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** ITE IN ORCUM DIRECTE **
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"All the news About Hal that Hal deems fit to print"
Special Introductory Electronic Issue
The Harold Herald you've downloaded here is the on-line
incarnation of a newsletter published every month or so from
Portland, Maine.
But before you skip down the screen looking for nice, cheery
welcomes and nice, reader-friendly guides to the publication, let's get
one thing straight: This is my newsletter and "nice" is not the
operative phrase around here. I formulate the editorial tone in these
parts and I happen to like it "acidic." So, if you're one of these
super-appreciative dolts who sees the good in everything but lacks any
high regard for sarcasm and aggressive denigration, then log off right
now and continue scanning the Internet for a heapin' helping of the
electronic pablum you crave.
When we launched in June 1993, stories strictly adhered to the
Herald's mission statement: "All the news about Hal that Hal deems
fit to print." While my life could be described as the ideal editorial
vehicle - thrilling, sultry, multi-faceted, mysterious - the Herald
soon tackled a broader spectrum of subject matter, viewed through
the eyes and keyboards of various guest columnists.
The evolution has continued. In response to the oversensitive
whiners I might have taken to task in previous issues, the Herald has
instituted a "letters to the editor" section. I invite you to
contribute, respond or generally spew (see the masthead for
correspondence information). Another department open to contribution is
our regular travel feature, Pejorative Corner, examples of which appear
further down the menu.
Consider these files a special introductory offer: We've gathered
here stories from recent issues to give you a feel for the publication's
editorial tone and mission. If you don't like it, heed the advice listed
each month on the front-page banner: Ite in orcum directe!
Harold G. Phillips III
Publisher
Editor-in-Chief
Resident Stud
THE HAROLD HERALD
Publisher Food Editor
Harold Gardner Phillips III Max Baer
Editor-in-Chief Living Editor
Hal Phillips Dr. Baruch Goldstein
Virtual Editor Production Manager
Dr. David M. Rose Quinn-Martin
Managing Editor Circulation Manager
Formletter McKinley Benjamin Pennypacker Binswanger
Associate Editor Spiritual Consultant
Throatwarbler Mangrove Cardinal Mannix
Weapons Consultant Drug Tsar
Mohommed Farah Aidid William F. Buckley Jr.
Giant Sucking Sound
Provided By:
Ross Perot's daughter
on her honeymoon
Editorial Offices: Satellite Office:
The Harold Herald c/o Golf Course News
30 Deering St. 38 Lafayette St.
Portland, Maine 04101 P.O. Box 997
207-774-7095 Yarmouth, Maine 04096
207-846-0600
Fax: 207-846-0657
Virtual Office:
c/o drose@husc.harvard.edu
===================================================================
BASEBALL'S ARMAGEDDON?
By HAL PHILLIPS
So many people are down on baseball these days, I felt it important to
weigh in on a few choice topics before the seemingly inevitable
implosion of this venerable institution.
If we are to believe these disillusioned pundits, it's as if baseball's
survival depends totally on its ability to replicate the innocence and
purity of the 1950s, when Baby Boomers sat close to radios on back
porches cooing to the exploits of Mickey, Willie and the Duke, instead
of masturbating or experimenting with drugs.
Listen: It's over. And I've got blasphemous news for you: It wasn't that
great.
There were stars, but fans west of St. Louis couldn't attest to their
greatness. Indeed, the Yankees dominated both leagues - in terms of wins
and publicity - which further exacerbated the game's Gothamcentrism. And
can we please stop with all this complaining about a lack of afternoon
games, especially when the playoffs (more blasphemy) and Worlds Series
roll around? In the 50s, there was virtually no television, so nobody
saw shit! How, exactly, do night games on nationwide television exclude
little tykes any more than day games discriminated against working men
and women, or little tykes attending school at 1 p.m. on Tuesday
afternoon?
No doubt, there was great hitting for power in this hallowed decade, but
teams were also loaded with plodding Walt Dropo types. These same
purists derided him, but Dave Kingman would have been a cult hero in an
era where burly potted plants like Ralph Kiner were so glorified.
Further, stolen bases were a lost art in this station-to-station
atmosphere. Willie Mays was the decade's leader in thefts with 179. Read
that again... Can you imagine? From 1950-57, no major league team stole
100 bases in a season! These guys would make the present-day Red Sox
look like waterbugs.
And one more thing: Lets us not confuse loyalty with serfdom. Of course
players stayed with teams for longer periods of time - they had no
choice! Owners in the 50s were an appallingly greedy bunch, doling out
meager salaries while selling virtually every inch of stadium facade and
every minute of air time to the Ballantines and White Owls of the world.
In short, if I hear another Baby Boomer bemoaning baseball's boorish
bourgeoise behavior, I'm gonna boot!
***
An open query to the fans and media of Baltimore: Why is everybody on
Cal Ripken's case? Is this some sort of biennial ritual in the land of
pleasant living, where the immortal Mark Belanger patrolled Memorial
Stadium for 20 years, often going months without hitting a ball out of
the infield? Bring back Kiko Garcia! People of Baltimore, listen
closely: Ripken is not only the best shortstop you have, he remains the
best defensive shortstop in the American League, of which he was MVP
only two seasons ago. He's pursuing one of baseball's most revered
records with uncommon dignity despite continual carping from all sides.
He has even displayed some of that 50s-era loyalty by keeping quiet
after Orioles management unceremoniously fired his father (twice) and
shipped his brother to Texas. Cal Ripken could quit right now and waltz
in to the Hall of Fame on the first ballot because he's a first-rate
defensive player and his power numbers dwarf those of other shortstops.
Unfortunately, if you try to explain this to some sap who grew up
listening to Vin Scully heap praise on Pee Wee Reese, you're liable to
elicit the baseball equivalent of a Pavlovian froth. Then they'll blame
it on the talent dilution brought on by expansion.
=====================================================================
MISERY HAS COMPANY
By DR. DAVID ROSE
BOSTON, Mass. - From a meteorological perspective, this winter has been
a particularly difficult one in New England. The ground here has been
snow-covered for at least a month, and each time the snow begins to
retreat a new storm sets in, dumping a foot or two of the white stuff on
the city's long-suffering populace.
In times like these, even the most stalwart, Eastern masochist can cast
an admiring eye to the South or West, imagining more comfortable - if
less character-building - Februarys. In weaker moments we are all
capable of believing we would be less miserable if only the weather were
better.
What few people realize, however, is that misery - like matter, energy
or gravity - is a measurable entity subject to strict physical laws.
Paramount among these is the law of conservation of misery, which states
that misery can be neither be created nor destroyed.
What the law of conservation of misery means is that each human being is
subject to a fixed quantity of misery during his or her lifetime. This
"misery quotient" is absolutely immutable, a constant that holds across
socioeconomic groups and geographic boundaries.
The law can be demonstrated in the field by measuring and tabulating
misery in test subjects by using sensitive, electronic monitoring
equipment. In the following study, diary entries for three individuals
are followed by the amount of misery experienced by each, expressed in
misery units (MU).
Subject 1, Los Angeles, Calif.
Day 1: Beautiful day. Saw Erik Estrada at Arby's (.002 MU)
Day 2: Beautiful day. Discussed Rolfing with a Scientologist.
(22.001 MU)
Day 3: Beautiful day. Around noon my house ripped loose from its
foundation, slid down a hill, burst into flames and was swallowed up by
a huge fissure that opened in the Earth. I was trapped for four weeks
and was forced to drink by own urine to survive. One of the paramedics
looked just like Kevin Bacon in Footloose. (1223.12 MU)
Subject 2, Tallahassee, Fla.
Day 1: Beautiful day. Stayed in the trailer and ran the air conditioner.
(.003 MU)
Day 2: Beautiful day. Noticed that some, but by no means all, of my
neighbors bear a striking resemblance to Gomer Pyle. (12.4 MU)
Day 3: The morning was beautiful, but in the afternoon I was mistaken
for a German tourist and shot in the head, doused with gasoline, and set
afire during a hurricane that destroyed the entire trailer park.
(1232.72 MU)
Subject 3, Boston, Mass.
Day 1: Mixture of snow and sleet. Frostbite in right foot. (415.041 MU)
Day 2: Mixture of snow and freezing rain. My right foot has become
gangrenous, and the stench is unbearable (415.041 MU)
Day 3: More snow. However, I reflected today that my house remains
intact and this gave me a sense of stability and well-being. Right foot
amputated. (415.041 MU)
Note the three subjects had very different experiences during the test
period. However, the total amount of misery endured by each subject is
identical (1245.123 MU).
While life in Boston is characterized by an endless series of petty
humiliations and annoyances, life to the South or West consists of long
stretches of inane, vapid, colorless contentment punctuated by absolute
cataclysm. You can take your pick, but you can't avoid misery
altogether.
And before you move to warmer climes, consider the fact that spring will
bring nicer weather to Boston, whereas Gomer Pyle lives in Tallahassee
year 'round.
------------
Herald Science Editor David Rose, PhD, is the world's foremost authority
on suffering. While he still gets a charge from the warranted misfortune
of others, he specializes in chance trauma and self-imposed misery. He
once dieted for two weeks on nothing but chicken boullion and carrots.
His latest book, "I'm Wretched, You're Wretched" (Knopf, $14.95), was
published in February. He lives in Boston with wife Penelope.
=================================================================
TERROR BY NIGHT
By MARK SULLIVAN
PORTLAND, Maine - There was a time when Hal Phillips dismissed ghost
sightings as so much folderol, as the incredible claims of carny
spiritualists and practitioners of hoodoo, or the fevered rantings of
the gullibly credulous, like insensitively depicted minstrel butlers in
Three Stooges episodes or the pant-suited blue-hairs who hog the 7-11
counter scratching lottery tickets when all Phillips wants to do is buy
a pack of Players.
No longer. Phillips, by all accounts a sane and frequently sober
magazine editor, has become convinced that his Portland apartment is
haunted by the spirit of a long-dead Maine congressman who pounds a
ghostly gavel, loudly practices speeches at all hours of the night, and
frequently mocks with withering bursts of sarcasm.
Congressman Thomas Reed, who served as Speaker of the U.S. House of
Representatives at the turn of the century and who died in 1902, lived
in the Deering Street brownstone in which Phillips' apartment is now
located.
The hulking specter of Reed - who combined a massive girth with a
cultivated wit, and whose masterful handling of the House chamber earned
him the nickname "Czar" - continues to roam the building, Phillips
claims.
"It's getting to where I can't sleep at night, what with all the
stomping about and the lofty oratory and the cigar smoke," Phillips
explains. "And all the witty asides - I can't pull on my new Black Watch
underwear without him going on about the Boxer Rebellion."
Reed was described by historian Barbara Tuchman as "a physical giant,
six feet three inches tall, weighing almost three hundred pounds and
dressed completely in black, out of whose collar rose an enormous clean-
shaven baby face like a Casaba melon flowering from a fat black stalk...
"Speaking in a slow drawl, he delighted to drop cool pearls of sarcasm
into the most heated rhetoric and to watch the resulting fizzle with the
bland gravity of a New England Buddha," Tuchman wrote of Reed in the
Proud Tower. "As he walked down the streets of Portland, he resembled a
human frigate among shallops. Silent, impassive, with an inward-turned
eye, noticing no one, he moved along with the ponderous, gently swaying
gait of an elephant."
???
Reed's ghost first made his presence known to Phillips a few weeks ago.
Phillips said he was awakened one night by a persistent pounding noise,
which he first thought to be the pipes, or the rutting of feral felines
drawn to his roof by the allure of his pet cats, Scott and Zelda. As he
listed longer, however, the sound became unmistakable: It was the
hammering of a gavel.
The continuous pounding grew so deafening that Phillips, in the hope of
getting some sleep, curled up in his '40s-era phone booth - a souvenir
from the old Hampshire House in Boston - that sits in the middle of his
living room. Phillips was just drifting off when he was startled by a
spectral face gazing at him through the door.
It was the ghost of Reed.
"Quorum call, quorum call!" the spirit exclaimed. "Will the gentleman
from Massachusetts kindly yield the kiosk?"
Phillips was flabbergasted. "You can imagine how I felt when I saw that
Casaba-melon face looking in at me," he recalls. "I thought I'd got hold
of a bad Carling, or that I'd been having too many hookahs for
breakfast."
Since that time, Phillips says, the ghost has appeared nightly in his
apartment, holding forth on Admiral Mahan's naval theory, the policies
of the McKinley Administration and the damnable obstructionism of House
Democrats. Reed persists in taking roll calls, repeatedly, counting as
present Phillips' cats, whom Reed refers to as "Cabot" and "Lodge."
Phillips also finds himself a target of Reed's quick wit. When a lengthy
declamation on tariff drew only stammers from a befuddled Phillips, Reed
smiled haughtily: "Having embedded that fly in the liquid amber of my
remarks, I will proceed," the ghost said.
Phillips has laid in stores of claret and port to placate the ghost who,
after discovering Phillips' new martini mixer, was found rummaging
through the refrigerator in a futile search for olives, which Phillips
eschews.
"I call that damned fussy, given martinis hadn't even been invented when
he was alive," Phillips says.
The speaker's sarcasm took a biting turn after Phillips returned,
tanned, from a trip to the Philippines. The editor had traveled there to
cover an innovative social advance: a new golf championship golf course
built atop a Manila landfill where beggars - to the dismay of local
businessmen and tourists - had previously taken to congregate in search
of scraps of food.
A smirking Reed began henceforth to refer to Phillips as "Aguinaldo,"
after the turn-of-the-century Filipino insurrectionary. The Wellesley-
bred, lapsed-Unitarian Phillips chafes at the comparison, which he says
is not apt regardless of his having attended Wesleyan with campus bomber
Nicholas Haddad and his frequent defenses of soccer, a sport notorious
for it hooliganism.
"I've had it," says Phillips. "There's only room for one speaker in this
house, and that's me."
---------------
Mark Sullivan is a freelance journalist living in Winchester, Mass. His
rants and implausible historical juxtapositions appear frequently in the
Herald, as no self-respecting journal would accept them.
===================================================================
ARE YOU A DUPE FOR THE LEFT?
BY HAL PHILLIPS
Pursuing a liberal political and social agenda is a noble, virtuous
goal. But many ardent Democrats run the risk of blindly walking the
party line - even though it's been outlawed in Moscow. Ha! Just kidding!
Dyed-in-the-wool liberals aren't necessarily socialists, but sometimes
the two groups can be hard to distinguish.
Are you a dupe for the left? The following self-administered quiz was
designed to assist you in answering this important question. Let's
begin:
1.Would you describe Pat Buchanan as...
a. A fat, balding fascist
b. An over-exposed opportunist
c. A moderate republican
(If you answered "c", add three points to your score.)
2. You oppose term limits because...
a. We already have term limitation; it's called voting
b. They limit my choice as a voter
c. It's a minority issue and "we" still have a majority in
Congress.
(If you answered "c", add two points to your score. If you
answered "a" or "b", subtract one.)
3. I listen to "All Things Considered" because...
a. It's the best news program in America
b. There's no bi-partisan alternative
c. I fall into a Dionysian trance every time Daniel Schorr says
"former President Bush."
(If you answered "c", stop taking this quiz and go directly to the
George McGovern Deprogramming Clinic nearest you.)
4. I oppose nuclear power plants because...
a. The waste-disposal issue has never been fully addressed.
b. Solar energy has never been given a chance.
c. I receive $5 off my annual Sierra Club membership dues for
every anti-nuke letter I get published.
(If you answered "a" or "b", subtract one point; if you answered
"c", get a life.)
5. I would describe the average U.S. conservative as...
a. Just like me, only misinformed
b. Self-centered and close-minded
c. A Nazi
(Subtract one point for any answer.)
6. "Family values" is not a relevant political issue because...
a. America is a melting pot where one cultural steriotype of
"family" cannot be imposed upon or expected of anyone else.
b. My parents were hippies who raised me on a diet of
wheat germ and Thai stick in the back of VW MicroBus - quite
frankly, the issue makes me uncomfortable.
c. Republicans got to it first.
(If you answered "a", add a point to your score; if "b", add two
points; if "c" add three points.)
If you scored 10 points or more on this very scientific examination,
it's time to seriously reconsider the level of your politcal commitment.
Voting Libertarian can be quite therapeutic, in that it asserts your
independence as a voter while not assisting the stormtrooping right. In
the interest of fairness, we had planned to run a similar quiz next
month for our conservative readers. However, because the average
conservative tends not to bother with introspection of any kind, we
won't bother.
=====================================================================
PEJORATIVE CORNER
BY HAL PHILLIPS
I'm a little behind in my methodical trashing of the world's most
beloved destinations. So, seeing as this is the initial 1994
installment of Pejorative Corner and I haven't moved about much of
late, allow me to review my travels during November of 1993:
San Francisco - Though I've been to San Francisco several times and,
indeed, lived just north of the city during some of my numerous
formative years, I am continually amazed at the ultra-liberal, supremely
activist nature of its talk radio landscape. It is virtually impossible
to scan the AM dial and find anything but heated exchanges over the
treatment of homeless people, homosexuals, AIDS, the ozone layer, gun
control or feminism (Okay, I listed it sixth - so what!). These people
need a good seatbelt controversy to break the monotony of left-leaning
righteousness. Enough about the inherent indignity of panhandling and
job discrimination - what about Will Clark?!? I was in San Francisco
right after he signed with the Rangers and I didn't hear a peep. Too
busy dreaming up the next Alar scare, I guess...
Hong Kong - Bring back the opium dens! These people need to relax! A
little lying around, sleeping off the effects of heavy drug use would do
HK residents a world of good. There's more street activity at 6 a.m.
than you'll see all year in downtown Portland, Maine. Shop vendors open
at first light - presumably to serve the millions of old men and women
already doing tai chi as the sun rises over Victoria Harbour - and never
close. Hong Kongers: Lighten up! See a movie, read a book, sleep in,
develop poor eating habits. The Red Chinese are coming in three years...
Enjoy the world's highest standard of living while you can!
Charleston, S.C. - After arriving at my hotel dehydrated, I promptly
gulped down a tall glass of water - I nearly wretched! Worst tap water
I've ever encountered. Softer than a baby's butt, only less appetizing.
I drank bottled water all week - an overtly pretentious thing I never
do. But I had no choice! As for the people, are you familiar with the
phrase, "Dumb as a post"? Well, Charlestonians are dumber than posts.
Somewhere along the line, a post was a tree - a living, productive
organism. South Carolinians are more closely akin to rocks and clumps of
dirt. Neither can they speak. Asking directions anywhere in the state is
virtually pointless. The best diction I heard during my stay was the
brand new speaking cash register at a Piggly Wiggly I patronized. "Four
dollars and thirty-seven cents," it said impeccably, as the bar coded
Evian bottle passed over the sensor.
"Sure does talk funny," drawled the amused checkout girl. "Y'all want
any green stamps?"
Vermont/Texas - You wouldn't think Vermont and Dallas/Ft. Worth have
much in common, but that's where you're wrong: They both turn my
stomach! The beauty of America is the diversity of its people and the
nauseating places they call home. In many ways, Texas and the Route 7
corridor in Western Vermont couldn't be more different - but they both
drove me and my GI tract to distraction during my respective visits.
If Ethan Allen could see what's happened to the once-sleepy town of
Manchester, he'd have led the Green Mountain Boys in British scarlet and
black. Outlet outposts are bourgeoise enough, but Manchester city
fathers have perverted the already-disturbing genre by ignoring the
town's proximity to New York City. Only three hours to the south, the
Big Apple secretes an endless stream of bargain-hunting status-seekers
who flock to Donna Karan with a near-rabid intensity. The crowd of
listless, middle-aged husbands milling about the parking lot is almost
sad. What Manchester really needs is a Robert Bly Factory Store selling
leather drum seconds produced by the native Americans driven from their
homes by these hordes of ill-mannered New Yorkers.
Never let it be said that I don't approach my destinations with an open
mind. When I stepped off the plane in Dallas around noon, I had already
been awake for some nine hours (having risen at 3 a.m. to catch a 6 a.m.
flight out of Manchester, N.H., another garden spot). I was hoping my
all-around grogginess would shield me from the harrowing subtleties of
Texan culture, but I ended up going straight to the galleria where my
worst fears were exceeded by the harsh realities of Big D. These people
really dress up when they go to the mall! The "D" clearly stands for "on
Display" because, in Dallas, one always is. Either that or psychological
"damage" because most natives greet you with a vacant grin commonly
associated with overmedication.
=================================================================
LETTERS TO THE EDITOR
Dear Mr. Phillips,
We regret to inform you that we have, after careful review, rejected
your application to model and represent our product. While your general
physical appearance is not in itself displeasing, our Board of Directors
feels that your wearing our product in an advertisement does not portray
a positive, romantic and, indeed, manly image. Frankly, we feel that a
loose, baggy and wrinkled condom is not conducive to projecting the
"Trojan Man" image.
We did admire your valiant efforts to firm it up through the "two
popsicle sticks and one elastic band" method, but even then it slipped
off before the photographs could be taken. Attempts on our behalf to
increase shutter speed also failed. We would, however, like to note that
yours is the first we have seen that looks like a bicycle grip.
Hal, we appreciate your interest and thank you for your time. Your
application will be retained for future consideration, perhaps for our
summer '94 Asian adolescent-wear line.
We are sorry to say that this does unfortunately mean that we will not
be able to offer the round-trip ticket and accommodation in Hong Kong
which we had previously discussed and, which we know, you were so
looking forward to. Should you still wish to come on your own, however,
we would be willing to arrange an interview with a specialist here, who
could at the very least offer professional condolences.
We send greetings and our deepest sympathies.
Yours very truly,
Mr. I.M. Hung
Trojan Condom Company (Far East) Ltd.
6969 Slippery Root Dr.
Hong Kong
ED: Bicycle grip!
===============================================================
A LIBERAL IN CRISIS
By DR. DAVID ROSE
BOSTON, Mass. - Two weeks ago, a single event changed the course and
character of my life forever.
For the past 29 years I have led a life of near-pristine liberalism, a
life out of the pages of the Utne Reader. I'm a vegetarian and an
atheist. I vote for Democrats and curse them for being closet
Republicans. During the Gulf War, when our armed forces' unparalleled
ability to kill those swarthier than ourselves was celebrated as
civilization's highest achievement, I sulked. I nursed a vitriolic
hatred of George Bush long before it was fashionable to do so. I cursed
the facile fascism of Readers' Digest, The Boston Herald, Bill Bennett
and William F. Buckley Jr. In short, I was the Ur-liberal. I made Gore
Vidal look like Herman Goering.
But one fortnight ago, all that changed forever. My credentials are no
longer in order. There is a chink in my armor of internal consistency...
In a box in my hall closet sits a Harrington and Richardson Forty-Niner
Model 949, a .22-caliber, nine-shot, side-loading, double-action
revolver with blue finish and a western-style grip.
I am a gun owner.
The gun belonged to my grandfather, and when he died, my father
reluctantly took possession. My father is not a gun person. He is a
nervous man, nervous about every-day things like the weather or whether
his automatic ice maker is working properly. He frets about these things
continually. He brought the gun home and put it away, but it haunted
him. He was afraid it would go off by itself. He was afraid he would
shoot John (his Longtime Friend) in a fit of rage. He was afraid someone
would break in, find the gun and shoot them both.
Finally, he bailed out. With great relief, he gave the gun and
accompanying bullets to his Just Regular Old Friend Alex, who is from
the South. To Southerners like Alex, having a pistol and some bullets
around is like having a cheese board and some batteries around would be
to my father. Everybody was happy.
Except me. I felt the gun should be in the family, so I asked my father
to ask Alex to give it back. Alex didn't care, and in about two days, my
father called to say that it was in a shoe box in the back of his car.
He was leaving it there because he was afraid of it, and he wasn't sure
that it wasn't loaded. He was so afraid and unsure that, when I picked
up the box, I saw he had drawn an arrow on the box to show which way the
gun was pointing - so when it went off, he wouldn't be killed.
I determined pretty quickly the gun wasn't loading by pulling this pin
in front of the cylinder and having the cylinder fall out and roll
across the floor. Once this was accomplished, I resolved to make the gun
safe by getting rid of the bullets. This plan seemed elegant in its
simplicity, but it turned out go be trickier than I had imagined.
What exactly does one do with bullets? Well, I can now tell you... You
don't give them to the police. In fact, the police laughed at me when I
tried this and ruefully told me "people think The Department does
everything." You can't throw them in the trash, some innocent garbage
man would be killed.
No, the correct way to dispose of unwanted munitions is to wrap them in
colored paper and give them to your sister's boyfriend for a Christmas
present. This I did. Unfortunately, a couple of days later my wife
remembered she still had one .22-caliber bullet, which we had found in
the woods a year or so ago. For this rogue bullet, I adopted another
strategy: Throwing it in the Muddy River and walking away quickly while
no one was looking. Some ducks tried to eat it but I think it sank
before they could get to it... Whew.
My apartment is now bullet free - and so, in a matter of speaking, the
gun is no longer a gun and can harm no one. It could become a gun again,
of course, if someone brought bullets over, or if I took it to where
there are some bullets.
But more likely it will be relegated to the status of curio or keepsake.
Nevertheless, it has affected me profoundly. Just this morning, I heard
on NPR the federal government is planning to raise the annual fee for a
gun dealer's license from $90 to $600.
"Gee," I thought, before I could catch myself, "that doesn't seem quite
fair."
Somewhere, Charleton Heston was laughing.
-------------
David M. Rose, Ph.D. and Ur-wordsmith, lives on Boylston Street with his
wife Penelope and cares not a tinker's cuss about the welfare of
Boston's water fowl... Incidentally, said "rogue" bullet did sink to the
bottom before it traveled downstream to the Charles River, where it was
picked up by anti-Castro Cubans and clandestinely placed on a stretcher
at Parkland Hospital.
====================================================================
SHADOW GOVERNANCE...
BY HAL PHILLIPS
MOSCOW - While it's somewhat akin to tilting at political windmills, the
creation of shadow governments - such as the one attempted here late in
September 1993 - offers considerable insight into the art of
obstructionism. Sober examination of these power grabs reveal them to be
utterly perplexing to would-be legitimate regimes.
Shadow and parallel governments lack subtlety. But they also magnify the
fragility of democratic sovereignty because, inherently, they occur
during turbulent political periods and the few effective ways to combat
them must include retention and display of military power - to ferret
out "subversive" elements and, most important, to protect the television
apparatus. [It's interesting to note that Boris Yeltsin moved quickly to
secure Russian television capabilities - not assurances from his
military leaders - following his ouster by the Parliament he
subsequently dissolved.]
This is the rub: Creation of a shadow governments forces a military
response from the "legitimate regime" which then seen as the regime of
force and suppression.
Short of rolling tanks and riot troops through the streets, how does one
deal with a shadow regime? This was the question facing the Southern
Christian Leadership Conference during the 1964 civil rights
demonstrations in Birmingham, Ala. One of the most bizarre, oft-
overlooked aspects of the Birmingham confrontation was the pair of City
Councils, both making policy decisions during an extended period of the
unrest.
Some background: The hard-line tactics of eight-term Police Commissioner
"Bull" Connor had been so barbaric and rigid, they elicited even the
wrath of white Birmingham citizens and officials. When he was sacked,
Connor ran for mayor - only to be defeated along with the entire City
Council that had supported him. When it came time for the new Council to
take up city matters, however, the old Council members never stopped
legislating. To hear then-state attorney general David Vann tell it, one
Council would preside from 7 to 9 p.m., then the shadow Council would
hold forth from 9 to 11.
Because it had been elected at the expense of Connor and the
segregationist Council, the new Council had a pretty strong mandate to
deal directly with Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and the SCLC. But with
whom should civil rights leaders deal? King and his forces were stymied
for a time while all of Birmingham waited to see which Council had
control over a police force widely seen to be loyal to Connor.
Indeed, the "shadowy" President of Russia, former vice president
Alexander Rutskoi, is a former brigadier general who fought the air war
over Afghanistan. Part of his appeal to formulators of the shadow
government was the sway he may have held over the military, arguably the
most aggrieved victim of Yeltin's reform mentality.
There's an odd legitimacy at work in these instances; one that generally
does not give comfort to the forces of perceived sweetness and light.
The Russian Republic has a constitution, as the City of Birmingham had a
codified set of laws. It is Yeltsin who is playing fast and loose with
the only documentation of Russian legislative power. It was the old
Council in Birmingham that attempted to follow the letter of its
segregationist law.
Stubborn and audacious, shadow governments nonetheless present a
dizzying array of problems for opponents. As last-ditch efforts go, they
should be the choice of better subversive elements everywhere.
===================================================================
STARS HAVE SEX...AND THEY'RE GOOD!
By VISCOUNT REGINALD
BARRINGTON-SMYTHE
HOLLYWOOD - Studies released today by the Flimsey Institute on Sexual
Mores indicate that myths surrounding the sexual prowess of film stars
are completely inaccurate. Cinema heroes and heroines, it turns out, are
even better in bed that we had realized!
The 569-page treatise, entitled "Big Knobs and Groom Sticks: Sexual
Overachievement in the Film Community", cites more 50 case studies that
strongly suggest randy cinema darlings like Kevin Costner, Gary
Burghoff, Geena Davis, Bea Arthur, Dick Van Patten and even Bob Saget
are stupendous lovers!
"My wife had a stroke one time," Costner says in the report. "She's okay
now, but we were having one of our 10-day marathon sessions and her 67th
orgasm was so devastating, she lost all feeling on the left side of her
body!
"That's how good at sex I am."
First-hand accounts like this one are not uncommon in the Flimsey
Report, which confirms what experts have long believed - namely, that
cinema stars gain fame for reasons more tangible than mere looks and
charisma. They can really hump!
Unfortunately, the Flimsey report says nothing of Costner's reported
affair with leggy diva Whitney Houston on the set of their blockbuster
hit, "The Bodyguard." One can only imagine the electricity generated by
two bonafide superstars bonking in a trailer! Talk about the greatest
love of all!
Michelle Pfeiffer, the curvy, pouting star of recently released "Age
of Innocence," says her formidable sexuality is a tremendous burden - so
much so the unmarried Pfeiffer has adopted an infant son rather than
subject a man to her lethal doses of carnal knowledge!
"I consider it something of a curse," says Pfeiffer. "Of course, men see
me on the street and want to have sex with me. But once they've actually
had sex with me, I can't get rid of them - if they live. I don't want to
kill them. I'm just really good at sex, that all."
Good thing Pfeiffer didn't pillow "Age.." co-star Daniel Day Lewis on
the set. His death might have slowed production considerably!
Stars like Joan Plowright, because they're so old, have been engaging in
stupendous feats of sexual congress for decades! She and late hubby Sir
Laurence Olivier are such talented Shakespearean actors, they could have
faked it - but they didn't have to!
My Kingdom for a horse? No need! says Joan.
"Larry was very well endowed and very, very good at sex - right up until
the end," recalls Britain's First Lady of the Screen. "I remember when
we were first married: He had borrowed much of his technique from Sir
John [Gielgud]. But once I turned him around, as it were, we were off
and running!
"I've had plenty of sex with people who have no connection to the screen
and stage - I'm afraid there just not very good at sex. Poor dears."
===================================================================
EXTRA! TIMES BUYS HERALD!
By WILLIAM SAFYRE
NEW YORK - The New York Times Company, having displayed its intent to
gobble up the Northeast's most reputable news outlets, has instead
agreed to purchase Portland, Me.-based Harold Herald, Inc. from Editor,
Publisher and Resident Stud Hal Phillips.
The agreed pricetag for has yet to be disclosed but Phillips did say,
"They bought it," as he walked briskly from the Times' midtown offices
here.
The Times Co. has expanded its considerable influence in the past few
months. In June it shelled out $1.1 billion for Affiliated Publications,
parent company of the Boston Globe. The Times portfolio also includes
several TV stations, two New York radio stations, several magazines
(including McCalls and Golf Digest), not to mention a joint ownership -
with the Washington Post - of the International Herald-Tribune.
All told, the Times Co. readership totals nearly 40 million per month -
now 40,000,042 with its acquisition of the Harold Herald, a monthly
newsletter with remarkably broad appeal considering its subject matter
is limited almost exclusively to Phillips, who will stay on as editor
"until the suits in New York come to their senses," he explained.
"We felt the Times would benefit from a foothold in northern New
England," said Times President Arthur "Suds" Sulzberger. "Further, Mr.
Phillips assured us the publication's lack of advertising could not be
attributed to meager circulation or narrow editorial vision. Apparently,
much of it can be traced to Jupiter's full eclipse of Venus last March."
Phillips insisted the Herald's tenor would not be altered to suit the
Times' corporate strategy or "any other candy-assed corporate types," he
said.
"Very little will change, except, of course, I'll be making a lot more
money," Phillips continued, donning a smoking jacket and sipping a
martini while talking with reporters. "The beauty of the Herald is its
unique focus - in short, me. I can't think of a more fascinating subject
matter. And if one ever presented itself, I would probably ignore it.
It's like Sudsy said: 'If it ain't broke, don't spoil a good broth...
He's not too bright."
=======================================================================
LETTER FROM BRITAIN
By Trevor Ledger
CRAWLEY, Sussex, England - New research is set to create reverberating
shock waves across the entire scientific world.
Work at the Little Grundies Technical College has proven beyond doubt
that chewing gum is a major factor in a number of very nasty diseases.
Mr. Richard Knob-Sprocket, a master of linoleum studies (ret.), has
been studying the effects of gum for the last few days and is firmly
convinced the pointless comestible is responsible for most, if not all
of the world's ills.
"Genghis Khan probably chewed gum, and he wasn't very nice," notes Knob
Sprocket, who himself has had one or two close shaves with the Wrigley
abomination. "I was struggling with a nasty bout of leprosy one day when
I found myself draw towards a sweet shop. Before I knew what was
happening, I had swapped my left elbow for a six pack of Juicyfruit.
Luckily I am right handed and managed to sign the check at Betty Ford's
where she managed to wean me off the gum with a Doublemint substitute
called Skag."
It was the renowned dependency clinic that Dick began to smell a rat. He
found that of all the sickos booked in, 93 percent had chewed gum. "It
was a bit of a shock, I can tell you," explains the veteran scientist.
"One minute I was a normal worthless scientist bumbling around producing
bugger all of any value and the next I found myself on the brink of an
earth-shattering scoop.
"You can keep your theory of relativity, I thought. I'm onto something
big here! "
Knobby's revelations started to take on monstrous proportions. He
noticed that AIDS sufferers chewed gum - not only were they skinny and
haunted-looking, but they were also inveterate lip smackers.
"I tried to interview some of these sad queens but they didn't entertain
me at all," recalls Knob-Sprocket from his secure ward.
It appears the stars are also at risk from the gum plague, according to
the Sprocket papers: Rock Hudson chewed gum and then died; Bob Hope was
funny pre-gum; and the greatest chewer of them all was one R. Reagan
esq. (although not whilst walking or embarking upon any other
complicated maneuver such as shitting).
So what does Knob-Sprocket intend to do with this hard-earned first?
"Oh, bugger all I should think," he says. "What else do scientists do
with their findings."
Ominously, those named in the report were far from keen to talk with
your humble correspondent. Bent-faced funnyman Bob Hope suggested that I
"Fuck right off."
Wrigley Chewing Gum Inc. were a little more verbose: "Mr. Knob-Sprocket
is a fucking liar and is patently off his chump. Good day."
Trevor Ledger is a spotty git and fervent backer of Israel because,
"They're the hardest bastards in the world," he explains. Though he
hasn't a trace of Jewish blood in his pasty, Anglican carcass, he
eagerly awaits the day "when the Dead Sea pedestrians come to their
senses and scream down Armageddon Hill brandishing the Sword of Justice
with every intention of using it." Ledger lives in Crawley, Susses,
England, with his wife Nichola and son Ieuan..