Modern Wisdom 85

MODERN WISDOM: AMERICA'S ONLY HUMOR MAGAZINE
NUMBER 85
JANUARY 2006
Copyright 2006 Francis DiMenno
http://www.dimenno.blog-city.com

BROUGHT TO YOU BY.... George Washington Pest Control…AND BY…The Abe Lincoln Gated Community…AND BY…Franklin D. Roosevelt's Exclusive Men's Club.

RESULTS OF COMPETITION NUMBER 84:
"In a Gadda Da Vida." "Nights in White Satin." "Paradise by the Dashboard Light."
You named the book-now name the record. The one record that, if it had never existed, the world would have been far the better off. Results by 28 December.
Kevin Meyer wrote:
Ah, so many choices...
 
1. Stairway to Heaven - Led Zeppelin
2. Silly Love Songs - Paul McCartney
3. Ebony & Ivory - Paul McCartney & Michael Jackson
4. Take On Me - Aha
5. Fernando - Abba
6. We Are The World - Michael Jackson
7. Anything by Lionel Ritchie
8. Sussudio - Phil Collins

COMPETITION NUMBER 85.
Suggested by Richard Smoley. Spurious proverbs. Those wise old sayings which are implanted in our cortexes at such an early age that we take them for granted. Stuff like: "A stitch in time saves nine." It's time we came up with some equally relevant proverbs. Say, "Even a dog can have worms". Or "If God were not blind, all of us could see." Please send your contributions by 6 February.

AND NOW...MODERN WISDOM PRESENTS...

1. ONE VASTER MYTH
2. A BOY HAS NEVER WEPT…
3. DIMENNO'S NOVEL
4. 50 GENERATIONS
5. THE WILD OPINIONS OF SAVAGES
6. THE WHITE NOTEBOOK
7. THE FOOL'S BIBLE
8. NO HAVEN
9. THE COFFEE VIRUS
10. THE GODDESS YEARS
11. DUMBOCRACY
12. ROBOT HAM
13. LETTER-PERFECT DENUNCIATION
14. TURNED DOWN? TURN ON!
15. PROPHECY MOST GRATUITOUS
16. DUBIOUS EGGS CALLED POSSIBILITIES
17. I HAVE ALWAYS NEVER TRIED
18. THE BOOK OF GENESSEE
19. LAKE NOWHERE
20. WHO I THINK I AM
21. INCARNATION EVAPORATED MILK
22. GOD 2
23. UNLUCKY IN HATE
24. AMERICAN SEX AND VIOLENCE
25. SECRET SOUNDTRACK
26. RICHARD GERBIL
27. STRENGTH FOR STRENUOUS MEN
28. PLANET OF THE COPS
29. COUNT DRAGON
30. NONSTOP CIRCUS OF ANGST
31. HOUSE OF METH
32. 45 NARRATIVES
33. POX POPULI
34. BLAND LIGHTNING
35. CHUM FOR HACKERS
36. THE SEASON OF ANARCHY
37. CARNAL WEAPONS
38. DEAD MAN'S LAST LETTER
39. ONE HOUR AFTER YOU READ THIS YOU'RE IGNORANT AGAIN
40. SECRET MARK
41. SPEAK PARROT, PRETTY BIRD, SPEAK
42. ENGINEERED AUTHENTICITY
43. EXPLOSIVE BATTLE OF GIANTS
44. YOU WON'T ME ABLE TO WITH ANYONE ELSE
45. UNCLE MACHO
46. VAMPIRE EQUINOX
47. MIGHTY PUPPET
48. JUNIOR SHADOW
49. DONALD DORK
50. TOXIC THEATRE
51. TITAN RAIN
52. MY GREAT COMPASSION
53. STALIN'S TIPS ON BUSINESS MANAGEMENT
54. THE DEVIL TOLD ME TO WRITE THIS BOOK
55. SO SOON
56. MEAT RIVER
57. SHITWARE
58. NON-NEGOTIABLE PATRIOTISM
59. I IS SOMEONE ELSE
60. LITERATURE'S RICH DISHONESTY
61. APORIAE
62. BRAVE NEW NOIR
63. THE FESTIVAL OF HIS DELIVERANCE
64. BOUNDED RATIONALITY
65. IRRELEVANT CONCERNS
66. BOOK AWARD FOR FICTION
67. PURGESAKE
68. FATAL ROMANTICISM
69. PLAUSIBLE ENEMIES
70. DEPAYSEMENT
71. PRISONERS OF A FANTASY
72. THE GREAT HEAP OF DAYS
73. ORANDUM EST UT SIT….
74. POPPA DOOM
75. THE SUBLIME AMBIVALENCE OF PRECIPICES

76. 5-10-15-20-25-30-35 YEARS AGO IN MODERN WISDOM

From MODERN WISDOM V.1 #13 JANUARY 1971
They say that Jim Morrison died of a drug overdose. In the bathtub! Ha! That was probably the first bath that man ever took! It wasn't the drugs, it was the shock of cleanliness that did him in!

From MODERN WISDOM V.1 #73 JANUARY 1976
Elton John said Philadelphia Freedom "put him knee-high to a man". Haw! That's not the only thing that put him knee-high to a man!

From MODERN WISDOM V.1 #133 JANUARY 1981
Pete Townshend wrote "Let My Love Open the Door". Too bad he didn't think about that when he played Riverfront Coliseum in Cincinnati, where all those people got crushed!
 
From MODERN WISDOM V.1 #193 JANUARY 1986
Why don't the Beach Boys even retire? They're not boys anymore; they're grandfathers! And why do they even call themselves the Beach Boys? They can't surf. They can't even swim, if Dennis Wilson is any indication!

From MODERN WISDOM V.1 #253 JANUARY  1991
There's lots of good potential vice-presidents out there--too bad they're all running for president.
 
From MODERN WISDOM V.1 #313 JANUARY  1996
Jesus died for our sins—but so did King Kong, Cool Hand Like, and Frankenstein.

From MODERN WISDOM V.2 #25 JANUARY 2001
The day the Boston Herald proclaims that something is an insult to their intelligence is the day we'll see:

A Nobel laureate born and bred in Somerville, MA
A writer of Broadway musicals born and raised in Revere, MA
Outdoor Shakespeare performed in the Breakheart Reservation
A new witch trial in Salem
An studio apartment in Cambridge,Massachusetts for under $400 a month
A nightclub which promotes musical talent without caring about how much beer they sell
A starving artist willing to admit his poverty is his own fault and due solely to his lack of talent
International jet-setters converging en masse on Jamaica Plain, MA
Lawrence proclaimed "The garden spot of the North"
Wonderland live up to its name
The talking seal at the aquarium demand residuals
A stogie-gumming newsstand vendor speak with flawless diction
Machine politicians appeal to the conscience of the electorate, rather than to their self- interest
A multicultural festival in Southie
A political cartoonist tackle a complex issue successfully
A syndicated columnist who refuses to refer to the antics of his irrepressibly adorable toddlers
A bouncer who doesn't sport a sub-Gilligan-level I.Q.
Formally trained musicians willing to admit musical inadequacy
Rock and rollers who don't behave defensively around or profess to scorn formally trained musicians
Truly insightful rap lyrics
A hippie rap star
A hippie who likes fancy twin-bladed knives
A young Einstein with a pocket protector standing right next to the speakers at an all-ages show
A glue-huffer with an advanced degree
A modest DJ
A modest lead guitarist
A modest rhythm guitarist
A talkative bass player
A drummer fluent in more than one language
A band that doesn't blame incompetent sound men or equipment malfunctions for a piss-poor show
A rock critic willing to admit he doesn't know all there is to know about the most current music
A rock critic willing to admit he doesn't know all there is to know about the most obscure music
A rock critic willing to admit that all he really knows how to do is be a rock critic
Canned dance music voluntarily played below 110 decibels
A good band with an elaborate logo incorporating Gothic lettering and/or animal icons
A Led Zeppelin fan who prefers the original versions of the blues classics Led Zeppelin swiped from more talented performers
A skinhead with a PhD
A Beach Boys fan who prefers the original versions of the rock classics they swiped from Chuck Berry
A terminally hip pseudo-beatnik willing to admit that William Burroughs never wrote anything much worth reading after "Junkie" and "Queer"
A Pet Shop Boys fan who prefers the original versions of the rock classics they jumble together to form their supposedly delightful, utterly derivative pastiches
A fan who writes a verge?of?tears letter in the wake of a bad review who actually knows what he or she is talking about
A normal Captain Beefheart fan
A normal Can fan
A normal 'Metal Machine Music' fan
A Frank Zappa fan more intelligent than Frank Zappa
A terminally hip pseudo-beatnik willing to admit that Jack Kerouac never wrote anything much worth reading other than "Dr. Sax," if even that
A Beatles fan who prefers Ringo to John, Paul, or George
A diehard Who fan who prefers Townshend, Entwhistle or Daltry to Keith Moon
A superannuated and pretentious Pink Floyd fan who prefers their post-Syd Barrett work
A fanatical Three Stooges fan who prefers Shemp, Larry or Joe DeRita to Moe or Curly
A fanatical Marx Brothers fan who prefers Zeppo, Gummo, or Chico to Harpo or Groucho
A self-conciously cool person who knows how to be sympathetic to people in distress
A successful band that breaks up amicably
A successful band that doesn't break up amicably but refuses to do a reunion no matter how much money is waved in front of their fat, dissipated  faces
A truly good rock band from Canada
A truly good rock band from any place other than the UK or the US.
A frontman who supports a trendy cause who is willing to admit there may be two sides to an argument
A low-cost housing advocate who owns rental property
A rock band who lets it be known they don't much care for pizza or beer
A rock opera that is really rocking and at the same time operatic
A classical music fan with numerous tattoos and piercings
A rock critic who uses the terms 'shamanistic' and 'surreal' who actually knows what those terms mean
A heavy metal fan who doesn't like to get drunk and stoned
A person who appears on Jeopardy! and who owns every Harley-Davidson collectable, including 'Hailey The Little Biker Baby Doll,'
A Texan who walks on tip-toes
A cosmopolitan Rhode Islander
A person who drives a fancy car who isn't an arrogant prick
A person who doesn't watch television who is neither defensive nor boastful
A snobbish and biased columnist who's sincerely willing to admit his ignorance
A snobbish and biased columnist who's willing to admit he's palming off crude stereotypes as the wisdom of the ages for lack of anything useful or interesting to say
A snobbish and biased columnist who's willing to admit he's using self-referential post- modernism as a way of ending a column he has neither the talent nor skill to end in a more conventional m--

77. SPURIOUS PROVERBS
The owl never grows fat on Cinco de Mayo.
The bat said to Jesus, Lord, give me sunglasses.
Never sup at a royal banquet where the King is picking his nose.
You won't die if you eat horseradish.
When your son asks for powerball, do not give him a scratch ticket.
A busy man has no time for sergeants.
Even the grooviest priest must sometimes bathe.
It is not enough to simply hate the carrot; you must also destroy the snowman.
A man who wears pointed shoes will also worship the devil.
Never offer chewing gum to a woman at her husband's funeral.
When faced with a moral dilemma, ask yourself: What would King Kong do?
The dog who did not reach the crackers said: I'm on the Palm Beach diet.
The one-eyed runt said to Bluto: Give me spinach.
Love will pay the rent.
A yawn means God is vexed.
The buyer of stolen bears is mauled.
King Vitaman does not have diplomatic immunity.
Speak not what you have read but of what you have read a review of.
It is easy to blow your mind with someone else's head.
If Haiti were called Lovie there'd be no problems.
The man who wears a tinfoil hat will seldom order caviar.
When you forget to light the pilot light, it warms you twice: First, when you fall into a numbing sleep from which you never waken, and, second, when your goddamned carelessness blows the entire fucking apartment complex to smithereens.

78. PAP: A MEMOIR
Chapter Eight

Pap sat down in his favorite armchair and I sat on the couch. It was 6 am on a midsummer Saturday morning, and my parents had shooed me outside. Pap had been up for at least an hour, and had already had his breakfast. He proceeded right into his story as though he had only left off the moment before.

The last day I ever saw Zeb, or Doc, or old One-Lung, was a day like any other, except it was my 11th birthday, and a Sunday, too, and the men were dressed in their better clothes, not because they went to church, God forbid, like I still did, but because Saturday night was bath night and they had just come back from seeing their gal friends, their weekly ritual, one which, at my age, I could neither understand nor see the need for. All except old One Lung, the ancient of ancients, who sat in the corner, close to me, on his little stool, his legs crossed, as quiet as ever. He was wearing some sort of yellow robe I had never seen him wear before, and his eyes were alert, but somehow cloudy-looking, something else I had never noticed before.

Poor Fred's girl was named Hattie; she was a schoolmarm, and a poor old maid, and since I never went to school unless I had to, I didn't know her too well. She had the look of a bird, a tired old bird, a sparrow, and her face was so sharp and beak-like you expected her to start poking it into a dish of seeds at any moment. She was rather plain, nor did she have much use for finery, but she always wore a pretty hat with flowers which made her look halfway decent until she opened her mouth. My first day of school I remember her as she stood before us children, ranging in age from six to sixteen, with her bony arms akimbo on her hips, wearing a faded red calico dress; she must have been nearly forty and her hair was sky gray and set in a tight bun, and oh, she seemed ancient. "Class," she'd say, and her voice would crack and climb up two steps from the front of the word to the back, "Kindly indulge me," and she's say the world "indulge" like she was rolling it across her tongue and savoring it, like a lozenge, "by opening your schoolbooks to page three," and there was something thrilling about how she would say that word, she really world say it like it were actually "thuh-reee". There was a certain sing-song rhythm in her voice that made you want to do what she said even if you didn't have a book of your own, which I didn't. So I asked my brother Sam for the money to buy a schoolbook. We were in the fisherman's shack that we called home and he said "What do you want with books?" and he spit on the final word. He was not much for reading himself, and his toothbrush mustache moved up and down as he said they were nothing but foolishness. Brother James, a man of few words, said "Yes. Your brother is true." He meant to say my brother was correct. "Foolish folly. No time for books. You work." But whenever I would try to help them on the fishing boat I would burn my palms on the ropes and cut my hands on the cables and sometimes get a hook caught in my thumb, or in my clumsy way I would tangle up the nets, and they would begin to howl and both of them would say I was too young to be on the boat, that I should stay on the dock and cut bait, or they would send me off to gather sticks and twigs for the evening's firewood, and I would have the rest of the morning and afternoon to myself. That is exactly what happened on the morning of my eleventh birthday, so after doing my chores, I walked the half mile to the general store at the foot of the hill and settled into my usual place.

Poor Fred was unhappy that day, I guess because the schoolmarm had said she wouldn't marry him. She said that if she did, she would have to quit her job, since married women weren't allowed to teach at the school, and if she quit her job, how would they live on his salary? She couldn't see that he was going anywhere in particular, working at the store, and I didn't quite gather the import of the argument, and I wondered exactly where else there was to go in the store, except the tiny room off in back, where Doc would mix his mysterious and same said deadly poisonous potions. 

Doc, for all his years, had him a gal too; her name was Matilda and she was stout and grim and, and I think she was a farm girl, although she was no longer a girl, of course, and she mostly tend cows off in some dairy farm somewhere, and he would go to see her. I didn't  know what they would have had to talk about, other than maybe what kind of dope to give to a sick calf, but I always knew better than to ask since it wasn't my business. Any other time when I spoke out of turn, which mostly was whenever I spoke at all, old Doc would turn to me and wink and say. "Youngster—when the big boats are in the water, the little boats should stay out." That would get a hee-haw or two out of the loafers, and kindhearted Fred would send me out of the store on some kind of pointless errand  until my speaking out of turn was forgotten, at which point I would return and resume m post behind the cracker barrel at the far right-hand corner in back of the store.

But that morning I did ask Doc why he didn't marry the milk-maid and he looked at me kinda queer, and he said, "Sonny, some folks just never get to be the marryin' age, I reckon."

It so happens that on that same day Hiram was on the outs with his girl as well. Her name was Clothilda, and she was the younger, prettier sister of Doc's gal, Matilda. It seems as though Hiram had promised to help her with some of the chores around the farm, pullin' up stumps or some such, man's work, but the foolish old Hayseed never did go up there and help them, just kept spinnin' yarns about the fine farm he himself was going to buy, "someday," in the fatlands to the east, where the lakes were so swollen with fish and game was so abundant that you could walk on the lakes on the backs of the fishes and the sky was black with ducks and geese and all you had to do was aim your rifle anywhere and you'd bag a whole brace of birds. "Go on with your sweet talk, you stubborn devil," said Clothilda, "and get you to work, or else forget about coming by to see me any more." Hiram was a bit taken aback at these words from his sweetie, and he sure wasn't going to take it, no siree-a-ding-bob.

Pap paused, then said, I looked up when he said that last word, for I had never heard that expression before. As a small child I had heard few English words spoken; even the Italian which I heard was our family's peculiar version of it, and although my own English was far better than that of my brothers, I was always receptive to a new turn of phrase. "No siree-a-ding-bob," I gleefully repeated, and everybody laughed except Hiram, who looked sore because he thought I was making a joke at his expense and he looked at me and muttered that I was a 'No goot poy," and loud enough for me to her. I said I was sorry and asked him if he would accept my apology. And then he beamed and said, "Now you a goot poy," and resumed telling his tale of woe, though most of the steam had been let out of it.

The Sherf put his oar in and allowed as how he was fed up with his sweetie too. We all turned to him with surprise, because he had never spoken of such things before. "Sure," he said, in his slow but not lazy drawl, "her name is Mindy, and I said to her, I said—and then, incredibly, he sang,

Get along home Mindy, Mindy,
I'll marry you some time.

And we laughed, and old Zeb told me that the song was written by a Mr. Stephen A. Foster, and that he had met him one time and toasted him with a drink, and that Mr. Foster was a hard-drinking man and a sporting man, too, and it proved to be his downfall and he died before his time and he made some poor business decisions and had poor judgment in general and was cheated out of the money for his songs and then, belive it or not, old Zeb, who we thought was too much of an ornery religious fanatic to have any sense of fun whatsoever, broke into a chorus of :

Way down upon the Swan-ee river,
Far, far away….

But those were the only words of the song that he knew, and after three choruses, he hummed the rest of the tune for awhile, then fell silent.
 
Zeb was also having what he called "wimmin trouble". He gal, he said, was a hellacious wildcat named Mag, but everybody called her 'The Hard Girl," because she dressed in a somewhat mannish style and liked to get into fights as much as any man and then Zeb said she wasn't really his girl any more, she said he was 'too soft', and he also said that she was known to get into catfights and would chew an ear off her rival, or anybody, for five dollars, and would do 'the big one' for twenty-five, though if she didn't like the person, and there were very few she did like, she would 'do the job' for less. Hiram asked Zeb why a God-fearing man such as himself would have anything to do with such a desperado, Zeb smiled and blushed and allowed as how 'The Hard Girl' seemed to favor 'Men who had big feet' then all the loafers snorted and hee-hawed though I had no idea why though Zeb fit the bill, all right—he must have wore a size fourteen and you could measure the length of a ball of yarn by his boots. And then the Sherf said, "Aww, you're pullin our leg," and Zeb allowed as he had caught him out. But there was no hard feelings because it was very rare that old Zeb ever loosened up at all. Perhaps the bottle they were passing back and forth had something to do with it.

So most of the loafers at Walt's General and Variety Store were in something of a foul mood, in spite of being duded up in all their night-before finery, and it being Sunday and all, and also my 11th birthday, though I didn't mention it, because I didn't think they would pay it no mind, though I longed for one of them, maybe Tex, to turn to me and say, "How old did you say you were, Sonny?" and then I could reply, "Today I am eleven years old, Sir," and he'd grin and rub my head and maybe poor Fred would treat me to a sour pickle, though as far as I was concerned, he could keep his smelly old pickled eggs to himself.

It seems that all of the menfolk there on that sunny morning, only Tex had been fortunate in attracting the attentions of the fairer sex. The night before, he had been with a woman named Missy, whom he referred to, in a lowered tone of voice and with a glance over at me, as "a woman of easy virtue." Even at eleven, I knew very well who, if not what, she was, so he didn't need to pay me no notice when he was talking of her, though I appreciated the fact that he acknowledged my existence at all. As a matter of fact, I would often see this Missy—a young lady no older than my oldest brother—walking down the boardwalk covering the mud-choked street in a frilly blue dress, wearing fine black patent leather shoes, and carrying a matching blue parasol with white fringes, rain or shine. I also knew respectable women, like the schoolmarm, and the not-so-faithful companion to poor Fred, she would have nothing to do with such as she. I also knew she had other "boyfriends" besides Tex, and that Tex, he didn't seem to care, or, at least, he had nothing to say on the topic. I would scratch my head because it would help me to think, and every so often I'd pull out a pebble and a little piece of dirt, but I never could figure out exactly what was going on there.

So, Ciccu, what have you learned? he said to me, gesturing me to come and sit on his lap, which I did..

I don't know, I said.

The lesson is that no matter who you are, you must drink deeply of the well of life. Do you understand?

I said, Pap, what's a well?

And he laughed and he got up and I scrambled off his lap and he took me to the kitchen and showed me the sink and explained all about pipes and said they are now connected to a lake but imagine that at one time they used to be connected to a deep hole in the ground where there was water and that was a well. And then he sent me home. 

EXECRATIONS & ENCONIUMS: LETTERS TO THE EDITOR