fans is fans

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My friend Harry has been searching out the etymology of Fanboy, and this was my contribution to the effort. It's from a biography of Rube Goldberg by Peter C. Marzio and is one of Goldberg's earliest publications (can't put hand on book just now house in chaos please help). It's clear enough from context that 'fan' is short for 'fanatic.'



Cigarettes, as we can see, were cool then, too. They're always cool. When tastemakers succeed in associating cigarettes with toothless Skid Row derelicts, then it'll be cool to look like a wino. In 1904, it was cool for a young dude (duded up) to have a cig in at all times.

When I was in sixth grade, I bought somebody's old assignment book at a thrift shop for a nickel. Well, it was priced a nickel, but I think the guy gave it to me so I'd go away. It had been the property of a schoolgirl, and along with the writing, there was a loose sketch of a female, slightly older than a schoolgirl perhaps, holding that little white coffin nail that meant she was free and independent. (Footnote: I realized that the name in the book was the neighbor of a friend, so I took it over and gave it back to her — feeling slightly guilty at having written my name in it — and as soon as I'd left, she probably put it in the trash for the second time.)
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the Hammer of Humor

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Some years back, I found a trade paperback called JUMBO COMIC BOOK that reprinted a large pile of diddly little pre-Code funny animal comic stories. It's printed in color. That is, it's reproductions of line art printed all in one color per page, in colors from a slightly gassy black to a hard-to-see yellow. At any rate, a number of cartoonists are represented within, like a popular Terrytoons director (can't put my hand on the book just now to say which one — Rasinski?), the justly famed Al Fago,  and, quite possibly, a pre-EC Harvey Kurtzman.

Then there's Milt Hammer. I apologize in advance if members of his family are reading this, but I find his art to be hasty and crude, and his writing — if he's doing it, and it's hard to be sure — is kind of random. He seemed, however, to possess ambition, drive, and determination, not only in finding venues in which to get paid for his work, but in the unholy vigor of the work itself, pushing gag after gag on the reader, regardless of how funny I myself find each one. If I'd had half of his work ethic, I have no doubt I'd end up in some collection somewhere too.

Anyway, in 1946, Hammer got himself into the pages of PM, a favorite lefty tabloid from NYC that burned brightly for a while — introducing Crockett Johnson's "Barnaby," featuring political cartoons by Dr. Seuss, Carl Rose, and Al Hirschfeld, among others, and before vanishing completely under another name, featuring the earliest comic strip versions of Pogo and Albert. Between their interest in innovation and Hammer's self-promotion, it's no surprise he'd wind up there.

This time it was hi-tech and art intersecting. The fac-simile machine (aka the fax) was a marvel of the day that allowed wire photos to reach newspapers across the land, and in 1946 there was a fax service that sent the news of the day into some 200 homes — and Milt found a way to get himself into those homes as well. Fax cartoons.



See how hard he worked? The pants have dollar signs on them! It's a detail! There's a sub-pun in a middle panel. The guy in the last panel flips backwards at the 'punch line,' complete with a big question mark and a star for emphasis. Is it funny? I DON'T KNOW BUT IT COMES RIGHT INTO YOUR HOUSE ON THE FAX MACHINE FOR GOD'S SAKE. Imagine the joy of fastening a piece of paper to the drum, watching it spin away for a couple of minutes, and then getting this.

O. Brave new world!

[ed. to add: the tractor-feed dots on the paper suggest maybe it's not a drum system. Never mind, I'm out of here.]
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stepping off and signing in

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Mixed feelings about the end of another semester. It's like how the end of every play I'm in turns into the last episode of M*A*S*H and it suddenly becomes tragic that everybody's going their separate ways. Anyway, looks like the printmaking class has gone quite well, and I'll keep taking more of that for a while. I had two pieces in the student show, so that felt good too.

It's been a while since I tuned in at Live Journal. For that matter, I'm more or less stepping off the fast lane all over the place. I've stopped looking in on the Comics Curmudgeon each day, and that was the one basic part of my routine that never changed. I still check Google Reader and email and Twitter and newsgroups, which still takes longer to do than typing this sentence. Two of my best LJ correspondents died this past year. I haven't posted since I found out.

Have I been using the time for school? Hard to say. I have, at least, been getting up and going in and working, so that's a good thing. I haven't had a lot of freelance work, so it's just as well. Sarah and I drove up to Michigan to see Kathryn and Dad and everybody. We next had plans to go to MI in June, followed by a trip out to Colorado. All of this, however, has been complicated by my sister's stroke (the sister in Colorado, who is on LJ sometimes), which I'm told is complicating her life even more. I guess it's all about her now. (A little humor there.) No idea what the schedule will be now.

I took Sarah's bikes to the bike drop-off at Mendon HS an hour ago. Her first bike is in there, the one her friend Colin gave her in MA (he got a new one for his birthday). Her second bike, "Windstorm," which I bought for $5 at a PTSA sale, is in there, slightly larger and pinker than Colin's blue "Blast-Off." The largest of the three is a single-gear bike she paid for about half of when she decided she wanted it. She has no bicycle now. Cathy will be shopping for her belated birthday bike soon, but just now, I am marveling at the sheer fact that my daughter has no bike at all.

Normal stuff continues. Dad's health is good at the moment, and his hearing is not too horrible. My sister is recovering well from her stroke. Another sister is about to graduate from college, as is my nephew. I will be seeing many of these people in the summer, one way or another.

There's more to it than that, but I can stop now if I leave it there, and I have other stuff to do. Sorry I'm such a hermit. It's not by choice, really.
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print-makin' fool

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The clever stratagem of taking an art class has worked, in that I am producing some art. I might even sell some of it — lovely thought.



The duck is based on something I did back in the 80s. It went over well with my class, who have suggested that I might do a series of toy pix, which is an appealing idea. I will be reworking it somewhat, as I did some inadvertent violence to the tones in a couple of places. This was accepted into the student art show that's coming up (as I write this, in March of 2013). I hope I'll sell something.



Here's sleeping Sarah, to which I will add aquatints (like the shading in the duck pic) to make it look more like the picture I based it on, which I drew on the glide pad of my little Vaio laptop when she was asleep on my lap right after we'd moved to Massachusetts in 2005:



I printed ten of it in this state so I'd have an edition for grading at the end of the semester, but I think it will appeal more when the grays are in there (mostly like the computer pic, but with a small change or two — hey, I flipped it! oh well).



Last but not least, a cardboard print — the plate, instead of being zinc, is thick cardboard, cut into to different layers with a sharp knife. This was also accepted into the upcoming show, and I think it's the best of the three items I submitted (I didn't submit the one of Sarah for the third, but the pre-shades version of the duck). This is a scene on Main Street here in town that I drive past on my way to and from school, next to a bus stop/turnaround. The pavement would be off to the left of the part you see. Wait, here's the photo I took and used as a guide:



I did what artists do, and left stuff out. Okay, that's all for now. When I get my next print done, I'll post it too. Unless it's really bad, of course.
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Here Lies Somebody

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Not long after moving here, I was looking at a cemetery about a mile from our house, and found the grave of a likely relative. Likely, because (according to The Babbitt Family History), almost all Babbitts in the US were related, and traced back to Edward Bobet — with the exception of a few who had come into this country as immigrants with names the officials couldn't or wouldn't write, and who found themselves and their descendants dubbed with the surname.



It was possible to read the name on the stone: "Nathaniel Babbitt." The soft sandstone held other faint lines, but between their weak grip on the stone and the encroaching lichens, I couldn't make out any dates. I guessed that it was one of the oldest stones in the Pioneer Burying Ground, which began use just before 1800. I pored over a copy of the family history. Not the copy my grandmother had, but a scan of a library copy that I found online. Archive.org was probably the source of it. First, I tried to read the text conversion of the book, which as full of errors due to unchecked mechanical character recognition and problems with columns and footnotes. It turns out, though, that the scanned PDF version is fully searchable and looks great.

I soon found out that the family history is chock full of Nathaniels, and not knowing exactly when to look was also a handicap. I searched on Pittsford, and found references to other Babbitts, as well as to Pittsford, Vermont, which I've found is the town that the one here in New York was named after. Since this town was called Northfield at the time the cemetery was begun, I searched that as well. Guess which other state has a Northfield where Babbitts lived. Yes. Vermont. Curse you, Vermont!



By 2011, the growth across the face of the stone had expanded. I wondered if taking a brush to it would do more harm than good. I wondered if there were any descendants still in town — or in other nearby towns. The history mentioned Babbitts in other towns in the state, ranging from a few miles away on the shore of Lake Ontario to the other side of Syracuse. I tried calling a Babbitt in the phone book, leaving a voice message that hasn't been returned yet. I stopped by the Town Hall and learned that the town historian comes in for a few hours a week on Thursday afternoons, and took down her information. Months later, I remembered in time to give her a call.

She had some interesting information for me. Going to her records, she told me that the stone is not marking the resting place of Nathaniel Babbitt, but that of his wife, Anna, born 1782, died 1806 (June 1806, though the stone apparently once claimed 1804 in error). She was aware of the condition of the grave, and didn't think there was anything that could be done about it by this time.



Looking at my earliest photos, I could now trace some of the letter shapes in 'ANNA' in the gray-green overgrowth. I could even discern in the gentle curves beneath Nathaniel's name the likely location of "1782" and perhaps "June." She mentioned a Babbitt family that she used to know in town, on Clover Street. The father's name was Arlo or Arliss, the daughters were Donna and "Betty" (short for Elizabeth). Donna moved to Iowa, Betty passed on.

Time has been hard on the graves, particularly those carved in soft sandstone. The oldest is unreadable now, and is part of a row of undecipherable white slabs. I thanked her for the information, which was more than I expected, even though I had been fairly sure she'd have access to records. With or without records, she knew the graveyard, and its stones, very well. I felt like I'd been taking up a lot of her time, so I didn't ask about the small stones piled up at the back of the yard. They are probably footstones that became separated from their original graves.

I still don't know how I may be related to these people. Mom died in 2008, and wouldn't have been able to tell me anything anyway for at least a decade before then. Her last surviving sister, the oldest of her generation, died last year, and her widower wouldn't be much interested in that side of the family (he apparently has Grandma's copy of the family history, which may have notes written in it that I'd like to see). My sisters and I are interested in seeing what we can figure out, but it may be too late to do a lot of that by now. Too bad. The internet makes parts of it very easy to do.
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Ten Years of Uselessness

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It makes sense that I should post this somewhere I can point to it, since I still do that. Up to now, I've simply given a link to some site or other that has reposted it, but what if they all wise up and drop me? Then what? Hah? Anyway, back in July of 2003, I was laid up with the flu. This was the tangible result. It began, "I've been sick lately, and, well, I wrote a sketch..."

---
USELESS INVASION SKETCH (by Kip Williams, age 46)

THE AMERICAN PEOPLE (played by John Cleese) walks down the street carrying THE IRAQUI INVASION (played by an empty parrot cage). He walks into THE WHITE HOUSE (played by a cheesy storefront) and addresses COLIN POWELL (played by Michael Palin).

AP:
Excuse me... boy!

CP:
(turns around and stands up) What d'you mean, 'boy?'

AP:
I'm sorry; I have contact lenses. At any rate, I wish to register a complaint!

CP:
Sorry, squire, I can't talk to you now. It's Code Orange! (he hastily starts to put up a sign)

AP:
Never mind that now, my fine fellow. I wish to register a complain about this military action, which you sold me just a couple of months ago.

CP:
Oh yes, the Iraqui invasion. Lovely little war, that was. What... uh, what seems to be wrong with it?

AP:
I'll tell you what's wrong with it. It's empty, that's what's wrong with it.

CP:
Oh, no, no, no. It's not empty at all. It's served its purpose, it has. Freed the oppressed people of Iraq, fed the homeless, brought everlasting fame and glory to our bulging leader.

AP:
But when I purchased this dreary little police action from you, you assured me that the whole and entire purpose was to disarm Saddam Hussein and take away, quote, his vast stockpiles of ready-to-use weapons of mass destruction, end quote.

CP:
Oh, there's some mistake. We went in to liberate the poor oppressed people of...

AP:
Listen, mate. I took the liberty of recording your voice when you sold me that thing, and here's what it says. (produces tape recorder)

Tape: (CP's voice)
"We know just where they are. We know just what they've got. They're buried in these bunkers right here, which our surveillance satellites have photographed not more than twenty minutes ago. They could not possibly be used for any purpose other than the storage of hideous, slime-dripping nuclear anthrax chemical weapons of mass destruction. Say, are you recording me?"

AP:
Right. And when we "liberated" those poor bastards, the bunker was found to contain little more than a twenty-year collection of Penthouse and Hustler magazines, plus a dozen lava lamps and a mini-bar.

CP:
Well...

AP:
Well?

CP:
Well, of course they'd cleaned it out before they left. Sold it all to their chums in the Taliban, they did.

AP:
I happen to know that their 'chums,' as you so colorfully put it, hate their guts and have referred to them repeatedly as "scabrous lackeys of the internationalist secular state," end quotation.

CP:
Well, they have to say that, don't they? I mean, it's all part of the grand scheme. Lovely little war, wa'nit? Liberated all them poor...

AP:
Stoppit! All you've done is make their lives worse than before. That's why they keep killing our soldiers.

CP:
Oh no, squire. They're grateful. That's why they pulled down that statue.

AP:
I've seen the footage of the event, and the only Iraquis in the picture appear to have had their feet nailed there.

CP:
Well, of course they were nailed there. If we hadn't nailed them, they'd've been crushed by the falling statue, wouldn't they? It was for their own safety. That's why we liberated the...

AP:
Shut up. Did you or did you not allege on several different occasions that we had found the weapons of mass destruction and that therefore the entire ill-advised escapade was a rousing success?

CP:
What, them trailers? Well, of course they was weapons of mass destruction. They could've used them for germs, or chemicals, or...

AP:
In fact, they were used for hydrogen, and precious little of that. They didn't even have walls, for pity's sake.

CP:
Well, hydrogen's pretty dangerous, isn't it, Squire? It could power tanks or jets or... and what about that Hindenberry thing? Let's see you stand in a room full of liquid hydrogen with nothing but a ripe boysenberry to defend yourself with, and you'll soon see mass destructive. Wouldn't want to be in your shoes then! And anyway, we liberated the...

AP:
Liberation don't enter into it, mate. It was a bleeding sham.

CP:
No, it was liberation!

AP:
Sham, sham, sham! And you didn't find any weapons of mass destruction!

CP:
Well, of course we didn't, Squire. They was... they was looted.

AP:
Looted? LOOTED?

CP:
Yeah. When our boys was busy not looking at the museum, they looted all them weapons out from under their noses. And anyway, we liberated...

AP:
You're saying that starving peasants with no resources of their own simply looted vast stores of nuclear, chemical, and biological weapons? With What??

CP:
They carried them off on their bicycles.

AP:
But a missile weighs several tons, and a bicycle can only carry, at most, a couple of hundred pounds.

CP:
They used two bicycles, with a bungee cord between 'em. They're a nasty lot, Squire. Not like the ones that sang songs to us when we liberated...

AP:
Will you shut up? Since when is it liberation to leave a people destitute, without food, water, electricity, or law enforcement?

CP:
Those things was all shackles on them. We freed 'em, I tell you! They're grateful to us. They're singin' songs...

AP:
Those aren't songs, you parsimonious prevaricator, they're protesting in the streets, and shooting at our soldiers.

CP:
They're just exuberant. Like to fire off their guns a lot, now they're free and all. They don't mean nuffin' by it. They're just so happy to be liberated, with Hussein gone. You mark my words; he was the real weapon of mass destruction his own self, why, he...

AP:
That's another thing. You didn't even get him, did you?

CP:
Well...

AP:
You don't even know where he is, do you?

CP:
We got a tip...

AP:
You've been blowing up caravans and bombing cities and striking about blindly, because your yahoo cowboy boss refused to listen to any intelligence that contradicted his beliefs. Which, when you come down to it, precluded the use of any intelligence whatsoever.

CP:
I see. Quite. (pause) Well, then, we'd better replace it, hadn't we?

AP:
With what?

CP:
Well, them Iranis are gettin' pretty swaggery, ain't they?

AP:
I thought you were encouraging them to rise up against their religious leaders, now that they aren't accepting any more cakes from your lot.

CP:
Fair enough. How about something in a nice little Afghanistan?

AP:
You've already done that one. Worse than Iraq, if I recall.

CP:
How about... coming up to my place and re-electing my boss?

AP:
Why in the world would I want to do that? Why wouldn't I just vote for the Democrats and chase you idiots out of office, once for all?

AP:
Oh, no, Squire! No, no, no, no! You wouldn't want to do that, trust me on this one.

AP:
And why not, if I may be so brash as to query?

CP:
Well, they're a bunch of psychopathic liars, they are, always Whitewaterin', 'aving sex in the Oval Office, taking' expensive haircuts on Air Force One, trashing the White House, murderin' poor ol' Vince Foster, and claiming they invented the Internet.

AP:
Point taken! Well, then, I'll have a North Korea to go, please.

CP:
You won't regret it, Squire! I'll just wrap it up. (tears an American flag off of a roll and clumsily wraps up the same cage the AP carried in.) Come again!
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social media (song)

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filtered through a radioactive Michael Jackson impersonator — title and tune at end

You still together? Did your cable come back?
How 'bout this weather? Whad ja have for a snack?
We're hangin' here on every single message now, Jack,
So tweet it! Just tweet it!

Is your car working? Is it cold in your flat?
Got coffee perking or a .gif of a cat?
You need to tell the motherlovin' world about that!
So tweet it! Put your words on that screen.

Just tweet it, tweet it, tweet it, tweet it,
Pray that it'll be repeated
They don't all need  
To end with a snort
Don't need it deep, long as it's short
Just tweet it, tweet it
Just tweet it, tweet it
Just tweet it, tweet it
Just tweet it, tweet it

Seven score letters, try to leave some slack
You want your name to fit there if they tweet it back
Use 'em all up and you'll look like a hack
But tweet it, just tweet it

Your life is boring, it's a stinkin' crime
Nowhere to go today, no mountains to climb
So let your life run out, a gross of letters at a time, and
Tweet it! Did they favorite this one?

Just tweet it! Tweet it!
(repeat until bored)








[title: Tweet It. ttto: Beat It — (I hoped it was obvious)]
lyrics above ©2013 by Kip Williams
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the Canterbury carol

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Back in 2003, a friend in a newsgroup (who I haven't met) queried:

Where could I find the "Canterbury Carol"?

This was the sort of challenge that, for some obscure reason, I felt like picking up and running with. As it turns out, I made some errors, conflating or expanding the MONK count somehow, so until that gets fixed, this is a work in progress. 2013 will be its tenth year as such. Anyway, fire up your plainchant (I had in mind a tune similar to Veni, Veni, Emmanuel's beginning) and have something near to hand for when you get thirsty.

Pilgrims, nine and twenty number we,
Traveling in such a company.
To Canterbury now we all do come
To shrive our sins at Thomas Becket's tomb.

A KNIGHT I am, whose warlike chivalry
Does serve our peaceful Lord of Galilee.
To heathen foes the fight I'd gladly press
To show them Jesu's grace and gentleness.

I am his YEOMAN, clad in brightest green.
My bow is long, my arrows true and keen.
How dull is e'en the sharpest shining sword
When laid beside our savior's holy word.
(Chorus)

A PRIORESS am I, and it is thence
For Jesus' sake I make my journey hence
His blood redeem-ed Adam's shameful fall
His is the love alone that conquers all.

I am a NUN, and keeping to my friend
I'll travel on until the jouney's end.
My chapel I make on the open road,
And roods I find abundant in each wode.

We are three PRIESTS who travel in the sun.
A trinity we be, who preach as one.
Together, we make light work of our load,
And save such souls as we might, on the road.

A MONK I be, and forward now I ride;
My calling is not one found safe inside
I wander widely round the earthly sod
And hunt with love for souls to bring to God.

I am a FRERE, indeed a merry man
I find my pleasant joys where best I can;
To men I freely God's forgiveness give
For after all, a man of God must live.
(Chorus)

A MERCHANT I, and reckon fully well
The worth of every good and ware I sell.
Yet all this world's wealth would not reckoned be
A farthing's worth in God's own currency.

A CLERK I am, from Oxford's noble halls;
I leave the shadows of its ivied walls
And travel hence with one important goal,
By Jesu's love to cleanse my mortal soul.

I labor as a SERGEANT of the law.
Before God's might, I meekly stand in awe.
His son did bring us, with his humble birth
A greater law than all that's found on earth.

Although a FRANKLIN wealthy I may be,
Yet in my soul I feel but poverty
The sweetest riches of this world I'd give
In Jesu's better world one day to live.
(Chorus)

In stylish HABERDASHER's livery,
I garb in cloth men's frames most fittingly.
My greatest hope is that one day I'll don
A fairer raiment, when from earth I'm gone.

A CARPENTER, I hack and hew rough wood
And hope my work comes out the way it should.
But now I ride for days past field and floss
To honor Him nailed on a wooden cross.

A WEAVER am I, toiling at my loom
And as I work, my mind is on the tomb
Tho' warp and woof of life be in my eye
I pray I might be shuttled to the sky.

A DYER I, I live by staining cloth
With industry I strive, abjuring sloth.
And now on holy pilgrimage I fly,
That my soul may be stainless when I die.

An ARRAS-MAKER, I craft tapestries
Of heavenly and earthly majesties
The first to help me stand on Judgment Day;
The other pays my bills along the way.
(Chorus)

Sweet friend, I pray you, do not scorn the COOK,
Whose recipe for life comes from a Book.
Who seeks his soul to leaven ere he dies,
That from the dirt to heaven he may rise.

A SHIPMAN, I have roamed the mighty seas
Yet now I go to pray upon my knees
And pardon seek for all those times I failed
And thoughtlessly and sinningly I sailed.

PHYSICIAN am I; man of many parts.
Philosophy I read, and healing arts.
Yet now I seek the healing of my soul,
And being with the Lord shall be my goal.
(Chorus)

A humble WIFE am I, upon this path
Five husbands I have had, who lived in Bath.
A pilgrimage I take, so when I've died
The Prince of Peace may claim me for his bride.

A PARSON, I do preach upon the rock.
I seek to find the best way for my flock
I guide them not for profit nor for pelf,
Nor bid them go where I'd not go myself.

As PLOWMAN I must walk behind my ox
And watch to spare the colter blade from rocks.
I pray to God my soul to Heav'n may go,
And see my friends and neighbors there also.

A MILLER stout, my wheel grinds for an hour
And from its movement, grain is ground to flour.
So too, from even one of my large size,
My sins be ground away, and I may rise.

I am a MANCIPLE from inn of court,
No man has managed yet to sell me short.
This pilgrimage I take, while I have breath:
For I could win in life, yet lose in death.
(Chorus)

As REEVE, I am the steward to my lord,
And from my skills, fine goods I can afford.
Yet though I forecast crops with great success,
I would not wager my soul on a guess.

My living as a SUMMONER is sweet,
I never want for cheer or drink or meat.
I blush not that I take whate'er I can;
For God knows, you can't cheat an honest man.

A PARDONER, I know the Bible well
Choice relics from it I am pleased to sell
Saint's toe bones I can let all have who pay
And they're all glad to have them, anyway.

As POET, I have dragged this out too long,
And yet I'll put myself into the song.
I earned the right by riding on this road,
And trust that God will lighten my soul's load.
(Chorus)

©2012 by Kip Williams.

I've indicated some places where the chorus may be interposed. You can skip them! Or you can sing it after every verse, if you like. If you sing while walking, you may be at Canterbury when you finish.
.

minas morgul

.
Minas Morgul was Minas Ithil
Now it's Minas Morgol, not Minas Ithil.
It's getting dark in old Minas Ithil
On a moonless night, by runic light.

The Uruk-Hai in old Minas Ithil
Lurk in Minas Morgul, not Minas Ithil*
So if you've a doom in fair Minas Ithil,
It awaits thee in fell Morgul.

(Even old Mirkwood was once the Greenwood great.
Why'd they change? I dare not say --
Evil One liked it better that way.) So--

Take me back to old Minas Ithil.
No, you can't go back to old Minas Ithil
For the road leads not to old Minas Ithil.

Why did poor Minas Ithil pop its corks?
That's nobody's business but the Orcs!

[ttto: Istanbul (not Constantinople). New words (c)2004 by Kip Williams]


*This has been criticized, but it is a true statement. The ones that are there do that. I didn't say there were a lot of them. Q.E.D.

(I realized I don't have this up on my own page. I actually wrote this around 2000 or so, right around or after the time I was in "The Mikado" at CNU.)
.

Internet Writer

.

(to the tune of Paperback Writer, by Lennon & McCartney)

Pasty basement dwellers, won't you view my blog?
I had eighty hits last week, just see the log.
All my teachers told me, stick with what you know,
But I don't know joe, so I'm gonna be an internet writer,
Internet writer!

When I watch a movie or a TV show,
How's it make me feel? People need to know!
Got strong opinions, I hold nothing back,
I'm a little cracked, and I'm gonna be an internet writer,
Internet writer!

(Internet… writer… internet… writer) (repeat this part when you feel like it)

Got my thumb on the pulse of the intertubes,*
And an eye that catches any kind of boobs,
My friends all say that I'm a crazy stitch,
Some day I'll be rich, cuz I'm gonna be an internet writer,
Internet writer!

I can update often, I've got time to spend.
Please retweet my twitters, be my facebook friend!
Put my link up on your blogroll too,
I'll link back to you, man, I'm gonna be an internet writer,
Internet writer!

Gonna build my influence, and when I'm big
I'll be read at Reddit, I'll be dug at Digg,
Drudge and aintitcool will defer to me,
And they'll all agree, I'm the king of all teh internets writers,
Internet writer!!

(new lyrics ©2012 by Kip Williams)
(thanks to Nehemiah Scudder for the title and central conceit — he literally asked for this)




*A significant line. The thumb has its own pulse, which can be confused for the pulse it's supposed to be taking. Plus it fits the meter.
.

FREE to a good home

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Okay, not really. But here's the thing.

I get daily emails from the Mechanical Music Digest, which consist of the day's postings to a diverse group of hobbyists. Their delight is in player pianos, pianolas, band organs, violinolas, music boxes, and even automata. Every so often (and getting oftener) I read about another beloved member of the community who has passed on or gotten too old to keep doing the work, and the collection he or she (usually he) spent years putting together and keeping in order is looking for a home. More often, many homes, as different things go in different directions, possibly including the trash.

As they age out, they wonder where the next generation of people who appreciate this exacting craft will come from. Who will repair the machines? Who will keep the rolls rolling? Their kids, oftentimes, have bemused tolerance for their parents, but no intention of carrying on after them. The faces they see are getting older.

Now, I look around and see young people who love clockwork and gears and steel and brass and polished wood and leather cases, who are interested in the obscure and the outdated and the ingenious. Yes, steampunks and makers. Why wouldn't they want to get in on, and add to, the not-so-secret lore of the mechanical music enthusiasts? What would they bring to the table?

A recent posting at bOINGbOING on a player piano performance drew enthusiastic comments, but my attempts to post something like this message there have simply vanished into space. I used to subscribe to the steampunk community, but apparently allowed that to lapse, and rejoining just to post a glorified want ad seems sort of cheap. But hey, if anybody who reads this felt like reposting it or directing their eyes to my page, I'd love to get the word out.

Pneumatic tubes! Mainsprings! Foot pedals! Escapements! Antique mahogany finish! Burnished metal! Jewel bearings! Ebony and ivory keys! AND when you do it right, MUSIC comes out!

Here's the home page. There are links to years of postings from members, photos, movies, and sound files (midi and mp3), and you can participate by getting a free account and logging in.
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The Car-Mangled Banner

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Oh, say, did you see
On the truck that just passed?
Some poor star-spangled banner
Is waving its last.
With six stripes and nine stars
Threadbare on a stick,
Do they think it's respectful?
It seems kind of sick.
If they can't take good care of
The flag that they wave,
How can they care for the land
Of the free and the brave?
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Toon River Anthology, part 10:

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AMOS VAN HOESEN

Edda and I were kids together
And she bugged and pestered me,
Put things in my desk and gave me wedgies
Until I gave in and loved her.
So we matured to ripe teenhood,
Two geeky musical prodigies.
(She was also a ballet prodigy
As well as several other kinds.)
Love of my life, we were fated for each other.
On that day in Belgium, we clinched it
Under the piano, and on the piano,
And possibly in it. It's hard to be certain,
And I couldn't bring myself to watch the video.
From there, the path of love ran hot and cold,
As did she. I mostly ran hot, but my feet
Sometimes ran cold. At the end
Of a series of misunderstandings,
I humped the question to her, and she said yes.
She was lovely in her gown. She said yes again
When the old nun asked, and the guests blew bubbles
And took pictures and threw birdseed
And we removed to our own love nest.
She was mine at last, and I was hers.
Tenderly, we removed each other's clothes
And looked into our eyes. She smiled
And came to me, and unhinged her jaw.
That's all I remember.
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walking it back

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The greatest, most glorious retraction I ever read ran on December 17, 2003, on the front page of the first section of the Virginian-Pilot newspaper. It was part of my job to go through this paper each day. (On Sunday they had crossword puzzles from both the NY Times and the LA Times, and I'd save these pages for trips. I miss that!)

On this particular day, my eyes were greeted by a follow-up article to an original article I hadn't seen — I'd only been in the area since 1985:

WE'D LIKE TO SET THE RECORD STRAIGHT
- A CENTURY LATER
A story and headline in the Dec. 18, 1903, Virginian-Pilot contained errors.

Orville Wright was the pilot for the first flight of the Wright Flyer. It was not Wilbur, whose name is not spelled Wilber.

The plane's wing span was 40 feet, 4 inches. The wings were 6 feet 2 inches apart vertically and 6 feet, 6 inches from front to rear. They were covered in muslin, not canvas.

The engine rested on top of the lower wing. It did not hang below it.

The propellers had two blades each, not six. They both were mounted on the rear side of the wings. There was no propeller providing upward force.

Rudders in the front and rear and warping of the wings controlled the plane. There was not a single, huge fan-shaped rudder that could be moved side to side and raised and lowered.

The pilot lay prone on the lower wing. There was no pilot's car.

The Wrights have always said they were equal inventors of the machine. Wilbur never took credit as the chief inventor. The brothers had no plans to build a much larger machine and never did.

Their success came after four years of work, not three.

They took one trip to the Outer Banks in the summer and two trips in the fall prior to 1903. They did not spend almost the entire winter, fall and early spring on the Outer Banks for three years.

They arrived on Sept. 26 in 1903, not on Sept. 1.

The plane took off under its own power after traveling 40 feet down a rail on flat land. It was not sent down a slope after Orville Wright released a catch. The engine was started before takeoff. It was not started after the plane had rolled halfway down a 100-foot hill.

The plane flew 120 feet, 8 to 10 feet off the ground in a straight line on the first of four flights. It did not soar 60 feet in the air. It did not circle and fly 3 miles over breakers and dunes. It did not tack to port, then to starboard.

The plane's ground speed was 8 to 10 mph. Its air speed was 30 to 35 mph. It did not fly at 8 mph.

The plane hit the ground nose-first after its fourth flight, damaging the front rudder mechanism, and was later destroyed by a gust of wind. It did not descend gracefully and rest lightly at a spot chosen by the aviator after one attempt.

Five onlookers helped the brothers and watched the flights. A small crowd did not run after the plane and give up after it outpaced them.

The flight took place at the foot of Kill Devil Hill. Orville Wright did not declare the flight a success before a crowd on the beach after the first mile. The flights were not on the beach.

Wilbur Wright was 5 feet 10 inches tall and weighed 140 pounds. His eyes were blue-gray and his hair dark brown. He was not 5 feet 6 inches tall and did not weigh 150 pounds. He did not have raven-hued hair. His eyes were not deep blue.

Orville Wright was 5 feet 8 inches tall and had blue-gray eyes and dark brown hair. He did not have black eyes. He did not have sandy blond hair.

The article referred to can be seen here, thanks to the Smithsonian.

It's possible I have the article among my boxes. I found it today with a search at the Pilot Online, then I bought the article for $1.95, then I searched on a phrase in it and found that the article was carried by many other newspapers, so I copied the text from the Floridian of St. Petersburg.

I find it entirely commendable that a news organization can clear up the record this way, without fear of looking foolish. Indeed, I suspect they were saving the article for the anniversary of the original occasion. The Virginian-Pilot account of the flight was pretty much the first, and can be found at the Smithsonian's web site as part of a lesson plan for the historic event.

Footnote: Driving through Dayton, I saw (and photographed) the present-day incarnation of the Wright Brothers' firm, which (if I understand correctly) was sold quite a few years ago, but which continues to be a going concern. I'm sorry that we have lost Neil Armstrong today, but at least some names are still with us whose bearers have helped us in the ongoing quest to (in whatever degree and for whatever duration) get off the Earth.

Edited to add: I wrote to the Smithsonian and told them about the correction, and got a nice answer back to the effect that they might revamp the lesson plan and include the corrections in the update as an interesting sidelight. Tickled, I am. (September 17, 2012)
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buckwheat cakes!

Here's two minutes of, for me, pure unadulterated joy from an old LP of songs from the Mickey Mouse Club. Buddy Ebsen, just then working on the Davy Crockett series, teams with Mouseketeer Darlene Gillespie in a homespun paean to the humble buckwheat pancake. Accordion and pedal steel guitar figure prominently in the accompaniment, along with clarinet, and unobtrusive rhythm.)

Buddy & Darlene:
Buckwheat cakes, buckwheat cakes, along with crispy bacon!
Yes it is your buckwheat cakes that sets my heart to achin'!

(The accordion echoes the word "bacon!" Buddy and Darlene sing in harmony.)

Buddy:
It can't be your chocolate cake, or your Irish stew
It can't be your chocolate cake that makes me fond of you!

(Listen to the warmth Buddy can put into a recital of foods. He twinkles with his voice, just enough that I can feel it in 2012, and not so much as to cloy.)

Both:
It's buckwheat cakes, buckwheat cakes, along with crispy bacon!
Yes it is your buckwheat cakes that sets my heart to achin'!

Darlene:
What about my girlish ways, and my purty hair?
What about my girlish ways, or maybe you don't care?

(Darlene's voice is clear, with a melodious hillbilly accent that doesn't interfere with her diction.)

Buddy:
No, it ain't your girlish ways, or your purty hair.
No, it ain't your girlish ways that makes me set and stare.

(It's not as if he's rejecting her here. He just has different reasons.)

Both:
It's buckwheat cakes, buckwheat cakes, along with crispy bacon!
Yes it is your buckwheat cakes that sets my heart to achin'!

(A sprightly instrumental solo follows, with some tasty work on clarinet and pedal steel guitar. It goes around twice.)

Darlene:
How about my friendly smile, 'specially for you?
How about my friendly smile? I see you're smilin' too.

Buddy:
No, it ain't your friendly smile, or your dimpled chin.
No, it ain't your friendly smile that brings me back again.

(Listen to Buddy: "nnnnNNNO!!" He finds something that's probably not in the music; a little moment where he can make something out of nothing, adding to the song without even slowing the flow. And he doesn't waste it in an early verse, either. The second "no" suggests, but doesn't repeat, the first snap. And it's still playful.)

Both:
It's buckwheat cakes, buckwheat cakes, because I'm only human.
I just love the buckwheat cakes, made by a purty woman!

Buddy:
I just love the buckwheat cakes, made by a purty woman!

Darlene:
(spoken) Aw, Pa, quit your kiddin'!

(And Darlene rescues the song from what could have been seen as creepy by a cynical 21st century listener, putting it back squarely into the heartwarming category. Darlene may be eclipsed somewhat by Buddy's innate talent honed by decades of experience, but make no mistake: these are a pair of pros at the height of their powers. How much time do you suppose they had with this? A quarter of an hour? A half hour, from the time they were given the music to when the director said it was a wrap? I'm guessing closer to the former. This is star power, and it works for me every time I hear it.)

Music, lyrics, performance and recording ©Walt Disney Studios. If you liked this sample, go buy something.

The Dust is Whirling in the Dust

Arthur Kraft — Private First Class Arthur Kraft, at the time — painted this during World War II. It was part of an exhibition called "Soldier Art," from which came one of those oblong GI paperbacks of the same title. In fifth or sixth grade, I saw the small, black and white photo of the picture and was struck by the technique and the infinitely sad subject matter. I looked online and couldn't find a color copy of it. I know now that it is probably because the picture is now known as "Soldier with Death before Carousel" instead of the Oscar Wilde quote that was with it in the book.

Kraft, who died in 1977 at age 55, lived in Kansas City, Missouri, and according to a website dedicated to his life and work, Kansas City has many examples of his work to be found, including several murals. This painting hangs in the Kemper Museum of Contemporary Art, which I'd like to visit some day.

I pride myself on having gotten the best scan I could from the halftone picture in the book, but this color version (which I've adjusted slightly to correct for a yellow cast) has shown me much more detail. Interestingly, my mental image has been off all along — the color choices I'd imagined, such as a rich purple robe on Death (and I didn't know that was Death!), turn out to have been mistaken. Soon, I probably won't even remember what they were.

Also, the canopy of the carousel is interesting to me for personal reasons: I drew a graphite scene with an awning that was similarly striped, and viewed closely, it's a lot like the one in this picture. Was that unconscious inspiration? Or just the best way to draw a striped awning? No idea. At the risk of comparison, here's my drawing (graphite on copy paper):



Well, they're not that much alike after all. I've been flattering myself. Anyway, I'm putting it there for my audience to enjoy. Last one out turns off the lights.
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