Empty Bookshelf

So have the hippies left us without a canon of literature? Sure, they’ve made music, and Peter Max made groovy airplanes and rainbows, but the bookshelf seems empty. It’s not that the time period was marked by distaste for storytelling. To the contrary, many writers were popular with hippies, such as Vonnegut, Hesse, and Dr. Seuss, but we find no actual work by a renowned hippie or tale that chronicles their beliefs, attitudes, and lack of interest in soap and water. So it should be no surprise to all of you that in 1972 all hippies were lured with patchouli and wheat grass into traps, captured, ground into small pieces, mixed with lead, and then shipped to China to be made into inexpensive toys.

Gallant Major Smith, the Viscount of Chauncey

I know a chap in the magazine business. Not only did he solicit, plan, and edit articles about the Civil War, he participated in countless Civil War reenactments, displaying his gallantry and bravery for admiring fans. I believe that he had ascended to the rank of Major in the Union Army, but he preferred to be called the Viscount of Chauncey. I don’t think that went over well as neither the North nor the South had the rank of Viscount. But then again, I am no Civil War historian, merely a poet and storyteller. Anyhow, after many skirmishes and pitched battles, after countless campfire retellings of reenacted war over salt pork and cider, the “Viscount” decided to hang up his spurs.

So he unloaded all things Civil War and placed both feet firmly in the custom publishing marketplace. This new path requires him to mingle with the finest society has to offer and to heed the requests of graphic designers and writers who might wish to find employment. He tells me that, to his surprise, many unemployed designers are women, and these women assail him daily with the desire for work. He also tells me that he has come to the following philosophical conclusion: that women are of two basic types, either singers or strippers. He has even gone so far as to create a stage in his office. And on this stage he has placed a microphone and a shiny pole that measures from floor to ceiling. He does this because when those women come to him for employment, he likes to know which type they are. So during interviews, he has them approach the stage and either sing a song for him or perform a striptease. Now I do not pretend to make any moral judgments on this behavior. A man does as he does in his business. After all, I’m just a poet and storyteller.

Gin and Tonic

Oftentimes as I make public appearances, someone speaks from the strangling hordes that clamor about me. This person nearly always remarks about my calm, serene disposition. I can easily tell them that it is because I’m very rich and also very smart. Or I could say that it is because of my noble heritage, classical handsomeness, and ease with beautiful women.

But really I believe that it is the great amount of gin and cigarettes that I consume. A pulled pork martini is one of my favorites. I take it with a BBQ cigarette. Gin for the soul! Cigarettes for the ego!



In fact, when you mix gin with tonic it becomes medicine!
Think about it . . . tonic! Gin and tonic! Medicine!

So there I am, calm, serene, full of nature’s gentle, sweet medicine.

Chicken Ranch

Thanks to Backyard Poultry magazine, I have a world-class chicken ranch. That’s right, I have become a poulterer. Thus, I deal in rooster eggs and chicken wine. I savor chicken tea with noodles and dine on drumstick marmalade.

And YOU said that I couldn’t do it. That’s right, the naysayers and ne-er do-well’s with their chicken-hatin’ chatter. Oh, you know who you are you chicken-hatin’ anti-poulterers!

Campaign Fiction

Joe the Plumber

So it seems that Joe the Plumber is not really a plumber at all, or a registered voter, or a guy who pays his taxes, or anyone with a shred of dignity or integrity. So it should be no surprise that such a shameless cretin would be shilling for a GOP hopeful.

But fear not readers! You know well that my genius was at work 25/8 hunting out the true identity of Joe the Plummer. My sources have provided me with evidence of who this creature really is. Below is a photograph that I have produced, showing a much younger Joe the Plumber.

Behold!

The day John McCain came to me

John McCain sought me out at my lair before the final debate. Here is a photograph of me meditating over a volume of political philosophy shortly before our auspicious assembly.



He begged my counsel, proclaiming that he had heard that wise men seek me during their darkest hours. I told him that a truer statement had never been spoken. I said that I had a plan but that it is so inspiring and so ingenious that no one could dare understand such sublime magnificence.

So instead, I told him to hunch over and grit his teeth. I advised him to stare wildly and frighten people with furious blinking. I then said that his tone should be impatient and condescending. I said to not focus on issues but instead make references to unimportant allegiances with shadowy characters.

He thanked me for my guidance and political insight and shambled from my chamber as seen in this photograph.

Letter, Part II

I am aware that all of you crave to know the thoughts of your fellow creatures whether profane or inspiring. So with this knowledge, I will share another letter from a devoted reader.

Gentlemen,
Last night was fitful. The demons robbed me of another night of blissful slumber—they made an enemy of my bed. So I grudgingly arose to fetch the volume you had suggested for me: Socks, Pinecones, and Old Rags: A Traveler’s Guide to Europe’s Forgotten Alleys by Kevin Gray. I must say it is an enjoyable companion during a sleepless night. Allow me to offer my thanks to the editors for suggesting this fine publication.
Next, I will take another cue from your reading list and send for Ask Me About Prison Musicals by Kyle Melton, Esq.

Thus, now you all can see the esteem in which I am held by countless great thinkers, theorists, and saints.

Because you all look to me as a mountain of intellect and a storehouse of valuable philosophical and theological information, and although you cannot begin to grasp the dizzying heights of my mental achievement, I will remain patient—much as an angry minister keeps his cool amidst scruffy, immoral parishioners.

As with the last letter, I let the flames lick the carcass of this one.

Letter to the Editor

As a man of the NEW century, I wear many hats. Indeed, I am a village unto myself. So believe me when I say that much of what I do is far too intricate for any of you to comprehend, so I won’t list my awesome endeavours as it would be like a great philosopher trying to explain epistemology to deaf infants. But just know that one of my roles is publisher of a sophisticated and intellectually challenging magazine that most of you could not begin to fathom. Part of my indispensable duties is to read mail from readers who seek to bathe in my GLORY. Below is an excerpt from such a letter.

Gentlemen,
I took your advice and set-to for a brief sojourn in Yellow Springs. I found the town to be a-bustle with touristy types and a motley collection of ne’er do wells (surely, you must feel right at home). The villagers are as wayward as wild donkeys but friendly and cheerful nonetheless. I found myself browsing the many shops, some of which offer colorful pipes and other smoking utensils. Curious thing though, all the quaint handmade signs read “for tobacco use only.” Sir, on what else would someone use these delicate pieces of smokery?

As with many letters that I receive, I burned this screed in the great fireplace at my lair.