The Old Garbage Hole

Remember how I told you I was on a podcast and forgot to promote the pilot that Pen and I made? Well, that's okay! The podcast is out but we just heard the pilot has been pushed down the old garbage hole into reject town. The axe has fallen. We got the old heave-ho. They're not making a show out of it is what I'm trying to say. For more information about how pilots work, see Uma Thurman's monologue on the subject in PULP FICTION. Anyhow! The host of the podcast, Andy Beckerman, is a fine young man. Fine young man! So don't disapppoint him. Don't you dare disappoint him! I won't see you harm a hair on his precious head with your cruel indifference! Don't listen to the podcast for me. No, just push me down the old garbage hole with all my hopes and dreams. It's where I belong! Listen to the podcast for him! Do it for Andy Beckerman! You know, this was my first real podcast appearance to my way of thinking, and I made some rookie mistakes, some of which have already been covered in previous "posts" for your convenience. Well, I should be clear. I've been on two other podcasts, but they don't count. One was about ADVENTURE TIME, and it was recorded back in the days when I would work on a story and then move on to the next story, and the next story, and lots of other stories, and I wouldn't see the episode or know how it had evolved until roughly nine months later, when it appeared on my actual television set, which is a thing people used to have in their homes. So these guys from the ADVENTURE TIME podcast had seen a screener of an upcoming episode ("Football," season 7 episode 5) and had a lot of great questions about it, but I had no idea what they were talking about. My brain was somewhere else by then! So they were a bit put out with me. I don't recall what I ended up muttering about instead. But you could barely call it a podcast. My fault, not theirs! Another podcast was the one I did with Ace Atkins when my book SWEET BANANAS came out. Now, that one, it was exactly the same sort of conversation Ace and I have when we walk around the neighborhood, so I don't count it. It was too easy! Anyway, with Mr. Beckerman, I got the idea that my main job was to talk, so I rushed to fill any microsecond of perceived silence with whatever wild notion pushed its way to the front. I was under the sway of what Edgar Alan Poe referred to as "The Imp of the Perverse."

Knowing Topazes

You know I have to tell you every time I read a book with an owl in it. But did you know I DON'T have to tell you if a book I read has more than one owl in it? Look it up! But sometimes I tell you anyway, because I have really, really great reasons. Like, for example, yes, THAT AWFUL MESS ON THE VIA MERULANA has a "handsome priest" who looks like an owl, but - and I found this out the other night; I'm ashamed of not mentioning it sooner - it also has a real owl in it, well, a real stuffed owl. The reader will of course be reminded of the embalmed owl in ULYSSES. This owl here we're talking about now, though, the moths have really gotten to this here owl, I'm afraid, but its eyes are intact. In fact, they're "knowing topazes, motionless in the night, in time, surviving the ruins of time." You know how it is! I don't know about you, but the knowing topazes in my stuffed owl's head are always going around surviving the ruins of time every time I turn around. You can't make this stuff up! And surely you recall the "cheap glass eye" of a hypothetical stuffed owl, the color of which (eye color, that is) bestows the title upon a Travis McGee novel. At this point I would like to assure you that neither Elon Musk nor his impish teen pal "Big Balls" can put a stop to the important work of the "blog."

Alien Corpuscles

Hi, Sara! (I think Sara is reading the "blog" now. And just the other day I received a thoughtful note from the very nice fellow who used to book me for readings at the Metairie Library, which [the email] indicated in passing that he has been keeping up with the "blog." For a long time, McNeil and I have assumed that he [McNeil] was the only one still reading it, but if Sara is really onboard, that instantly triples my numbers.) ANYHOW! Sara, you will be interested to learn that I once wondered here whether Deadman, a superhero who can cram his soul into other people's bodies, would be able to possess Superman, who is not in essence a human person, but rather a freaky alien from a distant world. Well! One of these old comic books that Tom gave me answers the question, as Deadman does slip, without seeming difficulty, into Superman's skin. It also addresses my biggest concern - in life! - in a satisfyingly direct manner, as something turns out to be a little off with the possession, leading Deadman to conclude that Superman's "alien corpuscles" (his phrase, not mine) are to blame. This is off the subject, if there is one, but on the next page, someone engages in the hopeless task of trying to take out Superman with a wrecking ball. Superman says (and please note, Sara, dialogue in comic books is written in all caps, or was, when I was but a youthful, towheaded imp) "YOU'RE A REAL 'SWINGER,' WHOEVER YOU ARE... SO HAVE A 'BALL!'" Then he smashes the guy with his own wrecking ball, the ultimate insult. Who does he think he is with a crack like that, Arnold Schwarzenegger? Ha ha ha! Oh, Superman! (Almost the title of a Laurie Anderson song.) All right. Also in this issue, Deadman is addressed by three giant owls, who say things like "EVEN IN THE COLD HOUSE OF DEATH, YOU ARE STILL A BOILING CAULDRON!" But this is a WORLD'S FINEST comic, and I have already catalogued that publication according to its owl usage, so further cataloguing in the form of this "post" is just a little icing on the cake, and not strictly necessary. Familiarize yourself with these rules, Sara! (I close by adding that the gigantic nature of the owls is nothing more than a trick of forced perspective. When carefully considered, they appear to be regular owls, excepting their ability to talk to ghosts.)

Slightly Late

There is a whole section of my book about cigarette lighters in which I yammer on and on about how easily a lighter is passed from owner to owner, whether through theft or absent-mindedness. An interesting illustration occurs in the movie SLIGHTLY SCARLET, when Arlene Dahl nearly makes off with John Payne's cigarette lighter. She says she'll give it back later, but he doesn't go for that line. He wants his lighter back pronto! So he holds out his hand and she impishly burns it with the lighter! Well, he said he wanted it! Anyway, that should be in my cigarette lighter book, but it was published four years ago; also, nothing matters anymore.

Probably Very Loud

I'm ashamed to say that when I saw Jack Carter's obit in the New York Times today the first thing I thought about is how much Robert Goulet's son-in-law hated him: "The band dubbed him 'Captain Rage.' He made everyone so unhappy that we had him thrown off the bus." I almost titled this "post" "Captain Rage Is Dead" but it seemed disrespectful to Mr. Carter's family. I found this photo from the NYT obit fascinating. I can't conceive of the occasion. None of these "comic entertainers" go together, for reasons you could never understand unless you were Ward McCarthy or McNeil or me. Just look how uncomfortable Wally Cox is! I was going to do a big analysis for your benefit. I was going to call Rowan and Martin "louche" and talk about the "impish sad clown razzamatazz" of Jimmy Durante. But you know what? Who cares? I sent the photo to McNeil and Ward. Haven't heard back from McNeil, but Ward's response says everything that needs to be said about the gathering: "I imagine it was probably very loud."

Where Baby Elvis Was Born

On our way back from the Amory Railroad Festival, Dr. Theresa, who was driving, made a spontaneous stop at Elvis's birthplace in Tupelo. Of the four of us, only Megan - from New York by way of Detroit - had been before! Where you buy your ticket to the humble two-room house, there's a little model of that same house sitting on the counter. Going to the festival (and speaking of houses) Dr. Theresa pointed out an odd little house in, I believe, the town of Nettleton (?). We referred to it as the "bubble house" or the "space house" and probably had some other names for it. On the way back, she got Megan to take a picture of it. I offered my opinion that you shouldn't stand in people's yards and take pictures of their houses, but everyone else pointed out that if you build a house like that you want people to take pictures of it. Also, the homeowners had propped up some human-sized rabbit dolls on a swing. "I'll be inconspicuous," said Megan. Dr. Theresa parked in the church parking lot next door to the space house (a church with a sign out front that said W...E.........LC.......O..M, with the M all the way at the end of the sign, as if they had run out of room - these were those movable plastic letters by the way!). We all had to laugh as Megan pranced brazenly ("Like a sprite!" said Dr. Theresa) to the space house - maybe she gamboled! - and took pictures of it while being in no way inconspicuous. I have not yet received those photographs.

Please Never Do This

So we went over to Ace's and watched CITY STREETS and Sylvia Sidney reminded Ace of old photos of his grandmother, so Ace got out his grandmother's pearl-handled revolver and we passed it around. Megan Abbott wanted me to take her picture holding the gun and so I did and imagine my surprise when she pointed it at me, violating one of the primary rules of gun safety, perhaps THE primary rule. I want to remind you to NEVER POINT A GUN AT SOMEBODY, EVEN IF THE GUN IS SUPPOSEDLY NOT LOADED. That is practically the first thing you should know about guns. Guns are not toys. Remember William S. Burroughs. That being said, here is the photo and it is pretty neat considering that I happened not to get killed this time and anyway here I am glorifying it and after all it is "classic Megan Abbott." Note Bill Boyle texting blithely in the background.

Full of Soup and Gold

"Hecate dominates the stage in an owl-drawn chariot." That's one thing I read in REPROBATES: THE CAVALIERS OF THE ENGLISH CIVIL WAR yesterday. Also: "The masque ends with a dance of sprites on a blazing cloud." Then I read about some guy who was "the reputed 'stallion' of the court, a heavy-set charmer. In future decades, after the ordeals of war, when he was 'full of soup and gold,'" people would make fun of him for being a big fat guy. But he used to sneak around with the queen in dark corridors, if you know what I'm saying, or so the gossip went. You go, fat boy! Then I read about poor Prince Rupert. "In the narrow escape from Spanish forces at Prague in 1620, the infant Rupert was nearly forgotten. By 1636, his widowed mother found more solace in her pet dogs and monkeys than in her children." Sadly, it is not recorded here whether Rupert's mom used to get her monkeys to ride her dogs around for fun, but come on! If you have a menagerie of dogs and monkeys to whom you turn for solace, it's bound to happen, isn't it?

Commotion Notion

Hey, you know what else THE BALLAD OF THE SAD CAFE reminds me of? That's right! Jerry Lewis. But what doesn't remind me of Jerry Lewis? Of the impish Cousin Lymon, McCullers writes, "When he walked into the room there was always a quick feeling of tension, because with this busybody about there was never any telling what might descend on you, or what might suddenly be brought to happen in the room. People are never so free with themselves and so recklessly glad as when there is some possibility of commotion or calamity ahead." For further insight, reacquaint yourself with McNeil's Theory of Potential Energy.

Last Vestige of Doomed Book Club

You can read a small portion of my new BELIEVER column on the BELIEVER "web" site. In it, I describe myself as "a puckish, impish sprite, seemingly not born so much as deposited on Earth via moonbeam." In addition to representing the way I really feel about myself, that phrase is a salute to the writing style of Art Cohn in his crazy biography of Joe E. Lewis, as read by our doomed book club.

Enjoyable Bird

There's a bird I like to listen to every day. It employs three clear, high-pitched whistles in descending tones, very close to the first notes of "Three Blind Mice," followed by a rhythmic reiteration of the final note, with some impish sliding effects. I have now briefly glanced at two "web" sites about birds and become a bird expert. So I believe my tuneful friend is a sparrow of some kind. If I am understanding correctly (and perhaps the Dear Bird Correspondent will do me the favor of setting me straight) each individual sparrow has its own personal and varied repertoire, which may account for what I could swear is the same bird occasionally going up the scale in a minor key (actually it starts with an interval of a minor third in those cases). So on a site called "Nature Bits" I heard this sparrow that someone recorded in Alaska. Pretty close, I guess, but the sparrow in our yard is a lot more talented in the melody department, and with a purer, slightly higher tone. Here is the other place I found on the "web" where you can listen to birdsong if that's your idea of a good time, which it should be. (Pictured, a golden-crowned sparrow, the kind that was singing in Alaska. Look at his golden crown! If I saw him in person I'd be like, "You've got a little golden crown, don't you? Yes you do! Yes you do!")

Music, the Universal Language

I have not had much to say lately. That's never stopped me before! Ha ha! Wheeeeee! We're having fun now, joshing and such! But in the past few "posts" I've let music do the talking for me, be it a marching (stationary for the moment) band playing a rendition of the Britney Spears hit "Toxic" or some guy pounding out some Sousa on his organ. I had nothing of substance to tell you, but I didn't want to leave you high and dry! My alternate idea was to make a "post" with a title like "Uxhoihdaoifh Uhoaidfh Yhadofih" and a textual body, complete with "links," which was going to look like this: Ikdflakdhfadkfjahdkfjh? Hlkjdkfh "oifjskfj" sjhdfkjh! Skjdflkdhlfkdh "ldkh" df "dlkfhlsdkh" ldkflkd! But then I thought about how nosy "the man" has been lately and was afraid it would be mistaken for a secret code and the "blog" and myself would mysteriously vanish. My hilarious "gibberish" "post" would have been illustrated by a picture of Mr. Mxyzptlk, the rascally imp who used to bedevil Superman! [Note: Pendarvis was unable to find a "satisfactory" picture of Mr. Mxyzptlk. Because Verdell becomes distraught if there is no illustration, he settled on a depiction of the superdog engaging in a "tug o' war" with the supercat. - ed.] I still have nothing to say. But the NBIL did send me some information about tyromancy, which is when you put out a few pieces of cheese and predict the future by seeing which piece your rat eats first.

It Would Be Wrong of Me

And as long as I am breaking my silence, it would be wrong of me not to mention the remarkable novel THE INTERLOPER by Antoine Wilson, who was another participant in the reading series the other night. I haven't finished it yet, but remarkable is certainly the correct word. In a strange way, Mr. Wilson's narrator seems to be a shadow-imp of the polite, restrained narrators of Mr. James Whorton, Jr. Did I just say "shadow-imp"? What am I talking about? Is that even a phrase? I'm going to "Google" it. Hold on. Okay, there are 1,040 matches for "shadow imp." It seems to be a character in some kind of Dungeons and Dragons sort of game. Also a young woman in New Zealand appears to have a myspace page under that sobriquet. But please do not let my use of the rather queasy-making term "shadow imp" discourage you from THE INTERLOPER... OR the fine novels of James Whorton, Jr. (Pictured, an imp.)

Gossipmonger!

I do not know if this is proper to mention, though it FEELS innocuous: I learned from Christopher Hitchens himself (okay, I'm fairly certain he was not addressing me personally) that he enjoys karaoke. The two numbers for which he is celebrated (I hope I'm not giving anything away) are "Like A Rolling Stone" and "Proud Mary." I mention this for a few reasons. First, I think it will be of especial interest to our "blog" correspondent Dr. "M.," whose karaoke rendition of "Baby Got Back" is unrivaled. Also... the night before I learned this dirty, wretched bit of celebrity gossip (am I betraying a trust?), and COMPLETELY UNBEKNOWNST to Christopher Hitchens, I sang an entire BeeGees song, a cappella, to a stunned and bewildered gathering of literature lovers. I was supposed to be, I think, reading one of my short stories, but I pretended to believe that I was supposed to sing. My original intention was to sing one line and stop. But something (the ghost of Andy Kaufman? Poe's imp of the perverse? Three Guinnesses?) goaded me to keep going, and going, and going. And then I did half a verse of "Bring the Noise" by Public Enemy. And then I stopped being a smarta** and read some prose. I must now do two things: 1) apologize to the literature lovers; 2) thank Caroline Young, whose karaoke performance of "I Started a Joke" (the BeeGees song) was my first exposure to that little nugget of pop melancholy. They should have heard Caroline do it. But they got me.

Agent "M.'s" TV Korner: Special Guest Columnist, Jack Pendarvis

Hello, and welcome to the latest episode of Agent "M.'s" TV Korner. I'm Jack Pendarvis, and today I'll be sitting in for Agent "M.," who is on assignment. Tonight's episode of LOST was impeded somewhat, in the Pendarvis Building, by the charming escapades of our always impish and mercurial upstairs neighbors. It seems that they have given their dogs a bag to play with, a bag most probably containing, based on aural evidence, a large number of human heads. I am sure there is a logical explanation! No doubt the heads were obtained quite legally, as part of a scientific experiment for the betterment of humankind! So of course we cannot in good conscience be upset about what appears (or sounds) to be such an altruistic gesture. In fact, the torturously methodical way in which the heads were pushed around the room, over and over, by the noses of the tireless dogs in question, is a sure sign of some sort of highly specialized and regulated test. Good for our upstairs chums! I salute their enterprise! But it was a little hard to keep up with LOST with all the excitement and industry taking place right over our heads. At one point, I went so far as to bang on the ceiling with a broom handle as a hearty and enthusiastic show of support for the "scientific method," well known as a boon to all! This got the frolicsome pups worked up all the more! Here's an interesting detail: The dogs began cavorting with their sack of skulls (or what-have-you) just before LOST began airing at 10 o'clock EST. At 10:54 p.m., they briefly curtailed their rambunctious task, which had been going on NON-STOP, to engage in a spirited fight, complete with frightening yelps and growls! At around 10:56, things grew ominously silent, allowing us to view the last two or three minutes of LOST in "peace," yet overcome with suspense and worry about our erstwhile jolly canine pals! A mixed blessing to be sure, this strange "peace" we "enjoyed"!

The Year of Hunching Dangerously

I had a "hunch" that my long nightmare of hunching was over. Having finally received the proper equipment to alleviate the problem, I eagerly called up the friendly "computer" people who had sent me that equipment. The first fellow helped me for awhile and decided that I should be transferred to a supervisor. I heard some lively classical music, a concerto grosso if I am not mistaken, and was suddenly disconnected after ten minutes of edifying contrapuntalism. I called back and by coincidence was sent to the very first fellow again. He transferred me a second time, and the call went right through, but it was, alas, to the wrong department. That second fellow transferred me to another department, where I encountered another nice fellow who wanted to help me, but we finally figured out that he was an expert on the wrong brand of "computers." So he transferred me to another man, and this man told me right away that he was the wrong department but would try to help me anyway. I explained that I would rather speak with someone in the correct department for some reason. This fourth fellow gently chided me, explaining that yes, he would probably have to transfer me at some point, but first he wanted to give it a sporting try just as a frivolous lark. He asked me for all the same information I had given to the first three persons to whom I had spoken. I explained that I would rather just be transferred to the correct department right away, rather than persisting in this impish charade, however frolicsome and blithe. We parted amicably, I think. True, nothing was "accomplished." But why does something always have to be "accomplished"? Can't we just enjoy meeting new friends like the four I met today in two short hours? Four new friends in two hours... not bad! Not bad at all. It augurs well for the year to come. I suggest calling up your "computer" company whether or not you have a problem, just to shoot the breeze. The best part is, I am learning to use back muscles I never knew I had! Perhaps at the turn of 2008 I will pull a freight train along the tracks by means of a harness, as part of an "internet" stunt.