"The Dancehall"

After Lou paid off his debts he went to the cheaper bars, the ones without pretty girls. He got into a drunken fight over a game of pool but nobody cared because he didn't hurt anybody, he just pushed and yelled a lot. In another place, however, he tried to steal a bottle of whiskey and got hit in the face by a bouncer. He spent the weekend in jail, nursing his eye and playing checkers with the two fat cops who were sometimes nice to him.

He was sober when he got out. His monthly cheque was waiting in his mailbox and he knew he couldn't handle the really cheap bars, at least not right now, so he cashed the cheque and went to the dancehall.

The girl with the orange dress was on the floor, easy to spot. This was the woman who Lou liked. She was an exaggerated pin-up, just this side of ridiculous, a starved man's fantasy after years in barracks, hospital wards, and drunk tanks. His buddy Corman had said "Nobody looks like that for real," but he and Corman weren't friends anymore.

Smiling in the toothy, inappropriate way she did when she danced with somebody, the woman was clutching the back of a thug who swayed awkwardly beside the stage. She deserved better than the veterans and dock workers, Lou had decided. Better than the customers who were barely more respectable than him with his scuffed shoes and his frayed suit jacket.

Lou felt like he was spinning and his mouth was dry. He wobbled to the bar, timing it so he could cross paths with her -- Suzette, her name was -- and she put her hand over her eye and said "elegant shiner!" while swaying into the restroom. He touched his face and looked sideways into the bar mirror, where he could see the thug lighting a cigarette and watching him.

Later, after a few drinks, Lou had stopped thinking about his eye and the thug and he was looking straight into the mirror, watching the girl in the bursting orange dress dance in a haze behind the bottles.

"Everybody loves Suzette," said the bartender. He leaned close and Lou could smell his toothpaste. "She's a kook, though."

"How so?"

"Says she's from Mars and came here by accident. Says she's going home on the next flight out of here." The bartender shrugged. "Everybody knows she's a kook."

"Nothing surprises me," said Lou, "I just got out of jail."

"You should have taken a shower first." Apparently this was the last drink Lou would get here.

He managed to grab the girl's arm on his way out. "I hear you're from outer space," he said, and the thug punched him right below the ear, professional. After that, in the drunk tank, the two fat cops held his hat just out of reach while Lou jumped up and tried to grab for it.

Apples for the Unemployed

Having -- like most of the rest of the country -- concluded that the newly-born depression was no big deal, The New Yorker, managed to virtually ignore it until November 1930. Then, suddenly, the paper was FULL of depression references...to apple sellers.

Cartoons. Comments. Little snipes in otherwise unrelated articles. I don't know if the apple seller scheme -- the International Apple Shippers Association sold apples to the unemployed at a loss, putting an "apples for the unemployed" vendor on virtually every New York street corner -- actually worked, but it certainly seemed to put a visible face on the worsening depression, and it also annoyed a lot of pedestrians in the city. Those with jobs, anyway.

Another source of depression news in the paper were the ever-present full-page advertisements for the Evening Standard, which basically said "These troubles will be over soon, and the only firms which will survive are the ones which continue to advertise!" The Evening Standard was truly making lemonade in response to the lemons...or at least grinning while eating the lemons raw.

I leave you with a poem called "Confession" by Richard Peckham, from the November 29, 1930 issue:

It may be shameful to avoid
The apples of the unemployed
But, since they've been on every corner,
I have become an apple-scorner.
Snow, McIntosh, and Northern Spy
Are now as painful to my eye
As pencils and shoelaces were
When apples were uncommoner.
An antisocial state of things,
I know. It will not earn me wings.
But why, when wits were being deployed
To get the unemployed employed,
Did no one, to whom things were clear,
Distribute, say, light wines and beer?

Take the Rank Out of Drank

Advertising came into its own during the '20s, having learned that nothing sells a product like fear. I imagine executives sitting around in a plush highrise meeting room somewhere, staring at each other with bug-eyes, saying "How can we scare people into buying all this CRAP?"

Social anxiety always helps. From the November 22, 1930 New Yorker I bring you "The Savoy Cocktail Book," which you'd better buy if you don't want your parties to suck.

Of course, you have a bar in your pent-house, but even that does not insure social success!

Do you find that guests are glad to put their foot on the rail the first time, but seldom return? Do you feel like the girl who was often a bridesmaid but never a bride?

Of course, you have all your liquor analyzed, so you can't blame your bootlegger.

Perhaps the trouble is with you. Perhaps it's the way you mix the cocktails that bars you from the popularity you feel that you deserve.

"Whew!" Said a bunch of advertising executives. "That's done! Now how can we make them frightened of RADIOS..."

Incidentally, "The Savoy Cocktail Book" was "compiled and amplified" by Harry Craddock of London's Savoy bar. As his biography at the bottom of the advertisement says, he was "the man who took the rank out of drank."

What Does It Mean?

I think this picture is very funny. At the very least it makes a stoic ritual look as ridiculous as it probably is.

Caption contest! No prize! What's up with these guys?

How Long Can Marriage Last...In a Cocktail Setting?

I love the qualification in the Mark Hellinger endorsement: one of the best novels IN ITS CLASS. Just so we're not confusing it with Dostoyevsky or anything.

Here's How to GET RID of Prohibition

As best as I can glean from the pages of The New Yorker, 1930 was the year of:

• Backgammon. All the department stores were selling deluxe sets and offering free lessons and tournaments.
  
• Tom Thumb golf. Suddenly there were courses everywhere. Rather than the low-rent "mini golf" of today, the fad was marketed to the Gay Young Things as an after-club pastime drunkenly played in evening gowns, tuxedos, and high heels. Much ado was made about the damage to the courses caused by high heels.
  
• Maybe this "depression" thing isn't going away?
  
• Even the staunchest defenders of prohibition are getting sick of it. Like, to the point where virtually everybody wants to somehow repeal it.

The most obvious sign of the anti-prohibition fever so far is this advertisement in the October 18, 1930 issue. It sums up everything I've been reading (click for a larger view).


Joseph S. Auerbach seems to have been a moderately well-known lawyer...well-known enough to have been publishing books before and after this one, at least.

The Volstead Act would not be repealed until 1933, so it will be interesting to see if this vocal opposition continues to swell, or if it will simply be viewed as a fait d'accompli in the laps of the lawyers.

Dogs: The Neighbourhood Icebreakers

Today my mother came by to help me fix up my foliage. I've kept it all wet and I've even done some weeding, but there's no substitute for a green-thumb matriarch with a bag full of mulch.

On a beautiful day and under a beautiful sky we worked at separate tasks, drinking and not really speaking. She did the heavy lifting, being only about five feet tall but actually having a functional shoulder. I did the first REAL weeding I've ever done in my life, digging out the grass that's sapping the life from my burgeoning maple trees and my bleeding hearts. It's amazing how tenacious grass can be, it spreads a thick network of tiny roots through the soil. It's almost a shame to pull up such a capable weed.

After my mother left and I was standing on my patio admiring her work, the dog arrived, a huge bouncy orange creature who barked playfully at the children next door. It had come running into their back yard, followed closely by Pearl, a neighbour I'd only previously seen dancing during an impromptu long weekend celebration on our mutual fire route.

Pearl was talking to the small children, and I found myself drawn to the dog. "Can I pet him?" I asked, and suddenly I realized that dogs are "people bridges" who entice reserved people into talking with each other.

Through this dog I met not just Pearl, but also the kids next door and their mother...I don't think their mother is my biggest fan as of yet, but I'm convinced that it's 99% due to the usual problems with neighbours: we haven't spoken yet. I waved at her across the yard and she smiled genuinely and waved back, and wished I hadn't had that second drink with my mom.

Sensing that the children wanted to talk to me a bit, I turned to one of them and said "When I first saw this dog I thought it was yours."

"No," he sighed sadly. "We don't have anything...except for a baby named Jackson."

So I think that people who move into a new neighbourhood should be able to RENT dogs, so we can stand around and wait for somebody to say "How old is he? Can I pet him? What's his name? How big will he get?" followed shortly by "Hi, my name is..."

The Drys Go Happily to Hell, Plus Cat Joke

In March, 1930, after ten years of expensive prohibition "enforcement" that did little except make bootleggers rich, Americans loudly debated whether to reform the Volstead act. It was obvious that people of all social stripes were still drinking almost as much booze as they had been previously, and it was obvious to most people that prohibition encouraged outright graft and corruption to the point where people just assumed that every cop (and government official) was on the payroll of crime syndicates.

But still the "Drys" held on. Powerful voting blocs had not yet reached the point of "repeal," simply asking for "reform." Magazines like The New Yorker had a field day with this whole debate, as often happens when opposing views become totally strident, polarized, pointless, and out of touch with reality.

So March 29, 1930 brings the first really great New Yorker cover that I've seen so far, drawn by Rea Irvin, probably the most constant contributor to the magazine since its inception. Just look at the happy grin of the "Wet" good-time girl falling to hell, and the awful drabness of the "Dry."

(As always, click for a bigger version)

I'm confused about the cat, though. Was this from some temperance meme of the day, or was the "Dry" a caricature of a notable cat-loving person, or did Irvin add it simply to add balance and humour to the cover?

We'll never know, but I DID find this great cat joke:

Amie Semple McPherson was an old time evangelist who was known for her dramatic sermons. Once she sent a little kid up into the choir loft and told him to release a dove out of its cage on cue.

So she was preaching away and said, "And the Lord will send a dove of peace..."

And the kid yelled out, "The cat just ate the dove. Should I throw down the cat?"

"Stinkin' at the Club Savoy"

Since I didn't do anything last night except schlump around the house, I am not currently dealing with a hangover or the inevitable post-party regrets. But for all those who are I present Virginia O'Brien singing "Stinkin' at the Club Savoy." It proves the timelessness of certain things.



PS: O'Brien was known as "Ol' Stone-Face," because her schtick was to sing with virtually no expression whatsoever. This strikes the 21st century viewer as totally bizarre, but I'm sure in the '40s it was easier to deal with.

Yaaaaaaarrrr, Night Moves!

You're a student in southern Ontario during the early '90s, and you haven't yet learned moderation. After a crazy night out with friends, you come home at 3am, and you feel like you're going a bit insane: the room is spinning, you feel spectacularly ill, you're exhausted, but your brain is running laps around your spectacularly-abused body. There's nobody you can talk to, there's no way to distract yourself...where do you turn?

Global TV's "Night Moves."



Somewhere in Toronto, a cameraman with a steadycam walked slowly through streets, subways, and deserted buildings. Sometimes you'd be in a car driving through the main streets and back roads of the city. No narrative, no structure, just some smooth jazz and a vicarious trip through the deserted city.

WHAT A GREAT IDEA. I'm sure it was conceived primarily as a cheap way to fill the early hours with Canadian content, but I (and many, many others) viewed "Night Moves" as a life-saver.

It's still fabulous, and has the added bonus of being a time capsule for the ever-changing city. I'm thrilled that I've finally found it again. Thank you, Global!

Dee-Yadda Diddy-Aoh Scat!

This weekend King Beckett loaned me his copy of "Anita O'Day: The Life of a Jazz Singer." And though there's not much in the documentary that I didn't already know, it DID increase my respect for her jazz-stylings from "I don't know how to evaluate this vocal style" to "Holy cow, she was SPECTACULAR."

Do yourself a favour and watch her interpretation of "Sweet Georgia Brown" during the 1958 Newport Jazz Festival. The director spends WAY too much time focusing on the audience, but persevere until she really gets going. It's more than worth it.

I'd Buy Anything By...Andy Prieboy

I have said previously in this blog that Andy Prieboy is my favourite musician. He's smart and creative and eccentric, and he writes in a style that nobody else does in pop anymore, a sort of extremely wordy musical theatre approach which must be hell to score (and also to remember). Since leaving the reformed Wall of Voodoo in 1991 he has only released two albums and an EP, and his most famous song came right at the beginning: this happy little number called "Tomorrow Wendy" which you may remember.



During that time he was writing and refining "White Trash Wins Lotto," an ambitious musical about the rise and fall of an Axl Rose-style character. Apparently this was a really stellar show, and he would perform it in small L.A. clubs with various talented friends, waiting for a record company to give him a really sweet deal.

But Prieboy has been burned by record companies before, and he wrote scathingly about them on his second album -- and in the book he co-wrote, "The Psycho-Ex Game" -- so I suspect that he'll never go in that direction again. Instead, for the last fourteen years, he's been silent...

...until now. His website has been reactivated and a series of virtual EPs have trickled out. Brand new songs, each and every one of them a masterpiece! If you've ever seen a bunch of drunk idiots harass a donut store employee, this song ("Hearty Drinking Men") will thrill you (careful, virgin ears...there's some cussin').



Prieboy's musical output is slow and deliberate and his records disappear into obscurity immediately after their release. For this reason, scour the used bins for copies of his albums ("Montezuma was a Man of Faith," "...Upon My Wicked Son," and the absolutely brilliant "Sins of Our Fathers"), and then go to his site and pick up whatever .mp3s you can. One of the new songs -- "Shine" even contains harmonica by Stan Ridgway, another of my "I'd Buy Anything" artists and -- more interestingly -- the man who Prieboy replaced when he joined Wall of Voodoo long ago.

"Attraction" by Muffy St. Bernard

The man with the grey toque leaned against her, using her shoulder to support himself. He could come no closer because there were too many people around the bar.

"I'm attracted to you," he said.

She thanked him for saying so.

"It's strange, this attraction I have, because I'm gay. It's not obvious to anybody. Even my friends don't know! They're back there." He gestured. His friends were at the end of the bar, lounging, staring, interested.

"Would you know that I'm gay if I didn't tell you first?" asked the man.

She said no, she wouldn't have guessed. He pushed his toque down to hide his hair and then he smiled. "I want you to keep this a secret," he said, "just between you and me. Don't tell anybody what I just told you. About me being gay."

She said she wouldn't tell anybody. She promised. There were so many people around that she couldn't uncross her legs without hitting somebody.

The man with the toque kept bumping her shoulder, swayed by the moving crowd, bumping and bumping, but he didn't seem to care. "This is significant for me because I'm not actually attracted to women, I just pretend, I do it all for show...but you're the first woman I've ever been attracted to and I wonder what that means. I wonder if it's important?"

She said she didn't know if it was important or not. He put his hand on the shoulder he'd been bumping.

"Will you make this a special night and sleep with me?"

She said no. She said she was sad that he had to hide his homosexuality from his friends but that she was simply not interested in having sex with him. She said that there was no chance of him ever having sex with her.

He didn't remove his hand. When one of her male friends brought her a drink, the man in the toque said "So that's how it is, is it?" and he scowled bitterly, but he didn't remove his hand.

He was silent for a while, bumping. "It would mean a lot to me, if we could have sex," he said finally. "Since I'm gay and this is significant."

She said no, and he said "Kiss me," and he tried to pull her away from her stool and she sat back again forcibly. "Kiss me please." He pulled her face towards his. "It would be special. My friends are watching." And they were; they were taking pictures with their cel phones.

She pushed him away. He sneered. "I can't believe I told you about my sexuality and you're just rejecting me," he said. "I can't believe I confessed my biggest secret to you, and you're not going to have sex with me. That's awful. It's like you really don't care."

Her male friend intervened, pushed his way in and telling the man to cool it. She finally managed to uncross her legs and she drank her drink behind the barrier of her friend's arm.

The man with the toque stretched across from the other side, hissing. "I can't believe this," he said. "I told you my biggest secret and then you got your boyfriend to attack me. I can't believe you'd do this to me. I can't believe you'd betray me like that."

Tramps, Dishes, and Bins o' Sin

When the Tri-City Roller Girls put out a heartfelt plea for volunteers, I simply couldn't resist. "Yes!" I said. "Simply tell me what to do!"

I guess they couldn't resist either, because they asked me to be one of the "sin bin" timers. How hard could that be? Errrr...

Today's match -- the first of the season -- was at the spiffy new Wilmot Community Center. Since the Car Share charges me by the kilometer, I did what I always do (and regret later)...I forsook the loopy highway and tried to take the back roads. But here in Canada, May is the month of road construction, and when I realized that Erb Street was closed...

...well, I wish I could show you the totally stupid route I actually drove, trying to be "smart" and find my way. I ended up in BAMBURG. What's "Bamburg," you ask? It's a place you don't want to be in. Forget the fact that you don't actually want to LIVE in Bamburg (we used to call it "Bumburg" when I was in high school), but it's a road to absolutely NOWHERE. Being in Bamburg is like trying to get to the North Pole via Australia. Like, so off the path that the Blair Witch can pick and choose her victims at will, and then have a big party without the police even noticing.

But I did finally arrive at the arena, where I discovered that timing the "sin bin" is at least THEORETICALLY a really difficult thing. The rules involving seating and special exceptions are MAMMOTH, so I figured I'd rely on my volunteer partner to tell me what to do. But she was "Perky Set." Wonderful. Brilliant. Never timed a sin bin in her life.

Fortunately she'd spent plenty of time IN the sin bin, so between us we managed to figure out the rules. And since both teams were uncharacteristically sweet we got by without too many challenges.

The show? Wonderful! It really is an engaging sport and it's great to feel like you're part of something. I'm a Venus Fly Tramp at heart, but I (accidentally) wore Vicious Dishes colours, so I felt like I could sort of remain impartial. Sadly, the Tramps lost. Impartial my butt.

After pumping gas and returning the car (I've taken it out four times and NEVER ONCE has the previous user filled the tank), I decided to try something totally new: I'd refresh my face and go to the after party.

This is a difficult thing. If you've never done drag, think of it as like putting a big pancake over your face and then walking around and trying to look pretty. You can do this for about five hours before you start to look -- shall we say -- like a crack-whore-f*cked-up-clown. But sadder. I am SO paranoid about being ugly in drag. I have NIGHTMARES about it. I'd rather have two broken legs than be a really ugly drag queen, but please don't take me up on that.

I really wanted to go to the party, though, so I got out the wet sponge and dabbed...and dabbed...and reapplied...and eventually I just prayed for dim lighting and went out anyway.

What fun! Booze, booze, booze. Pizza appeared and then just as quickly disappeared. Ben Ong kept everybody dancing. I drank too much and then realized that I'd better leave before the ultimate collapse.

Now? Home and happy. What a wonderful night. I'm exhausted and hungry and spinny, and my shoulder feels like a roller girl just stuck a straw into it and then kicked it with a lead-filled skate, but it was a worthwhile and fun night and I look forward to doing it again.

Here's to the Roller Derby Girls, past and present. Here's to all the work they do, all the rehearsals and planning and money they spend. In a perfect world they'd be rewarded. I hope they feel they are.

The Greyhound Bus From Hell

I really don't mind taking the Greyhound. I'm always stressed about arriving on time, and I'll never understand their "don't board the bus until five minutes before departure" policy, but the trip is relatively comfortable and cheap.

Last week I wrote about the gashed-up razor-eater who skulked around the Toronto terminal until he was ejected. This week...

I took the bus on Saturday morning so I could vote in the TICOT elections. After only fifteen minutes in Toronto I returned to the bus terminal and waited to catch the return trip home.

There was only one other person waiting when I got there. Let's call him "Chatty O'Stink." He was borderline homeless and exuded an amazing stench, which he occasionally made worse by splashing perfume on himself. Mr. O'Stink REALLY wanted to talk to me, asking me all sorts of things about where I lived and why I was in Toronto. When I retreated into my book, he started touching the pages and asking me what I was reading.

"The Diary of Samuel Pepys," I said, knowing I'd never be able to explain this to him.

"I don't have any book-learning," he told me. "Can't even read and write. Didn't realize it until I was forty! Hey, did you know that Alice Cooper is coming to Kitchener?"

Chatty O'Stink wasn't a bad person, I just didn't want to get saddled with him, let alone sit next to his horrible body on the bus. So I stopped answering his questions and he eventually left me alone.

Lucky for me, though, the next arrival was a pre-teen boy with a skateboard who was either mentally handicapped or had just smoked a joint. He was frightened by Chatty O'Stink -- who was now walking around in circles and singing -- so I guess he thought I'd be a good ally against the Big Scary World. He kept turning his huge dilated pupils at me and making truncated observations like "Cold out here" and "That bus is big." He edged closer and closer. So I had to ignore him as well.

There I was, trapped between a guy who stank like the world's dirtiest armpit and a kid on drugs.

Then The Farmer arrived.

The Farmer was a short, stocky guy wearing a straw hat, except that the center portion of the hat was gone, leaving only the brim. He began to talk to Chatty O'Stink, but soon he was yelling in a way that reminded me of a big dog barking. "I DON'T CARE IF THEY DO IT, BUT DO THEY GOTTA BRAG ABOUT IT?" he screamed. "ASSF*CKERS!"

Soon The Farmer was walking up and down the growing line of passengers, by turns calm and agitated ("I HAD A BAD F*CKING DAAAAAAY!!!"). Even Chatty O'Stink became frightened, and he went to find the security guards. "That guy's crazy," said the wide-eyed pre-teen, holding his skateboard like a stuffed toy. "This line is big."

By the time the security guards arrived, The Farmer had disappeared and we'd begun boarding the bus. Chatty O'Stink chose the front seat and I sat far enough back to avoid his smell.

Suddenly, Chatty jumped up and started whispering to the bus driver. "That's him!" he was saying, pointing out the door. "That's the guy in the hat!"

"A seat's a seat," said the bus driver. The next thing we knew The Farmer had boarded the bus...and sat down next to Chatty. Things were tense.

All good things come in threes, of course. Our next wonderful passenger was a drunken red-faced guy wearing sunglasses who sat directly behind The Farmer. This was like an intricate chess problem being constructed, the kind where everybody ends up dying.

The drunk noticed that none of the seats in the bus had headrests. "This is a liability!" he kept saying. "There isn't a single seat in this bus with a head rest!"

"You're talking to the wrong guy," said the bus driver simply.

"Just don't drive like a maniac! I don't wanna get whiplash, man."

"You can get out now if you like."

"Oh, no no no." He kept looking for confirmation from the other passengers that he was making a valid point, turning around and staring and shaking his head. Then he'd get up and wander halfway down the aisle, make a sound of disgust, then come back to his seat again.

He had to make a big show of how much neck support he required, so he clumsily opened the overhead compartment to get his jacket out and make a pillow out of it...

...and he knocked The Farmer's straw hat off.

We froze. All of us were staring. We'd seen The Farmer's level of emotional stability in the terminal and we'd found it lacking. The Farmer picked up his hat, sat back down, and began to flip his head forward and backward, apparently to straighten out his hair. Then his head began to oscillate slowly from side to side as Chatty O'Stinky leaned as far away as possible. I felt very sorry for him.

The bus driver started the bus, and he announced that we'd be making the usual stop in Cambridge on the way to Kitchener. "WHAT?!?" yelled the drunk. "What's this about CAMBRIDGE?!?"

"It's on the schedule" said the bus driver.

"How long's that gonna take?"

"Fifteen minutes or so."

"That's bullsh*t" said the drunk, turning his red face to his fellow passengers to bask in their adulation.

The Farmer turned around and said "You could always walk."

Ooooo. Total silence now. I'm sure I wasn't the only one considering exiting the bus. This could NOT be a happy ending...

...but somehow it WAS. You know how some tough guys sort of half-wilt when their bluff is called, and their derision turns to respect? The driver had been polite and unyielding, and now The Farmer had dealt with him. Somehow this defused all of the drunk's anger. Within fifteen minutes the four of them -- the drunk, the driver, The Farmer, AND Chatty O'Stink -- were deep in a discussion about hockey, though The Farmer kept getting distracted by the voices in his head. He wanted to talk about all the bus rides he'd ever taken. Occasionally the drunk would retreat to the bathroom and come out stinking of booze, rubbing his little red eyes and massaging his unsupported neck.

What's going on? After fifteen years of trouble-free bus rides, suddenly I'm stuck dealing with crazy people, with the added bonus of a few recent stabbings to keep us on edge. Are they giving bus passes to these people just to get them out of town?

I leave you with The Farmer's favourite joke, which he made up on the spot and seemed to find delightful. While we were stopped in Cambridge, The Farmer wanted to stand up and go for a walk. Chatty O'Stinky told him not to. "They won't let you off, they won't let you off." He said.

"UNLESS YOU COUGH!" yelled The Farmer, and he laughed and laughed and laughed.

Rock Band

How could I have POSSIBLY deserved such a wonderful time last night? At Melissa's party, all sorts of good people relaxed and chatted and frolicked in a mosquito-free environment, and then some of us played "Rock Band."

I'm new to this phenomenon. I understand how popular it is -- and I even understand why -- but it DOES seem to take more coordination than I can possibly muster at 2am after a night of drinking. I admit it, I was the weakest link, a drummer who failed by always ANTICIPATING the beats. I can't think of a comparable drummer in real life. Few rock bands take the stage without thoroughly vetting their drummer first, which I'd recommend my friends do in the future.

Fun and cute, yes. And absolutely shocking that a monster didn't explode every time I hit the kick-drum. In fact, there were no monsters AT ALL. I can only hope there's a Mod somewhere...

Mr. Worthington Ames Presses THE WRONG FOOT

It makes me happy that things like this could have happened, once.

When Mr. Ames tasted the Duchess Soup he put his foot in it. Here was that wonderful flavor he had told his wife about. He wanted to call her attention to it. However, one must observe the social amenities. But under the table all is different. So he aims a foot pressure wifewards, which translated into husbandese means, "This soup is flavored with that Guasti Cooking Sherry I was telling you about." The lady who looks at him askance is not Mrs. Ames and she thinks Mr. Ames a gay dog.

It also amuses me to think that, at some time, people probably guzzled this heavily-salted sherry when they were unable to contact their bootlegger.

Those Second Act Scotts

Originally I thought this was a strange wisecrack about the sexual habits of the Scottish people, but it's really about people who come into the theatre late. The first paragraph of the advertisement contains a string of references that I will explain below.

Just when the body is discovered or the third one from the left looks your way, the Scotts arrive. Their seats are never Robinson Crusoes (two in the aisle, if the old lady from Dubuque should inquire.) Men, otherwise kindly, grow apoplectic and stout ladies make "tut-tut" sounds. But no one knows the reasons for the tardiness of the Scotts. We do.

In true theatrical form I'll leave the explanation for this baffling mystery until the end.

* "Just when the body is discovered..." Obviously a reference to the inevitable climax of the first act of a mystery play: after the scene has been set and the characters introduced, one of the characters is found dead. Mystery plays were extremely popular in 1927, though in 1928 they seemed to be going on the wane.

* "...or the third one from the left looks your way..." A reference to those who tried to catch the eyes of chorus girls, a line of whom appeared in every musical show. Stories and articles from the '20s often make references to one particular girl who "stood out" from the line as prettier, more intelligent, more talented, or more tragic than the rest. She's the one whose eye you tried to catch...just before those darned Second Act Scotts barged in.

* "Their seats are never Robinson Crusoes..." I've never heard this one, but it's explained in the text. I imagine the aisle seats were called "Robinson Crusoes" because they were sort of distant and stranded from the rest, but I can think of lots of other equally bad explanations if you care to hear them.

* "...the old lady of Dubuque..." This was a running gag since the inception of The New Yorker. Their editorial policy was that the paper "wasn't written for the old lady of Dubuque," implying that their articles would be sophisticated. The OLOD got referenced a lot in the paper, particularly by advertisers trying to be clever.

SO WHY WERE THE SCOTTS LATE ALL THE TIME, ANYWAY? Because they were too busy eating really good home-cooked meals made of Guasti Sherry! This was bona fide alcohol, but so salted that only a homeless anchovy would dare drink it.

As a side note it's unusual to read an advertisement that basically says "these people are REALLY ANNOYING...because they use our product."

The "Stereotypical Canadian Boor-Hick" Test

How do you know if you're a stereotypical hockey-playing Canadian? When a beer company brands you as such, that's how. Here's an advertisement I found in the Club Abstract bathroom. It annoys me.



I crave the approval of a beer company's ad campaign, so here is how I measure up to their concept of "Canadian."

* I don't drink beer very often, but if I did I would certainly replenish "the cooler" (because we all drink beer in the woods, eh?).

* I don't talk during another country's national anthem, but I also don't go to places where national anthems are played (not because I don't like anthems but because I don't like those sorts of placed).

* I most certainly DO shave below the neck, wow!

* I have shoveled my neighbour's driveway, but only because she made me feel guilty about it.

* I do not consider it a bad thing to talk about work on a long weekend (during which, of course, I am always in the woods drinking beer out of a cooler, eh?).

* Jesus, no, I have not "made a ball out of hockey tape" (this is the point in the test when I start to get annoyed)

* I don't hang around gym showers, but no, I wouldn't pee in one. I DO know that some people think it's okay to pee in their OWN showers, however, and I don't see anything wrong with that.

* Yes, I always say "sorry" when people bump into me. Of all these stupid stereotypes this is probably the most accurate.

* Why would I have my fingers behind my back? What sort of sneaky jerk do you think I am? I don't know what this one means but it sounds childish and stupid.

* If I were to EVER "cheer for a goal" I'm sure I wouldn't spill anything, because -- you know -- I am not an infant.

* The last time I was "the goalie" was when I was six, and that was because my sister knew it would hurt more.

* I agree...the driver should pick the music.

* Have I ever "thrown a hat on the ice?" Which ice is that? Is this a stupid hockey thing again? I don't wear hats and -- if I did -- I would respect them too much to just throw them around.

* I will happily end an email with a smiley face. :)

* Yes, I do put a loonie on the pool table to claim the next game.

* It would be silly to NOT bring utensils on a camping trip out of some general principle of "Canadian-ness." Do Canadians tend to eat with their hands? I guess only when they're in the woods, making a ball out of hockey tape and replenishing the cooler.

* I'm doubly Canadian because I help strangers out of snowdrifts and then agonize about my motivation for doing so.

* You should ALWAYS get in the lineup with the most competent cashier. At the local Valu-Mart there are two cashiers who are positively GLACIAL, and even if they only have one person in their line I'll always choose a different cashier...and I always get out first.

* I will not respond to any statement which contains the word "dudes." My annoyance has bubbled over, yo.

* No...I don't need lighter fluid to start a fire, in the woods, with the cooler etc.

* If my "buddy" is not allowed into a bar for a reason which I think is silly, I will happily go elsewhere. If my buddy isn't allowed in because he has a behavioural problem, however, I will stand and cheer as the bouncers kick him down the ramp and into the parking lot.

"Speakeasy"

Poetry never appeals to me in its most artistic and vague form, so instead I give you the first installment of "The Unambiguous Poetry Corner."

This one's by John Ogden Whedon, and it appeared in (you guessed it!) The New Yorker on November 10, 1928. It's called "Speakeasy."

Elbows on a sloppy bar,
Feet upon a rail,
Shutters drawn and chinks filled,
Cluttered tables, drinks spilled,
Pretzels in a broken jar,
Ice and sawdust in a pail.

Screeching radio and clinking
Glasses. Shouts, a song, a curse.
Drinkers--sulky, happy, pensive.
There a novice, apprehensive,
Ostentatious in his drinking.
There a poet scribbling verse.

At the door there comes a tapping;
General hush; the singers cease.
Heads befogged in dissipation
Turn in tense anticipation--
Then a grunt, and back to napping.
It's only the police.