"Elias Nebula is practicing Japanese but no one knows."

Sunday, December 3, 2017

"Leonardo Was Overrated."

Talk about hataz. I was idling in Sainsbury's –– by the way, why is everybody suddenly calling Sainsbury's "Sainsbury"? –– and when I was finished looking at the Lego and the crisps multi-packs I wandered to the magazine racks. Why are there about twenty magazines about "coarse" carp fishing?

A real impulse buy –– don't you want
to read about "perch on worms"?

When we were moving our stuff into my current residence, I was talking to the movers. I had boxes marked "statuary" and "brickettes" –– and I very sheepishly admitted that they actually contained Star Wars figures and Lego kits. One of the movers was just eighteen and had only started tentatively watching the Star Wars films. I was counseling him about navigating the prequels ("the one with the long scene in the library is good") without going into slagging off Jar Jar Binks too harshly. Why bother after all. And the "gaffer" of the bunch said, "I hate Star Wars." Then unprompted, and defiantly, he added, "I also hate football."
"Whaddaya like then," I asked. 

I willed him to say "Silver age Phantom Stranger comics."

He said, "Angling."

I guess there is an underground of this –– like Trump voters and neo-Nazis. You never meet them maybe, except in Didcot car parks, but they are out there and they are multiplying. 

Is this already a joke?
Should I even be commenting?

That is not my subject. My subject ––  as I started to say –– is those hataz who do everybody down out of bitterness and self-disgust at their own awful failure at the game of life. Like the readers of All About History magazine, who take some solace in the suggestion that Leonardo was "not all that":

Fuck Leonardo, his flawed inventions and his abandoned art! 

So what if he invented helicopters in the sixteenth century.

I wonder what appetite this cover article serves: "There's a real demand out there to see the Western canon dragged down and beaten up by mediocrities and hacks."

"Next issue: Was Shakespeare a total dunce?"

Tuesday, January 24, 2017

"I Am Not Curious, Orange." Or, "Trump L'Oeil."

I get the feeling Trump has been stung more than a leetle by the harsh words of the "Press" –– the "Media" –– that amorphous awful hydra that of one mind crawls across the Republic like a many–armed leech.

Poor guy! I say this because he was on TV yesterday and I said to my wife, "Is there something wrong with the TV? Or am I dreaming? Trump isn't orange."

I started thumping the TV in time–honored fashion, even though it is a flatscreen. I sort of batted at it.

Trump was pink with almost white hair. He was the colour of a heart attack waiting to happen.

He looked like the brother in Trading Places that is not Don Ameche.

Yeah –– Randolph Duke.
Remember how he ended up?

"I don't think Hillary's fit for office!"

Trump looked like a classic old Republican!

He'd had a do–over.

"He must have really been stung by those Cheetos placards on the marches," I mused. "Trump is no longer the new orange."

Poor guy's awfully thin–skinned. Unlike an orange!

He's more like a nectarine.

His hair remains a foul four-dimensional enigma.
His hair is an M.C. Escher trompe l'oeil, pun intended.
Has this pun been used yet? Can I copyright it?

All the criticisms leveled at him, all the awful things they have said about him, all true, and the worst one for him was that he looks like a Cheeto. "They can call me a steaming turd and a Nazi, but when they say I look like a Cheeto it's too much."

MELANIA: Donaldt, dolink, come on back to der sunbed Gott in Himmel vey ist meir.

Wednesday, December 2, 2015


Recommend to me the man who can get any pleasure –– or sense –– out of a grapefruit.

Preparing (or assembling) a grapefruit is like hard time done in the salt mines.

Eating it is like thirty years in the gulag archipelago!

Saturday, November 10, 2012

"Two Score of Jests" / "Vale"

My Final "Jests"

1. "Entertainment Crackers"

Crackers that are so nice they are called "entertainment crackers." 

Perhaps you have heard of them. 
I think that their reputation rather proceeds them. 
They are opposed to their confreres in the biscuit tin, the miserable "water cracker" -- so named because it tastes like water. 
"Bread and water." 
They should call them prisonhouse crackers. 
Poorhouse crackers.
Penitentiary crackers. 

2. I misremembered the name of the dog from Downton Abbey. I called her "Ibis" ("Ibex") when her name is "Isis". 


Here endeth my excellent run of jests, which ran rather like that peculiar figure Emerson describes in "Experience" - that "train of moods like a string of beads, and, as we pass through them, they prove to be many-colored lenses which paint the world their own hue, and each shows only what lies in its focus."

I do not believe I am being grandiloquent when I make the comparison.
I do not believe I am being pretentious when I make the allusion.
The better-loved, more beautiful beads, it seems, were the least-loved among ye. 
You my readers who it seems pine for chintz and paste trinkets!
Ye came to me to read of Storage Wars, of Market Warriors, even of Dog the Bounty Hunter
My own humble prattle about the daily goings-on in my days when I reflected amicably on life in a district of Brooklyn town seem to have amused few among ye. 
Shall you recoil from me once more if I draw on another figure from the American Renaissance, now recalling the words of Longfellow as I describe my actions?

And the night shall be filled with music,

    And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
    And as silently steal away.

When I published my squibs exclusively in pamphlet form, in the previous century, I used to round off each volume with a vow that the next volume should not be offered to the former subscription list; that I would leave copies only in hedgerows, in huckleberry bushes, in ditches, in dead letter boxes, in drop-points, secreted in the almshouses of Abingdon and the charity shops of Norwich's St. Benedict's Street. The municipal hutches for cats at the top of Long Island; Commercial Street between Box and Clay?

These threats were empty vessels and I'd routinely return, like a drinker from LETHE's waters, to the fray of publishing my own jokes and tirades.

These days I have had the petulance scoured out of me, and instead withdraw my gaming pieces with that sort of playful misanthropy that has become my signature on this site. 

I say, I -- who so gamely threw myself into the "great game" -- I withdraw my dies and counters respectfully from that humiliated bandshell the public arena, and fold myself up, mummy-like, in the shroud of my former showman's tent.

Got metaphors if you want 'em. 

The next time I feel compelled to write a new rumination on the subject of Market Warriors or Top Chef or Chef Race, I might conceivably resume posting my findings somewhere "online" where the mysterious hundreds who read those posts will easily find me again. 

Under what name I shall discourse, I do not say. 

I prefer to ask, what name did Achilles travel under when he went among the women? 

As for the more personal ("bitter, dreary") entries, these shall return to the printed page eventually (sold on the streets of Brooklyn) or they shall perish - as they should - in an old-fashioned diary I have.

That said, I might equally exit, folding my puptent like the Arabs as I goe, with the winking recommendation that you regularly check your local lychgate for chapbooks and "little magazines". 

You never know what you might find in the hawthorn among the huckleberries!

[Unctuous smile.  Exeunt.]

Tuesday, November 6, 2012

"George Lucas Says He's Retiring."

George Lucas has announced that he is retiring.

Retiring from what?

"I am retiring from golf and scuba diving and the cocktail hour and thumb-twiddling and also from orchestrating pointless, mindless, endless orgies. I am going to take up the cello."


Maybe George Lucas should retire from trimming his beard in his wonted eccentric style. The combination of the fat multiple chins with that precisely-kept beard creates a dispiriting effect.

"Other People's Favourite TV Shows."

I was watching an old episode of Parking Wars as I ate my lunch. It was an episode I'd seen before but that's okay because Parking Wars rewards the repeat viewer. It's like re-reading Herman Melville.

In the commercial break they had an advert for CSI Miami on DVD.

I thought, "Hard to believe some people sit around like schmucks watching old episodes of CSI Miami -- and yet they do!"

It is quite incredible what people sit around watching on TV after hours.


Speaking of Parking Wars, I asked wife last night, "What do you think the lyrics are to the Parking Wars theme song?" It's an unusual choice for a theme song, but a good one.

I think the lyrics are, "That ain't gonna make it right / That ain't gonna make it all right / That ain't gonna make it all right now." These are the sum of the lyrics.  It is also the only song I can think of that manages to credibly incorporate a "large van or truck-reversing" alarm into the music itself.

The new episodes of Parking Wars have mysteriously moved away from Philadelphia and are now featuring scenes in Staten Island and the Bronx.

The guy from the Bronx who drives a tow-truck that removes cars from private car parks. He said: "Dis tha hood so people think they can park where they like. They wrong today."

He stopped off at his toddler's pre-school and went over to peer into the playground to look for his son. When his son scrambled over, dad started baby-talking at him, "You gonna play Playstation tonight?, gonna play Batman Lego tonight?" He kissed his son through the mesh fencing. Then he turned away and said to the camera cold-blooded: "Next generation of car-towing right there."


Cody on Chef Race: "I am literally walking into a lion's den."

Another episode Cody became tearful and said to his team-mates: "I'm really impressed. Right now you
guys have got so much respect for me." 

Friday, October 19, 2012

Fast And Expensive Comments

Last night, on Person of Interest, John Rees dispatched the perp by driving his car into the guy's SUV & knocking it into him.

On Jeopardy, the two new contestants were named Walkenhorst and Lowmaster. Both females. The blonde woman who had dominated for the last week was toppled from her throne. There wasn't anything offensive about her per se, but I was greatly relieved that she was deposed. She seemed to get cockier every day in her little interviews with Alex, after the first break. She was getting to sort of like being on the television. She was kind of adapting horribly to it. Alex, of course, hates it when the contestants try to outshine him and he jealously, peevishly squashes their repartee when it sprouts. He tries to kill their jokes in the very act of birth. It's in his professional interest for the contestants to be stammering dullards with nothing worth saying. Usually they are. So he was happy to see the blonde go too I think.

Lowmaster won. How her reign shall be remembered by future generations, we cannot say.

On Life After Top Chef Mike Isabella shows up each week even though he is not one of the four featured chefs. I presume he was "put out" that he wasn't invited to be one of the featured chefs, so he furiously contrives to turn up at the filming of every episode as if by happenstance, and perfectly naturally wanders into shot.
This week he happened to turn up at Spike Mendelsohn's place on his moped while the cameras were there. "Oh, are you filming? I'll come back. I can go. You want me to stay? Okay I'll stay."
By the way, the title to this show must be ironic, because the overriding message behind this show is that there is no life after Top Chef. These fuckers are just diddling about while life goes past!
One day they'll be dead!

Idea for TV Show. Colicchio Versus Colameco: Who'd Win.

The pitch: "Who'd win in the crude, ugly slugfest that would obviously ensue when these two eminent chefs met."

On Chef Race: UK Versus US   Johnnie Mountain continues his inevitable apotheosis into Walter White.

Incidentally, did I not make the point several months ago that Mitt Romney looks like Don Draper? "Katty Kay" made the same point, belatedly, on Charlie Rose the other night, after the debate. I wish you could copyright little super-recognitions like that. There must be a way to make money out of super-recognition but I haven't figured it out yet if there is.

Boring Comics. Anything with the Savage Land or the Shi'Ar in it. That is to say, the X-Men. When Sauron (half-man, half-pteranosaur) flies into the shot it is time for us to retire discreetly. When the Starjammers come running dynamically into a room pointing their ray-guns (as they invariably do) it is time to respectfully retire from that same room -- by a different door -- methinks.

I was re-reading some old issues of Uncanny X-Men from about 1990 and you could almost see, as if  in "real time," the collapse and utter demise of Chris Claremont's writing style into incoherence. It's shocking to behold. He developed this sort of be-bopping free-association stream-of-consciousness that was alarming to the sensitive reader. By the end of his run, when I presume he was forcibly removed from the Marvel offices, he was writing sheer gibberish, talking in tongues. Like Pound with the so-called "China Cantos."

I was listening to Bonny Prince Billy's last album the other day, Wolfroy Goes to Town, hearing it meander blandly into little pockets of awfulness, and I remember thinking, "He's another one." Like Emerson to the Sphinx.

Also boring, the Wolverine story, "Weapon X." What actually happens in this story? It's a protracted surgical procedure with, so far as I can tell, bickering staff. I'd as lief watch Grey's Anatomy.