Xmas Edition

I drank the drink that was drunk by drinkers drunk long ago
They drank their drink with a drunken drinking
The drink that drinks itself will be drinking a drink
Like the drink I drank when drunk on a drink that I was drinking
But I kept drinking the drink that I drank and that they drank
As I drank the drink that was drunk by drinkers drunk long ago.

Palace of Wisdom

I saw rooms without windows, rooms without doors.
Dark, musty carpets lay scattered on floors.
A bartender named Cork was decked out in black tie.
He was quick with his business though he had but one eye.
Then we took to the streets past shanty and hovel.
‘Twas like going back in time to an old Dickens’ novel.
Like moths to the light we set off for the Brig.
There Smith played troubadour and danced a profane jig.

Shempy Shrub

The Shempy is a common bush throughout many parts of the world. It also is known as the Ed Lacy Shrub, or The Rudin. The bush is native to regions of Normandy in France, but it was taken to the new world by the Lacy family after they were banished from the region. Legend says that it has appeared on their family crest, but tales are unconfirmed. It is an invasive species that will contaminate gardens and other sensitive areas due to its tendency to be a burden on the soil by taking up excessive nutrients and requiring unwarranted attention to its unruly growth.

It is a medium-sized shrub that curiously resembles a plump woman’s buttocks. Pods grow from its branches, and the pods can be used as food, to make glue, and can be fermented to create a curious brandy-like concoction known as Lacy Liqueur. While pungent and aromatic, the drink has unusual side affects. Reports by those who have either drunk the spirit or who have witnessed others under the influence say that the consumer soon begins to pepper conversations with obtuse comments and non-sequiturs. The imbiber then speaks with an impatient tone and can disrupt conversations in order to offer corrections to each speaker’s claims. Lacy liqueur is an ingredient in the “aviator” cocktail.

Apocryphal Tale Of Milton Melton: The Thoreau of Dayton

As I sit here in the forest upon my oak stump, meditating over my usual lunch of smoked kippers, wild mushrooms, and moonshine, I am reminded of the famed words from the great philosopher Milton Melton, “Let food be thy medicine and medicine be thy food.” Melton, known as the “Thoreau of Dayton,” was one of the region’s great thinkers, theorists, and hedonists. In the spirit of Thoreau, he even lived for a time in a cardboard shanty beside a small pond. It was there that he composed his greatest works and planted the seed of thought that would one day grow into his manifesto. There is an apocryphal tale (though I think it’s really true) about Melton’s despair at the great pits of mud that ringed his pond. He claimed that the treacherous mud bogs ensnared him like a fly in molasses during his morning stroll. Thus, he planned to build a paved “trail” so that he could have clear and effortless passage, which would allow him to spend his time in thoughtful meditation rather than in scrapping mud from his boots. However, living in such a remote area offered him few building materials—except for the mud. So one night, under the cover of darkness, he crept into the nearest village. While the inhabitants slumbered, he raided their outhouses of “nightsoil” and returned to his shanty with bucketfuls overbrimming with the unwholesome muck. He performed this deed every night for many weeks—long enough to gather enough nightsoil to encircle the pond in the form of a paved trail. With haste, he toiled under blazing suns and starry nights. Soon, his work was done, and the nightsoil dried to the hardness of a stale biscuit. And when visitors came from far and wide, they all remarked with amazement at what became known as Melton’s Splendid Shit Path.

Doug Henning

As you can see, Doug Henning escaped the great hippie roundup of ’72. Most likely, he used his powers of magic and illusion to foil the Nixon administration’s attempt to capture the hippies and sell them to China. Although he was “bummed” about this grave injustice, Henning would not use his arcane skills in retaliation. Vengeance was not his “trip.” No, he used his powers for peace and love and to make rainbows and stuff. Henning applied his magic to create muppets and to bring fairy tale creatures to life. His days of magic were numbered though. Tragically, he inadvertently turned himself into a magic mushroom while brainstorming with Peter Max for a book about groovy rainbows. Miss Piggy ate the mushroom.

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.