if the cops went knocking on doors and taking down names, they’d be hollering about Gestapo tactics and the like. Never mind that we were all about saving lives and bringing wrongos to justice. No, as far as they were concerned, the police could do nothing right. 

I shouldn’t say they all thought like that, but the loudest two per cent did all the talking and nobody else ever stood up and said they were full of shit, so what other conclusion can you draw?

You should have heard them hollering back about seven years ago, back in 1972, when some old retired postman who lived in a triple-decker right next to the projects got sick of being burglarized and rigged his first floor back door to fire off a shotgun when somebody tried to break in. A fourteen-year-old junkie got it in the face and died, and the old man was hauled away on a murder one beef, later reduced to voluntary manslaughter. The judge was inclined to let him out on probation, but the community hollered so loud the old guy got shipped off downstate to the Pen in Plaza Del Sol and for all I know, he’s still cooling his heels in there.

Anyway, don’t get me wrong. I’m no plaster saint. Because I was also thinking that if I could solve this Corbett murder on my own time it might mean a promotion. Then maybe my old man finally would take some notice of me. 

Instead of scrunching up his nose whenever he saw me.

Exactly like Joe Shit the Ragman just walked into the room.*1 SALUTATION
COWBOYS INTERNATIONALM(EMORIE) 62https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5Am2EKQ8xwc&list=PL5CjILiSbSXpWFPsDwEfeIkNTx33Da_lc&index=3 
AFTERMATHhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZQRtdcNAMio&list=PL5CjILiSbSXpWFPsDwEfeIkNTx33Da_lc&index=5 

*2 REFERENCE

EMOTIONAL CONTAGION

https://www.researchgate.net/publication/224088084_A_model_for_emotional_contagion_based_on_the_emotional_contagion_scale

ALSO SEE:

YOU CAN NOW DELETE YOUR WORST FACEBOOK POSTS ALL AT ONCE  

3*HUMOR

HERSCHELL GORDON LEWIS ON MATCHING YOUR VOCABULARY WITH YOUR INTENDED PROSPECT’S

ALSO SEE:

COPYWRITING SUCCESS SECRETS

4*NOVELTY

TROUSER PRESS MAGAZINE ARCHIVE

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST

NEW ENGLAND HISTORICAL SOCIETY 

THE LITTLE CANADAS OF NEW ENGLAND

6* DAILY UTILITY

MASKS PRINTED WITH YOUR OWN FACE

ALSO SEE:

DOG GROOMING FAILS

https://www.insider.com/hilarious-photos-of-dog-haircut-fails-in-quarantine-2020-6

*7 CARTOON

RANKING THE BEST 60S TV SHOWS

https://www.itsrosy.com/The+Best+And+Worst+’60s+TV+Shows,+Ranked

8*PRESCRIPTION

WINE-BRAISED CHICKEN WITH MUSHROOMS

https://www.washingtonpost.com/recipes/wine-braised-chicken-mushrooms/17498/

ALSO SEE:

GARLIC-ROASTED BROCCOLI

9* RUMOR PATROL

ALIEN CIVILIZATIONS

https://www.independent.co.uk/life-style/gadgets-and-tech/news/alien-civilisation-home-galaxy-intelligent-life-form-planets-a9566061.html

10*LAGNIAPPE

PERE UBU

CHINESE RADIATION

LAUGHING

HEART OF DARKNESS (LIVE)

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

MAGICAL REALISM

Is neither.

12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE

“PEG” BY STEELY DAN

“Peg” sounds like something an ambitious but vindictive vacuum cleaner would compose, if it possessed sentient thought.

THE INFORMATION #1102 JUNE 19, 2020

THE INFORMATION #1102  

JUNE 19, 2020

Copyright 2020 FRANCIS DIMENNO
dimenno@gmail.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com  

The only stable state is the one in which all men are equal before the law. ~ Aristotle


WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK FOUR: AND IF THE DEVIL COME SHOOT HIM WITH A GUN

PART TWO

5.

THE TWITCHING HOUR

Listen: it’s true.


All true.

But I hardly even know where to begin.

I got the jitters, bad. But I’m writing through them. Mouth dry; wringing with sweat.

An overdose. A bad one.

You ever do speed, you know how it gets. 

You’re jumpy. You can hardly hold still. You have your high beams on. You want to be up and about. Doing what, you don’t know. Because you think too much and yet you can’t really think. Thoughts go dancing like marbles on linoleum, like a blob of mercury on a hot griddle, like a chicken on a hot plate.

And maybe your stomach’s empty, but you can’t eat. Won’t eat. If you do eat, it’s something crunchy. Snack food. A moth-eaten candy bar. Potato chips. Salt peanuts. It’s that salt you crave. Your mouth gets dryer; your throat gets raw. You can’t swallow. The muscles in your arms tremble. You try drinking water; it doesn’t work. Popping vitamins? Good luck. Because you tremble. Nothing can stop that. Your heart feels like a flayed rat skittering across the inside of your rib cage. Everywhere the machinery is humming. Nothing is still.  Your blood pulses. 

You’re quick. 

So quick you can’t even imagine what it must be like to be stone fucking dead. 

And you look at the world through a lens called speed. You get so you can tell with one look who’s a user. Mr. Clean? You bet your ass. Josephine the Plumber? Fuckin’ A. Mr. Zip? Just one look at those crazed pupils ought to tell you. Uncle Ben? Once upon a time. Cream of Wheat Man? No doubt about it. Charlie Tuna? Even odds. Aunt Jemima? Probably not. Too slow. Mrs. Butterworth? Too old. The Smith Brothers? Well—ask yourself this. Look at those beards. 

What are they trying to hide?

6. A CLEAR SIGNAL FROM BETWEEN THE CHANNELS

Lots of hiding going on, it seems. I’m finally getting a clear signal from between the channels. A rather indignant black lady is spieling about what she refers to as “the coming race war” and shouting,

The NAACP was started by Cecil Rhodes and a Zionist Rabbi to keep the race from its destined advancement! I’ve read a book and I’ve heard the Hooty Owl, I have, and for going on the last 70 years the NA so-called ACP has controlled the free proud African man away from self-advancement and instead has reduced him to begging for crumbs  from the Chalky White’s table! It’s a fact that this organization has been selling us out for going on 70 years and the black man has been too naïve to know it! The NAACP was not an integrationist movement but simply a means by which Mr. Charlie and his devils made certain for sure that CERTAIN people were given a leg up while the rest of us were left to shift for ourselves! I’m telling you that this organization was founded BY white people FOR white people! It took them nearly 50 years to pass an anti-lynching bill! That’s how much these people loved the black man! Now, you know and I know that if white men was being lynched for fucking black women, that bill would have been passed yesterday! Furthermore, the NAACP spied on the black community and still does! It’s an ahistorical fact! And the Broze….

But then the transmission started breaking up again, and I went back to staring hard at the light.

And sometimes praying.

And thinking.

Thinking about certain facts worth mentioning. 

In the light coming from the furnace grate.   

7.

CERTAIN FACTS WORTH MENTIONING

The seven deadly sins are over-rated.

Pride is not deadly, just stupid.

Envy is a part of being every animal.

Avarice will never go away, even when you have everything you want. There’s always more. More speed, more kicks, more action.

But don’t mistake me for one of them god damn beatniks. 

I am a working man.

Sloth? Just make sure you always have something to wake up for, even if it’s a just a yen. Could be you have just got to have some smokehouse almonds, or peanut butter crackers, or stale popcorn, or Bar-B-Cue flavored potato chips, like they have in the vending machines over at the Bigtown precinct house. Or maybe you’d rather go to the barred and iron-gated  Bodega round the corner to stock up on pork rinds and beef jerky. I don’t know how some of those cop buddies of mine don’t keel over dead considering all the salt and fat they slobber down. And they all to a man just love those cheap-ass Peanut Butter Cups.

One day I took a walk around the block and thought about it.

Don’t they leave a kind of scratchy feeling in your throat and a kind of dirty feeling on the back of your tongue?

Don’t you occasionally get a big piece of salt?

And the chocolate in them doesn’t seem to be very good.

And God knows where they get the peanut butter from. It’s probably the shit that got left behind in the warehouse and has been forgotten since the George Washington Carver Centennial.

Of course, since they’re made for kids, you get this enormous sugar rush followed by a completely empty feeling about 5 minutes later.

You might have guessed that Gluttony is not my thing. It’s no problem for a man who, every time he eats, tastes sawdust.

Lust? Kid stuff. 

And…Anger? 

8.

CRIMINALS IN THIS WORLD OF FEAR

Don’t get me started. Apes have a killer glare, you know. You see it in some of the perps on the street. I don’t judge a man by his race or the color of his skin or his big fat juicy lips or his greasy wide nostrils or his kinky hair or his bloodshot yellow eyes, but you look at the face of some of the boys in Bigtown and Blowtown and especially over there in Jivetown and you’ll see murder all over that map. It’s all anger 24/7 with those boys. Keeps them skinny and on the move. Ever notice how they can’t keep still? But they’re not hopped up on leapers; that’s attitude. The world has given them a cold reception and their hot blood starts to boil over every time they start to think, which isn’t any too often but often enough.

I shake the radio and finally start to get another transmission from between the channels. This time it is a black man with a creamy, almost monotone voice, who is saying, n a sorrowful tone:

DuBois was a member of the Sigma Pi Phi, also known as the Broze’, founded in 1904 This is a very very secret society that helped bring down Marcus Garvey. This was basically an organization created for and by so-called Negroes whose middle name was “sell out.” It is funded by none other than the Rockefellers. So what we see is a bunch of white-faced NEE-groes getting ahead on the backs of their 20 million black brothers, all in cahoots with the Jew-controlled NAACP. Seems as though the white devil don’t want us to have nothin’, unless he can control it and be the shot-caller. Just like the black slave-driver who worked for Massa up in the big house. As a special treat, Massa, why, he would even let the driver sit on the special bench reserved for white men, maybe once or twice a year. That’s because he was a good NEE-gro! He spied for the white man and he lashed the back of his black brethren and even helped Massa when he decided to lynch him some bad NIH-groes! 

Very much to my regret, I decided that at this point I had to turn the radio off to save the battery, just in case I needed it.

But I still heard the echoes. 

And the echoes got me to thinking.

9.

THERE IS VERY LITTLE I CAN DO  

I am not a fiend by nature, which is something you will learn very quickly once you get to know me a little, but I look at some of these apes who walk down the street acting as if they own it, and, these days, for all intents and purposes they do, because if you so much as bruise their purple wrists slapping on the darbies then off they go and holler police brutality and before you know it you’re surrounded by a whole screeching tribe of them and radioing for backup. 

But sometimes I leaf through a catalog of what I would like to do to them. It’s a very interesting little list. 

Maybe I would throw them in the lake, None of them can swim; they’ll sink like a stone to the bottom, but just to make it interesting maybe we could throw some gators and snapping turtles in there.

Or maybe I would hole them up in a cave full of snakes and wall up the exit with a gigantic boulder. 

Or roll them up inside a carpet and tape it up and roll it down a hill into speeding traffic.

Or they could be broken on the wheel. Torn apart by two trees. Hanged at the Yard-Arm and keel-hauled, as the old Captain would say. 

Or sometimes I picture myself throwing them from a window. 

Throwing them off a cliff.

Throwing a car tire around their neck and setting it on fire, like Haagenti suggests. 

Tying them to an iron armchair and lighting a great big fire underneath it.

Sure, they have souls.

I know that.

But it would be a small loss. 

Because sooner or later they’re all going to be caught and punished anyway. 

Then they’ll piss when they can’t whistle. 


They’ll dance the Newgate hornpipe, as the Old Captain would tell you.

They’ll have a blind date with old sparky, like Haagenti likes to say.

But sometimes I have another picture in my pan.

Sometimes I think that maybe…the greatest happiness…would be to be not born at all. 


Into this feast of hungry and thirsty fools!
*1 SALUTATION
TOM JONES

THUNDERBALL

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WDj4jytrsVY  
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GSnyETEBAFw  

ALSO SEE:  

THE GRAINS OF SAND

THAT’S WHEN HAPPINESS BEGAN

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rD3BMv6vmxY  

THE MONTANAS

THAT’S WHEN HAPPINESS BEGAN

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bj62QCFAfJk  

*2 REFERENCE

POLICE RADIO CODES
https://web.stanford.edu/~reneeb/bill/n.radio.code.html    

EMS DISPATCH CODES

https://wiki.radioreference.com/index.php/Priority_Dispatch_Codes

3*HUMOR

Bruce Jay Friedman’s cartoonist son reflects on his father’s legacy

https://jewishinsider.com/2020/06/bruce-jay-friedmans-cartoonist-son-reflects-on-his-fathers-legacy/

4*NOVELTY

BUFFALO X 8

https://www.wikiwand.com/en/Buffalo_buffalo_Buffalo_buffalo_buffalo_buffalo_Buffalo_buffalo

ALSO SEE:

THAT X 7

https://www.englishclub.com/ref/esl/Power_of_7/7_Thats_2948.php

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST

IBM IS CANCELING ITS FACIAL RECOGNITION PROGRAMS

https://www.cnn.com/2020/06/09/tech/ibm-facial-recognition-blm/index.html

6* DAILY UTILITY

50 LOST MOVIE CLASSICS

https://www.theguardian.com/film/2006/dec/17/3

ALSO SEE: 

CLASSIC 70S MOVIES THAT TIME FORGOT

https://collider.com/best-70s-movies-underrated/

CLASSIC 80S MOVIES THAT TIME FORGOT

https://collider.com/best-80s-movies-that-time-forgot/

CLASSIC 90S MOVIES THAT TIME FORGOT

https://collider.com/best-90s-movies-underrated/

*7 CARTOON

DACRON REPUBLICAN-DEMOCRAT

SWILLMART

http://media.spokesman.com/photos/2011/05/19/swillmart_t470.jpg?84974f3f373deb0dda0f75a22ddd9b7d3a332b26

FULL TEXT

http://dacronrepublicandemocrat.blogspot.com/2015/01/blog-post.html?_sm_au_=iVVMPZqFRVJspQLs803WKK6HVL2M2

8*PRESCRIPTION

HOW TO TELL WHETHER YOU’VE GOT ANGST, ENNUI, OR WELTSCHMERZ

https://www.mentalfloss.com/article/58230/how-tell-whether-youve-got-angst-ennui-or-weltschmerz

9* RUMOR PATROL
Snopes: Will Posting This Notice Stop Facebook or Instagram from Making Your Posts Public?
“WARNING: Everything you’ve ever posted becomes public from tomorrow!”

10*LAGNIAPPE

GIUFFRE, BLEY & SWALLOW

EMPHASIS (LIVE)

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

THE HUMOR OF THE COLORED SUPPLEMENT (1906)

BY RALPH BERGENGREN“…step for a moment into the world of childish fantasy, closing the iron door behind us and trying to shut out the clamor of hooting mobs, the laughter of imbeciles, and the crash of explosives….”

FULL TEXT:

12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE

HOW TO END TOXIC RELATIONSHIPS ONCE AND FOR ALL

FULL TEXT:

https://books.google.com/books/about/How_to_End_Toxic_Relationships_Once_and.html?id=ylamsUDLS-sC

THE INFORMATION #1101 JUNE 12, 2020

THE INFORMATION #1101  

JUNE 12, 2020

Copyright 2020 FRANCIS DIMENNO
dimenno@gmail.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com  
There is nothing permanent except change.– Heraclitus  
WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK FOUR: AND IF THE DEVIL COME SHOOT HIM WITH A GUN
PART ONE

1.

WOKE UP DEAD

Jesus walked through that door about fifteen minutes ago.

Maybe I am already dead but I simply don’t know it. 

Awake now. 

Dreaming I died. 

And when I woke. 

I. 

Was. 

Dead.

It is because these days I am dreaming dreaming I died all the time that I decide to hole up for a while. Hole up here, where none will ever find me. 

I feel I have to take time and vanish so I can take time and put down what happened over the past forty-nine days.  

So I am now holed up in the sub-basement at the end of the service tunnel under a power station in the town of Cruikshank listening to a transistor radio in the shape of an Amoco gas pump. 

It was given to me ten years ago on December 9, 1969, on the occasion of my 19th birthday. A joke gift from my father, Police Detective Proctor Purson Jr. A cute stunt. 

He also gave me a short-wave radio.

Good old Dad! But Diamond Jim, he is not.

I don’t have the short wave. So I listen especially hard to the transistor radio because sometimes I hear transmissions from between the channels, messages from the ABC. Dedicated to exposing the doings of the Sigma Pi Pi Fraternity Incorporated.  

The reception is lousy. There’s a great deal of buzzing and static but every so often I can make out sentence fragments.

The blue-eyed white devil. 

Know thyself, boy.

And The Biblical truth of Abraham and Adam.

2.

THE TRIBUNAL

But let me tell you more about that dream. 

It was three cops being interrogated by a committee. 

One was the man who used to be me. The cop who used to have my job a long long time ago. 

The Old Chief, they call him now. 

The other was my partner, second generation cop, Haagenti, the lifer. The Kraut, they call him.

And the third was me. 

Proctor Purson III. Third-generation fuzz, and damn proud of it too.

About this dream. It it, the three of us were meeting with a bunch of civilians. Who were saying the drugs and the burglaries and the muggings in Bigtown have gotten out of hand. It’s 1979 they said, only it feels like its 1965 and 1966 and 1967 and 1968 all over again. 

We told them over and over that there is nothing that can be done with the resources at our disposal and boilerplate of that sort like we always use when pols and civilians complain. What it always comes down to is this: We need more money to do our jobs. 

So the recommendation comes down, only it’s a crazy recommendation like in a dream. 

The recommendation that these civilians come up with is top out of sight nuts. It is that every adult in the town forks over a hundred bucks and then we’d have a cool million and we’d use that million as collateral to float a bond for ten million and we’d use that ten million to get matching funds for another ten million and with twenty million we’d tear down all the slums and build all kinds of indoor swimming pools and parks and basketball courts for the kids and keep them off the streets and then there’d be no more crime so we could lay off some of the police and to hell with the union as with the money we’d save Bigtown would be an urban paradise and attract all kinds of outside investment. 

The Old Chief said right out loud that there was no way he could float such a crazy scheme. 

Old Haagenti, my partner, he wouldn’t commit either way but for some reason he seemed to be inclined to vote in favor of it. 

So it was up to me to make the decisive speech either for or against.

So I fingered a superman pill from out of my wallet hidey-hole and roiled him around in my cupped palm, and then, like real sly, I scratched the bottom of my lip above my chin with my thumb and popped that friendly leaper right into my waiting mouth.

I sucked on the roof of my mouth to get the saliva flowing and swallowed and then I was ready to talk.  

I said that first of all, some people are just plain bad and there’s just no getting around it. Look at the projects up in the Heights, and the way they turned paradise into a cesspool. Garbage in the streets. Rats and roaches. Some people are not clean and are not respectful and no matter how much you give them they just won’t do right. You take any city of one million no matter and you’re always going to find ten thousand criminals. It’s human nature and you’re just never going to change it. 

I was getting good and going—in the dream—and so I really let ‘em have it. 

Anybody can run a police department. It’s easy!!!

Four dollars an hour for all the cops because all they do is steal apples from the fruit vendor so they don’t need to be paid for, like, doing real work. Glorified security guards is all they are, the lot of ‘em. Four dollars is plenty. If they don’t like it, let them take a job in a grocery store where they can steal all the apples they want.

The support staff can work for free. They never have to pay for parking tickets or anything and they can live off of the donations kindly provided by all the bailed-out cut-throats and murderers.

The desk sergeant can work for tips. 

The district attorney can donate his services pro bono, as his job isn’t really work at all and he should be paying the city for the privilege of all that political experience.

The city will pay the rent on the precinct house and the county lockup and it won’t cost them a cent, because groovy politicians can sweet-talk bank loans from hip bankers who are down with the people and not on a piggie capitalist trip. Just lay a lid of good “boo” on the chuckleheads and give them low-numbered license plates and they’ll gladly loan the city whatever they want.

Oh! Oh! And here’s another million-dollar idea!!!

We can keep bearded lavender unicorns in a grassy greenhouse in back of the station house so the ladies can go ooh and ahh and stroke their shiny fur! Five cents admission.

Needless to say, this kind of sarcasm didn’t go over too swell with the aggregated citizens, many of whom, I saw, were some real ugly customers. “Police characters,” the old Chief used to call them, meaning that there were some very sketchy individuals who had managed to worm their way into this so- called tribunal.

Before I knew it, me, the Old Chief, and my partner were surrounded by some pretty rough customers, and they were tugging at my jacket and before I could reach my gun they had torn off all my clothes and were tugging at my arms and legs and my skin was coming off in their hands and the muscles were being pulled out like drawstrings on a pair of old gym shorts and the pain was so great that I woke up.

In a basement. 

Looking at the back grate of an old rusty black and white furnace. 

Red glow warping to orange.

Smell of creosote.

Watching my life unspool this way is like watching a writhing ball of fucking garter snakes.

Initially, fascinating in a horrible way.

Then, disgusting.

Finally, unbearable.

3.

ZONKED FOR BUSINESS

When I came to my new home here late last night I climbed down these stairs with no sure way of knowing if I would ever climb up them again. I crossed the service tunnel. Dark. 

I don’t believe.

I don’t believe in too much light. 

Hurts my eyes, can’t think. 

I can think real well in the dark.

The bare basement with its cross ties overhead barely six feet and me five nine. A single bulb. Concrete floor. Where maybe some day I can be alone with my Lady. 

Shit on the floor. What gives? 

Is that the moon shining through the window at street level or is it the one bare overhead bulb? 

I guess down here is where the janitor used to keep a cot. Suits me. Free rent. Fine.

Heat from the furnace keeps me warm. Smells like hot oil. Tar. Smoke is in the air. 

Down here is the furnace of hell. You don’t have to wait for the end of the world; not when some certain judgment stares you right in your face. 

Even mice don’t come down here. Since I laid down the poisoned bait. 

I stepped on a dead baby mouse with my bare foot. Still warm.

It felt…strangely good.

I have the key. And it’s the only key.

Nobody else even knows about this place.

Nobody knows I’m here.

No body.

The radio buzzes and then I hear something about how this country was founded by criminals. Then I hear something about the house Nih-groes versus field Nee-groes. And “The National Association for the Advancement of Certain People.” 

4.

THE LOSERS CAN ALSO WRITE HISTORY

Listen: it’s true.

The losers can also write history.

Who can stop them?

And what do they got to lose?

This is why I write. To get it all down. The way it happened. And why it happened. 

And how.

Sure, sure, sure, keep it to yourself, nobody wants to hear it. That’s what the old men say.

Because they think they’ve heard it all.

But they’re wrong.

They’ve never heard anything like this.

And I’ve got to tell this story. Alanna Volac, Baby Boy Maddox, Professor Otremo, all of it.

Because I think that if I do not tell this story, I will die.


*1 SALUTATION
BARRY GOLDBERG REUNION
HOLE IN MY POCKET
https://youtu.be/4DSI3uA8IhM

ALSO SEE:

THE AUTHENTIC PSYCHEDELIC ERA

LAST OF THE GARAGE PUNK UNKNOWNS

*2 REFERENCE

SEDNA

3*HUMOR

GEORGE WILL ON 45

https://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/no-one-should-want-four-more-years-of-this-taste-of-ashes/2020/06/01/1a80ecf4-a425-11ea-bb20-ebf0921f3bbd_story.html

ALSO SEE:

THE ATLANTIC

HISTORY WILL JUDGE THE COMPLICIT

https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2020/07/trumps-collaborators/612250/

4*NOVELTY

PAUL AUSTER’S WRITING MACHINE

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST

FAKE CALLS ABOUT YOUR SOCIAL SECURITY NUMBER

Ask them it’s it’s really the Social Security Administration and they’ll hang up. 

https://www.consumer.ftc.gov/blog/2018/12/fake-calls-about-your-ssn

6* DAILY UTILITY

BOB DYLAN’S 40 FAVORITE BOOKS

‘The Life and Times of Sonny Barger and the Hell’s Angels Motorcycle Club’ by Sonny Barger
‘War and Peace’ by Leo Tolstoy
‘Parting the Waters: America in the King Years 1954-63’ by Taylor Branch
‘Tropic of Cancer’ by Henry Miller
‘Stories’ by Anton Chekhov
‘On War’ by Carl von Clausewitz
‘Victory’ by Joseph Conrad
‘The Complete Poetry and Prose’ by John Donne
‘The Anchor Anthology of French Poetry’ by Angel Flores
‘Jerry Garcia: The Collected Artwork’ by Jerry Garcia
‘One Hundred Dollar Misunderstanding’ by Robert Gover
‘The White Goddess’ by Robert Graves
‘Ringolevio: A Life Played for Keeps’ by Emmett Grogan
‘Last Train to Memphis: The Rise of Elvis Presley’ by Peter Guralnick
‘Bound for Glory’ by Woody Guthrie
‘The Odyssey’ by Homer
‘Mexico City Blues’ by Jack Kerouac
‘On The Road’ by Jack Kerouac
‘Backstage Passes and Backstabbing Bastards’ by Al Kooper
‘The Land Where the Blues Began’ by Alan Lomax
‘Mister Jelly Roll: The Fortunes of Jelly Roll Morton, New Orleans Creole and “Inventor of Jazz”’ by Alan Lomax
‘Girl from the North Country’ by Conor McPherson
‘Moby Dick’ by Herman Melville
‘The Blues Line: A Collection of Blues Lyrics’ by Eric Sackheim
‘Naked Lunch’ by William S. Burroughs
‘Woody Guthrie: Radical American Patriot’ by Bill Nowlin
‘Deep Blues: A Musical and Cultural History of the Mississippi Delta’ by Robert Palmer
‘All Access: The Rock ‘n’ Roll Photography of Ken Regan’ by Ken Regan
‘All Quiet on the Western Front’ by Erich Maria Remarque
‘The Oxford Book of English Verse’ by Christopher Ricks
‘A Season in Hell & The Drunken Boat’ by Arthur Rimbaud
‘Howl, Kaddish and Other Poems’ by Allen Ginsberg
‘Confessions of a Yakuza’ by Junichi Saga
‘The American Songbag & Selected Poems’ by Carl Sandburg
‘Honkers and Shouters: The Golden Years of Rhythm and Blues’ by Arnold Shaw
‘The Grapes of Wrath’ by John Steinbeck
‘The Dave Stewart Songbook: The Stories Behind The Songs’ by Dave Stewart
‘Thucydides: The War of the Peloponnesians and the Athenians’ by Thucydides
‘Poems’ by Henry Timrod
‘The Conscience of the Folk Revival: The Writings of Israel “Izzy” Young’ by Scott Barrett

ALSO SEE:

THE VENTURES OF ZIMMERMAN

https://www.punkhart.com/dylan/images/zimmerman.html

*7 CARTOON

COVID 19 PREVENTION CARTOON

8*PRESCRIPTION

JACK LA LANNE

I mostly stopped consuming sugary foods when I was 11. Because Jack LaLanne told me to.

9* RUMOR PATROL

THE PROBLEM WITH CONSPIRACY THEORIES

10*LAGNIAPPE

ELVIS COSTELLO & BILL FRISELL

DEEP DEAD BLUE

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

GEORGE MARTIN

“Well, for a start, I don’t like your tie.”–George Harrison, on first meeting George Martin.
www.rollingstone.com/music/music-features/george-martin-recalls-the-boys-in-the-band-115547/  

…it was Lennon’s idea to add a menagerie of animal sounds to the song’s coda. Martin arranged their order of appearance so that each successive animal is capable of eating or frightening the one heard before it.

www.guitarworld.com/features/song-facts-beatles-good-morning-good-morning 

12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTUREWHAT NEXT?You may select from a menu of the following:

Another pandemic, worst than the first.
Hurricanes cause massive damage up and down the Eastern Seaboard.
Nation’s financial institutions go into free fall.
Unemployment currently at 20%; reaches 25 to 40%.
Interest rates skyrocket.
Gas prices double.
Hot War with China.There is a major terrorist attack on US soil. Ensuing war against faceless locationless enemy.
The Midwest experiences a heat wave more unprecedented than any other.
The Democratic party splits into two ineffectual factions. 


I fear at least one of these will happen. We may even get all ten. 

THE INFORMATION #1100 JUNE 5, 2020

THE INFORMATION #1100  

JUNE 5, 2020

Copyright 2020 FRANCIS DIMENNO
dimenno@gmail.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com  

Scraps of memory: this is not how a climax should be written. A climax should surge towards its Himalayan peak; but I am left with shreds, and must jerk towards my crisis like a puppet with broken strings. This is not what I had planned; but perhaps the story you finish is never the one you begin.
― Salman Rushdie    

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE

BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN

CHAPTER TWELVE: PART ONE-HUNDRED-AND-SIXTEEN: THE EASTERN GATE OF PARADISE   

“And that,” said Billy Batchelder Tallent to Glenn Phillips, “is the story of my grandfather and the Maddox clan.”

“That’s…quite some tale,” said Glenn, with muted enthusiasm. “You should write it up for the periodicals.”

“Oh, who would believe it anyway?” said Billy. “Maybe someday it’ll get written up as a legend. Because, as it turns out, there’s just a little more to the story.”

“There always is,” said the cynical Glenn Phillips. His cigar was beginning to make him nauseous, and he extinguished it with a rolling motion on the lip of the metal ashtray attached to his chair. Noticing this, Billy continued to puff contentedly on his Meerschaum pipe.

“It turns out,” said Billy, “that there’s a legend that, after his murder, Shass continued to haunt Mallinghem–even after he had his head blown off in the middle of the courtroom. I looked over the town records over to the Athenaeum there in Hickory Hollow, and read some old copies of the local newspapers–practically falling apart they were, even though they were bound up in big thick books–and I discovered a most curious coincidence. Every September 21st, on the anniversary of the barn burning, for years afterward, a fire broke out in one of the buildings in Mallinghem. Usually it was only a shed, or an privy, or a smokehouse, and no one was ever hurt. And Billy Batchelder, who by then had married and had children, was always the first at the scene to help put out the fire. It got so folks took to calling him ‘The Fireman,’ which was a decided improvement over ‘Silly Billy the Willy-Nilly.”

“Doc Sheldrake had his suspicions about this business; but he never let on. As for the rest of the townspeople, Judge Ross died less than a year after the hearing, but before he did he saw to it that Creel was appointed to the judgeship in his stead, and that the obstreperous Curly Green was appointed in Creel’s place as Prosecuting Attorney. That left Mallinghem wide open for a practicing lawyer, but few people were flocking there to begin with, and you had to go to Hickory Hollow just to see a Doctor, after old Doc Sheldrake eventually went to his just reward in, I presume, Paradise.

“The Purson brothers, Hack and Dorn, recovered from their burns and commenced back in to farming, and the two of them eventually found wives–don’t ask me how–and fathered about two dozen children between ’em. With all those mouths to feed, the Pursons had a hard time of it for awhile, but, fortunately, Judge Ross had awarded them Shass’s horse farm as compensation for the loss of their barn, along with Mingo Shass, his nigger slave–and some said, his son. The Purson boys didn’t rightfully know what to do with Mingo at first, but he was a hard worker and eventually got so good at the chores that they were able to lease him out to other farmers yonder and they managed to make a tidy profit on him. After seven years of this, they had grown quite fond of Mingo, so they set him free and Mingo moved North, to Nova Scotia somewhere, I think, or maybe New England.

“Andy Struck, the horse doctor, who was never a well man to begin with, managed to survive his horrific burns, but after a spell of convalescing, with the help of the neighbors he packed up and moved to Noxtown, where he took up a job as a rent collector and insurance salesman. He did this for about ten years, and then he died young, in his early forties.

“Gibson Gloeckner continued to set traps for awhile, and make his home brew, and engage in other sorts of mischief, but finally he pulled up stakes and moved east, where he got a job as a loan officer at a bank, Lordie knows how. Puts me in mind of the old saying: “Set a rascal to catch a rascal.” It is said that he became quite affluent, and eventually owned his own bank, and lived to be 93.    

“They immediately set Mountain Man Wray free, that very Saturday night. Legend has it that he said but one word when they let him out of his cell: “Jesu.” And then he walked into the woods and was never seen in Mallinghem again. Doc seemed to think he migrated to the Oregon country, but rumor also had it that he made a big strike in California in the Days of ’49.

“Ezekial Teal, the tapster, continued to do what they nowadays call a land-office business, although as the population of Mallinghem thinned out, he was hard-pressed to find reliable help. Eventually he married one of his young barmaids and she put on her finest airs, as a woman will, and nagged him half to death about his health, and said he should retire, and so he sold off the Seven Stars Inn, though he was still in there almost every night, so I think he actually remained a silent partner in the enterprise.

“Years later, on his deathbed, I hear tell that Billy Batchelder, confessed to his wife that he was the one who set the fire in the barn, and all the other fires as well. He said he did the first one to impress Alice Forcas Bune, the pretty little widder, with whom he had apparently had a dalliance. He figured that by taking charge of the situation, he would look the hero; only when the fire got out of hand, he got scared. Now, this was at least forty years after the fact; nearly everyone involved in the incident had either left town or was long dead; Judge Ross probably suspected him and Doc Sheldrake probably knew all along, but they both of them took that secret to their graves.”

“Maybe someday,” said Glenn Phillips, but then he drew himself up short and said merely “err…hum,” It seemed the right thing to say.


The only thing to say.
***

And so that was the story, according to Baby Boy Maddox, of who he is and how he came to be. The story as he got it from Cadger Tandy; As Cadger Tandy got it from Count Victor Justin; as the Count got it from his friend the drummer Salvatore Floyd,  and as Floyd got it from Glenn Phillips and Billy Batchelder Tallent. Tallent was later to take on various jobs; as a sign-painter; as a bellhop; as a railroad bull, and as the manager of a theatrical troupe. He eventually drifted into journalism, and became a reporter on various midwestern papers, and, later,  became the editor of and chief contributor to an obscure midwestern farmer’s magazine. But he never did write anything for publication about his long-ago ordeal at the hands of the Keysars, nor about the ensuing Hickory Hollow Massacre…nor about the long-ago great fire at Mallinghem.


Sometimes the best stories are the ones you keep to yourself, and only ever tell to one other person.

*1 SALUTATION

XTC 

GREAT FIRE

XTC LIVE

KING FOR A DAY, GREAT FIRE, DEAR GOD

XTC LIVE

SCARECROW PEOPLE, BLUE BERET, KING FOR A DAY

XTC LIVE

JASON AND THE ARGONAUTS

*2 REFERENCE

COVID 19 NEWS

https://theprepared.com/blog/

PETRI DISH EXPERIMENT

https://t.co/Ez65r2lE2r

3*HUMOR

THE FLAWED FANTASY OF A DIFFERENT HILLARY CLINTON

https://newrepublic.com/article/157739/flawed-fantasy-different-hillary-clinton

4*NOVELTY

NEVER TRUMPERS AND THE FUTURE OF AMERICAN CONSERVATISM

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST

MATTHEW WALTHER

HOW SOCIAL CONSERVATIVES TRADED CAUSES FOR CLICHES

https://theweek.com/articles/915855/how-social-conservatives-traded-causes-clichs

6* DAILY UTILITY

THE TEEN SLANG DICTIONARY FOR PARENTS

https://www.verywellfamily.com/a-teen-slang-dictionary-2610994

*7 CARTOON

MICHAEL KUPPERMAN

MY DAD AND HENRY FORD

8*PRESCRIPTION

PROUD BOYS

https://slate.com/news-and-politics/2018/10/proud-boys-republican-club-wwii-fascists.html

9* RUMOR PATROL

LARRY SUMMERS  

HOW TO FIX GLOBALIZATION

10*LAGNIAPPE

THINK

ONCE YOU UNDERSTAND

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

A SLENDER READE

www.montereycountyweekly.com/blogs/news_blog/convictions-could-be-challenged-as-defense-attorneys-question-tara-reade-s-credentials/article_89c8bfcc-9bb2-11ea-826b-7776b2cd779e.html  

*11A BOOKS READ AND REVIEWED

1940. DUNN. ****1/2

BIRDS OF PREY: MURDER & MYSTERY. **1/2

EMPIRE OF DECPTION. JOBB. ****1/2

THE FAKE REVOLT. LEGMAN. ****1/2

GREAT EXPECTATIONS. DICKENS. *****

HOLY HANNAH. DINSKI. ****

JUST TRUST ME. KESTEN. ****

WILL MY CAT EAT MY EYEBALLS? DOUGHTY. ****


12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE

ROB POTYLO’S VIDEOS ABOUT WHOLE FOODS PANDEMIC EMPLOYMENT GOT HIM FIRED

https://digboston.com/potylos-videos-about-whole-foods-pandemic-employment-got-him-fired  

THE INFORMATION #1099 MAY 29, 2020

THE INFORMATION #1099  

MAY 29, 2020

Copyright 2020 FRANCIS DIMENNO
dimenno@gmail.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com  

Where was the judge he’d never seen? Where was the high court he had never reached?― Franz Kafka  

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE

BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN

CHAPTER TWELVE: PART ONE-HUNDRED-AND-FIFTEEN: THE EASTERN GATE OF PARADISE   

“Yet again, your honor,” said Creel, “I feel obligated to ask–what does pastor John Tunket have to do with the matter at hand?”


“I’ll tell you whut,” said Shass, looking crafty and suddenly cruel. “You are a hard-driving man, MISTAH Creel. It seems that every time I try to explain myself, you’re ready to hand with one of your pettifogging objections. Ahh, well, you are a scorpion; it is in your nature, and I don’t begrudge you. But did you ever stop to consider the still small voice of God–telling you to be kind to your fellow man in his hour of peril? No, I don’t suppose you ever did. It ain’t your job; and, besides, I don’t suppose you are a particularly enlightened man when it comes to matters of religion. What I am saying to you, here and now, is that Old John Tunket, why, he got into my head, and has been driving me and everything I do since I was a waif lost on deck in a crowd of angry men who took from me what they wanted. Rum, bum, and baccy! I won’t say what all else. There’s ladies present.”


“Thank God for that,” muttered Creel. 


“You are a learned man, MISTAH Creel, and I will not sully your educated ears with the harsh reality of a lad, ‘his home the eternal sky, his glory the sea’s wild pain’. You have no case, MISTAH Creel, and you are smart enough to know it; and yet you persist. Why? Someone’s got it in for me; and I’m beginning to believe that it’s you, and your fellow conspirators.”


“I can assure you, MISTAH Shass, that is hardly the case. You are being questioned here, not for who you are, but for what may have done. The truth of which we are convened in trying to determine.”


“Do you know what I think, MISTAH Creel? I think that somewhere, someone must of said ‘This man must not be allowed to live, for he has made too many people angry with him.’ Why? All I ever wanted to do was deal in horses, and hunker down in my cabin, and drink my jar of hard cider in peace. Have you ever known me to go out of my way to cause a row? No! In fact, I have been most convivial when such behavior is wanted–provided I was treated with respect. But if you get on my bad side, then oh, I can also be a most PRICKLY man–begging your pardon, ma’am–but MISTAH Creel here seems to want to imply that because three men and two women lie dead, burned in an awful fire–why, it couldn’t of been the Hand of God, for God is good and would not be so cruel–so it must be someone, and let’s see now, why not make Shass the culprit, he can serve as a most convenient scapegoat, no one around these parts much cares for him, so let us sacrifice him on our altar of cunning. For if you do not kill him, why, it may very well happen again!”


Shass then turned slowly to the spectators. “You superstitious fools! Cain’t yuh see? Cain’t yuh see what old John Tunket was trying to tell yuh? It’s not a poor soul like me who will be your ruination, but all the men of wealth and power who seek to manipulate us in all we do. Look at what they did to the Injuns. Treated them as inferior; put them out of the way so they could steal their land; told them that God had so ordained it.”


Shass next turned to the Jurymen. “Don’t you think they’d do the same to you, given half a chance? All those powerful Jews and Masons and Illuminatists! We are all ruled over by powerful men, with a great many rascals and fools among them, who think they can blame me for everything! There is a conspiracy, kind gentlemen, a conspiracy which is working to silence me, to make me look the rascal and the fool–that’s how they do it, you see. The crimes they themselves are guilty of, they have tried to accuse me of! That’s how they operate, you see–with one hand they promise you everything–and with the other hand they take everything away! Christ fasted forty days in the desert!”


The jurymen and the spectators listened intently to Shass’s words, for they were now enraptured by his incantatory fashion of speaking. 


“They have forced me to conclude that I must be at war with everyone, for they are surely all at war with me. And this conspiracy, this war–I never wanted it. I would have been perfectly content to let the world spin as it would, only I have been compelled to enter this Godforsaken star chamber and forced to speak out in my own defense. It is not my conspiracy–not my conspiracy–it is no part of me. Not me, nor any jackleg preacher you can name. I hear what all the preachers have said. ‘God is just.’ ‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.’ And ‘God will not be mocked.’ And ‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.’ Which is it, then? Question not, they say. Truly, they say, His awesome and terrible Ways are beyond our comprehension. We all have free will, but our fate is in the Hands of God. The Hands! Why should GOD have HANDS? Perhaps it is only confused men who have created a confused God.  Which is it? Which is it? I have been brought here like an chained animal, and for sport you watch me as I am forced to bray and bellow!”


Shass mopped his brow with a filthy handkerchief, and, with a stealthy motion, reached his other hand down to the lip of his boot.   


“Oh, I say that there surely MUST be a heaven–because otherwise this life would be too damned hard.”


And with that, Shass lunged for attorney Creel and drove a knife into his heart. 
Constable Hammer leveled his short-barreled flintlock rifle and shot Shass through the back of his head. Shass’s brains spattered the schoolmarm seated in the front row.

Judge Ross raised his gavel, then set it gently down and vomited all over the bench.

The schoolmarm sat, in utter shock, her eyes vacant. She would have fainted, but she was too stunned and glassy-eyed, like a pole-axed steer, to even react.

Pandaemonium ensued, as spectators and jurymen struggled to reach the single exit door of the courtroom. The Bailiff shouted at them. “It’s all right! It’s all right!” But the jurymen, in particular, seemed hell-bent on making a quick escape. One or two big men among the spectators managed to hold off a few of the others who were struggling to reach the door, but they were overpowered, and a sickening crush of panicked men at the sole exit was the result.  

Doc Sheldrake ran to the side of Creel and stuck the lip a flask of whiskey into his mouth, urging him to swallow. “You’re in shock,” he said. “Don’t try to move.” Creel took a long slug from the bottle. “This is mighty good whiskey,” he said, and passed out. Doc Sheldrake tore open Creel’s shirt and splashed whiskey on the open would, which he saw had missed Creel’s heart and instead, merely broken two of his ribs. “He’s not dead!” he shouted. “He’s not dead! CALM DOWN!”

It was the Doc’s cracked but booming voice alone which likely averted a greater tragedy, as many of the curious spectators momentarily ceased scrambling for the exit, against which certain of the jurymen were nearly crushed in their mad rush to flee.


“It’s all right! It’s all right!”“Calm down! Calm down!”Doc Sheldrake noted, even as he shouted, that the twisted face of the slaughtered Shass had eased into a beatific smile. “Poor devil,” muttered Doc, “maybe he’s finally found his home at last.” 

*1 SALUTATION

ELVIS COSTELLO

PRETTY WORDS

I ask you nicely Get my face slapped under wraps What’s going on precisely Is there something wrong perhaps? Surprise, surprise (surprise, surprise) It’s more like a booby trap than a booby prize Civil disobedience from a soldier with a dirty rifle You’re loosening all the screws that hold the hinges of my life Fat cats and army brats Hep cats and dog tag pawing over girly mags Pretty words don’t mean much anymore I don’t mean to be mean much anymore All I see are snapshots, bigshots, tender spots Mug shots, machine slots ‘Til you don’t know what’s what You don’t know what you got Curious women running after curious men Curiosity didn’t kill the cat It was a poisoned pen But there’s not much choice (it’s hobson’s choice) Between a cruel mouth and a jealous voice Got back to london Picked a paper from the man No words of consolation Just cartoons and titter tatter Well well, fancy that Millions murdered for a kiss me quick hat No backbone, blood and guts Better keep your big mouth shut Pretty words don’t mean much anymore I don’t mean to be mean much anymore All I see are snapshots, bigshots, tender spots Machine slots, mug shots  

*2 REFERENCE

THE MURDEROUS PSEUDOSCIENCE OF “HERD IMMUNITY”

https://www.wsws.org/en/articles/2020/05/16/pers-m16.html

3*HUMOR

VIRUS CURES

Does Zinc cure the virus? Surely it must. I read it in the spotted livers of some slaughtered oxen.

CITATION OF THE SCIENCE BEHIND THE POSSIBLE SPREAD OF THE VIRUS

Please see the journal “Spotted Livers of Some Slaughtered Oxen,” vol. MCMDXIV, no. 3 (Maius), pp. XC to CIV, “Thus This Great Plague is Surely on Account of an Affronted Jove”.  

4*NOVELTY

MAYBE IT’S TIME FOR AMERICA TO SPLIT UP

https://nymag.com/intelligencer/2018/11/maybe-its-time-for-america-to-split-up.html

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST

THE DEATH CULT AT THE GROCERY STORE

6* DAILY UTILITY

PARALLEL UNIVERSE WHERE TIME RUNS BACKWARDS

https://nypost.com/2020/05/19/nasa-finds-evidence-of-parallel-universe-where-time-runs-backward-report/

*7 CARTOON

ATLAS OF ART AND MEMORY IS A WONDER OF THE MODERN WORLD

8*PRESCRIPTION

THE PRETTY THINGS

YOU MIGHT EVEN SAY

9* RUMOR PATROL

NAOMI KLEIN

A HIGH-TECH CORONAVIRUS DYSTOPIA

https://theintercept.com/2020/05/08/andrew-cuomo-eric-schmidt-coronavirus-tech-shock-doctrine/

10*LAGNIAPPE

TIELMAN BROTHERS

ROLLIN ROCK

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

TARA READE

Ms. Reade looks like a reform school girl who bullied the other girls for the extra syrup on their plates.


12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE

THE WISDOM OF TYPHOID MARY

“Why SHOULD I have to wash my hands?”

THE INFORMATION #1098 MAY 22, 2020

THE INFORMATION #1098  

MAY 22, 2020

Copyright 2020 FRANCIS DIMENNO
dimenno@gmail.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com  
My childhood began, as everybody’s childhood begins, with prejudices. Man finds prejudices beside his cradle, puts them from him a little in the course of his career, and often, alas! takes to them again in his old age. –Victor Hugo

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE

BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN

CHAPTER TWELVE: PART ONE-HUNDRED-AND-FOURTEEN: THE EASTERN GATE OF PARADISE   

“Your Honor, once again I am impelled to ask what the relevance of John Tunket might be to these presents.”

“I’d like to know that myself, Mr. Creel. But since, as a Judge I must be ad utrumque paratus–THAT that is precisely the reason why I am going to allow the defendant to speak to the matter ad rem et ad referendum.””O! Listen to how them boys sling that Latin-talk around!” said Shass to the Jurymen. “Ain’t this a tit-bit and a treat! Just like the Illuminati in their most secret conclaves. This is the way the world works, nowadays. Most powerful people get their jobs as part of a powerful network of secret higher-ups who speak a language all their own and are accountable to no man. Ka me, ka thee! ‘You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.’ It’s been done that way for many thousands of years, ever since the Tower of Babel, and it’s now done so more than ever. Despite all this prating we like to go on about, concerning our grand Democracy. ‘Demonocracy’ I calls it! Haww! Born of the Illuminati! Look at Jefferson–an Illuminati cat’s paw pure and simple! Jefferson and Clinton–arcades ambo!”


The nervous spectators, who were Jefferson partisans to a man, began to mutter among themselves.


“The wretch!”


“Treason!”


“The blackguard!”


“Such foul language! Why, the very idea!” This from a schoolmarm, seated in the front row. 


Shass turned to the schoolmarm, whom he recognized as a former teacher of his.

“Begging your parson, ma’am, if my language distresses you. But…do you think the Greeks were a Democracy? Everything we’ve been taught about ’em in school is all wrong. No, they were no Democracy as we understand it. They kept a very tight grip on who got to speak in their assemblies. If you wanted to be in the boule, you had to be a native son and a property owner. Plus, you had to win a lottery. And guess who ALWAYS won that particular rigged lottery? The wealthy and the well-born, that’s who! In ancient Greece, if you had no money, then you had no claim to demand respect. No money, and no connections, meant no job security.” Shass turned to the jurymen. “Does this sound familiar? Well…t’was ever thus.”


“Get to the point. Mister Shass,” said Judge Ross.


“That’s exactly what I’m fixing to do!” shouted Shass


Attorney Green urgently tugged at his sleeve.


“Uhm, that’s what I intend your Honor,” Shass murmured, making a visible effort to restrain himself. “Begging your permission.”


Shass again grew heated, and turned to the twenty-four jurymen. “You see? You see how a man of learning and culture is disrespected by the high mucky-mucks? I ask you–what chance did a man like me ever have, here in Mallinghem? ‘For where can starving merit find a home?’ Let me tell you about my family. My father was an outsider too, despised by all. Even when I was in my cradle, he was prone to rant and shout at the strange voices that afflicted him, as they were all the time a-murmurin’ his name and making vague threats. He also used to think that in everything as went wrong on the farm there was the hand of God in it, and that Old Jehovah was a-smitin’ him, personal-like. It’s on account of my father, damn him–sorry, ma’am–that I don’t mix much with the menfolk hereabouts, except on social occasions, which are rare enough in these green Arcadian pastures. ‘Et in Arcadia ego,’ but I am an outsider, just like he was, and nobody gives a straw about me, except to actively plot my overthrow. because….”


“Yes?” said attorney Creel, with a faint sneer.


“Because I am a great man, MISTAH Creel, with big ideas–ideas too big for YOU…or for THEM. I think of myself as a great man–who doesn’t?–but I am despised by both the rabble and by all the so-called ‘respectable’ people hereabouts, because…because I have odd ideas and I talk funny and I wear old clothing and, and, sometimes I imagine myself a baby, surrounded by love, bound up in Christ’s swaddling cloth–“


“Blasphemy!” cried one of the Jurymen.


“Order!” said Judge Ross.


“But sometimes I imagine myself a cruel giant–and crushing all of you mice! ‘Crying wee wee wee all the way home!'”


“Mr. Shass…my dear Sir…PLEASE, KINDly get to the point,” said Judge Ross, whose face was turning a bright red. Creel looked on, contentedly.


“Yes, your honor. Yes. Since you ask in a kind way. I was speaking of Tunket, Old John Tunket. Our former pastor, who spake words that were like the veriest music to my impressionable ears. I could listen to him sawing wood for hours, if that’s what he was fixin’ to do. His sermons were like poetry to me–poetry written in lightning. What he had to say always made a lot of sense. He had his blind spots, sure–but I must say that I imbibed a good deal of what little education I had as a cub strictly on account of his eloquent sermonizing. O, he was a real spring Dandy! But he wasn’t the type of preacher-man who confined his fine talk to the insides of a church–no, he was what you call a peripatetic philosopher, and he had a fine handle on virtually any subject under the sun. In many ways I suppose you might say he was like our very own MISTAH Creel. He was a tall man, but, unlike our MISTAH Creel, he didn’t powder his hair ner splash rose water on his chin. No–HE was a MAN. Sure–he had his peccadillos. Seemed to hate the Catholic Church and, it goes without saying, Nigras. Said that Jews and Masons were running the whole shebang and pullin’ the wool right over out pretty little blue eyes. He said that the blue-eyed races are the ones that are blamed for everything. That the brown-eyes and the green eyes and the grey eyes all want to take over. Said he could tell of a man’s evil intentions by the lumps on his head. Said he’d been to Jerusalem and all though the Holy Land, and had walked the Via Dolorosa and stood on the rock where Moses stood. Said that God is great, and He would not be defied. Said that Old Jehovah virtually explodes into a laughin’ fit when he hears tell of all the scientifical fools who try to explain how the world came to be, without there being some sort of Prime Mover behind it all. ‘You can leave,’ said Pastor Tunket, ‘the gears and wheels of a pocket watch out on a flat rock, and in a million years it could never assemble itself. So, ‘”Why do the heathen rage, and the people imagine a vain thing?”‘”


“Sure, and with all his talking of the end times that were sure to come every day, old John Tunket made folks hereabouts mighty tired of his palaverin’. But he wasn’t, I think, talking about the literal end of days, but rather, of the passing of the old order–and in that he was one hundred per centum kee-rect. You have only to look upon the satanic mills of London, or even Birmingham, to know that Old John Tunket spoke true. There is devil work afoot there. And Pastor Tunket didn’t mince no words: He were agin’ it! And…and SO AM I!””  

*1 SALUTATION

LITTLE RICHARD

REDDY TEDDY LIVE 1966

MY DESIRE

*2 REFERENCE
101 Álbuns Essenciais do FREE JAZZhttp://www.freeformfreejazz.org/2020/05/101-albuns-essenciais-do-free-jazz.html  

3*HUMOR

BOWDLERIZED MUSIC
https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Bowdlerise/Music  

4*NOVELTY

These Carbon-Neutral Bioceramic Geodesic Dome Homes Last 500 Years And Don’t Rot, Burn, Or Rust

https://www.forbes.com/sites/johnkoetsier/2020/04/29/these-carbon-neutral-bioceramic-geodesic-dome-homes-last-500-years-and-dont-burn-or-rust/#21062a7f16cc

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST

FUCK THE BREAD. THE BREAD IS OVER.

6* DAILY UTILITY

POTENTIALLY FATAL BOUTS OF HEAT & HUMIDITY ON THE RISE

https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2020/may/08/climate-change-global-heating-extreme-heat-humidity

*7 CARTOON

MTV FIRST DECADE ARCHIVE

https://www.deseret.com/entertainment/2020/5/4/21247260/mtv-first-decade-archive-episodes-broadcast-online-where-to-download-internet-music-videos-1980s

8*PRESCRIPTION

REOPENING STATES WILL CAUSE MORE TO DIE

However, the policy of reopening states would provide a much needed economic boost, according to the model.

“Almost all net job losses between May 1 and June 30 would be eliminated,” the report found.

SEE ALSO:

‘We’re modern slaves’: How meat plant workers became the new frontline in Covid-19 war  

https://www.theguardian.com/world/2020/may/02/meat-plant-workers-us-coronavirus-war

ALSO SEE:60,000 people headed to Georgia after it allowed some businesses to open — and it led to the exact scenario researchers warned could make matters worse

https://www.businessinsider.com/out-of-state-visitors-georgia-re-opened-risking-coronavirus-uptick-2020-5

SEE ALSO:

HOW PANDEMICS END

9* RUMOR PATROL

CIA RELEASES 13 MILLION DECLASSIFIED DOCUMENTS ONLINE

https://www.cia.gov/library/readingroom/collection/crest-25-year-program-archive

10*LAGNIAPPE

INVISIBLE REPUBLIC

PLEASE MRS. HENRY

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

WHEN JOHN WATERS MET LITTLE RICHARD


12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE

THE ORSON WELLES SHOW: UNAIRED PILOT (1979)