Saturday, March 27, 2010

On the Origin of the Speakeasies

Pierre Du Pop
455 N. Twinklewood, Substructure K
Galoshes, MO (really, you need a zip for this address?)


I've sent the greens home early, they were getting shaggy round the flags. In this moment of quiet introspection and solace I count the John Deeres as they buzz around the construction site directly overhead. I have just now formed an thought, and in so forming, it occurs to me that to speak it, would perhaps be in my best interest. Then, upon uttering this thought verbally, I fancied I might jot it down using my fine Parker fountain pen and the good stationary which I've hidden away from the miscreants and hooligans who I've come to refer to collectively as "Gary" (pending notarization). Oh sure, Gary run wild when I turn on the special blue light. Oh yes, Gary creep into my pantry at night and soil the crackers and other crispy comestibles. Indeed, Gary are a broodish lot. Moaning with the tone of lost seals in the Eskimo wading pool. Pouting in the manner of spoiled children and tantrumming to boot. Whining like the weak and wily characters Gary are. Bad Gary!  But no Gary will pilfer my 24lb Ivory Laid, cladestinely stowed for the sole purpose of putting pen to it and pouring on the thoughts. Thoughts like the one I was just having. Thoughts that massage my hypothalamus (or equivalent). Thoughts that pump my AB positive (or the clarified butter that has displaced it). Thoughts that stir my soul (or item of equal or lesser value [discount taken at register]). These are the things a man lives for, mon frere, Pierre! Now if I just reverse the polarity perhaps I can bag a dame -- no not some lady of grace, but a real cheap tart -- and treat her like the broad she was born to be. These are the days of wonder. These are the moments of greatness. These are the Sugar Babies I had in my pants pocket when they went into the washer. Seriously, caramel candies loosed from their pack and roaming free within said trousers. Oh, you don't think I... c'mon!  I don't have that problem anymore. Dammit, I better not (what with that counseling cost, et al). Curse you Sugar Babies! Curse you Kenmore! Curse you sweet inspiration. You've sullied my knickers and dislodged logical discourse from mine mind! Oh well. There's always blunt force trauma.

Nailed to the pony,
von Bounce

Saturday, March 20, 2010

Community Spotlight and Hopi Permanent Marker Dance

People seldom ask me: Where the [bleep] is Montecito Heights?  Ha, ha… that's a good and extremely theoretical question.  Well, since I got a quota to fill and they wouldn't let me have the restaurant review beat (I'm not bitter. I'm not. At least not as bitter as the tomato vinaigrette they serve with the pan-seared halibut at-- wha?! Fine, I'll get on with it), let me put it this way...

Takes a deep breath.  A little too deep.  Grows woozy and stumbles over a box of 3-Hole Punched paper.  Cracks noggin on not-so-industrial filing cabinet.  His mind opens a channel to the subconscious and as he fades into slumber, he dreams of a place not so far from here and yet millions and millions and millions (Why not just say "billions"? -- But it's not billions -- don't be so literal, you're dreaming -- Hey, don't start telling me how to dream, [bleep]er -- No need to get snippy, [bleep]head -- I'll kick your ass you piece of dung [scuffle ensues within parentheses]) and millions and millions of miles away...

The community of Montecito Heights, located between Los Angeles and Pasadena overlooking the Arroyo Seco River, boasts huge tracts of open wilderness areas, historic homes and the highest number of retired showgirls, per capita, in the United States. This picturesque district possesses a rich history as one of the oldest and most fascinating sections of Los Angeles. The Arroyo Seco River, once lush and vibrant (and the subject of vigorous revitalization efforts before becoming even more pathetic than the concrete wash they call the L.A. River), became a guide to the padres as they traveled the Old Monterey Trail from the San Gabriel to the San Fernando Mission in search of loose women and gold. In the 1880s, a small settlement sprang up along the Arroyo Seco River, and the Old Monterey Trail eventually became a route of the Santa Fe Railroad, spewing black death into the air which has lingered for over a hundred years.

Montecito Heights, due to its spectacular beauty, incredibly convenient location and miles of cocaine trees, has attracted creative and artistic Angelenos since the turn of the century. Eccentric journalist George Lummis traveled cross-country on foot from Cincinnati until he found his invisible pet Chimp, Senior Tushy -- bordering the Arroyo Seco River at Montecito Heights. There, he used his own hands to build his dream house from local river rock and was immediately beaten senseless by the locals who called his precious little house "El Idiot Who Has Destroyed Our Dam and Flooded Our City and Left Us Homeless". It was shortened to El Alisal, Spanish for the giant sycamore growing beside the house. The site is now commonly referred to as "The Lummis Home". George Lummis founded the Southwest Museum, opened to the public in 1914, even though it had already been founded and opened to the public in 1912.  What an [bleep], huh?

In the thirties, evangelist Aimee Semple McPherson fell in love with a large tract of land in Montecito Heights that is still owned by her Four Square Gospel Church.  (Get it?  She fell in love with the land!  And she started a church! Eh, it's funnier in Flemish.)

In 1901, the College of Fine Arts of the University of Southern California established a campus along the banks of the Arroyo Seco and immediately began whining. For two decades, free-thinking students came from all over the west and created a nurturing community of artists and writers and drug-addled minors. This artisan and intellectual community still thrives today until 4:00pm. Because of this richness of artists and works, the Arroyo Arts Collective and the Historical Society of Southern California sponsor an annual "Let's Get Drunk with the Artists" Day.

Montecito Heights itself began as a development in 1910. The developers envisioned the planned and affluent suburb they named Montecito Hills as groups of gracious houses placed on large lots surrounding a magnificent fountain depicting a nude Teddy Roosevelt. The company went bankrupt in 1929, and the Lord looked upon it and said that it was randy and rather naughty. But many residents still enjoy the legacy of the developers' depraved vision, and delight in their spacious oversized asses, a rare luxury in any large city. Others have profited by becoming micro-developers and building cathouses on their large tracts, attracting local law enforcement nightly in a strictly unofficial capacity, as well as the ghost of Aimee Semple McPherson (get it?).

So, uh... yeah. That's it.  More or less.  Bring the kids (every one you can find) to this pastoral and peaceful hamlet but do mind the armed snipers.  They take community safety very seriously.  Did I mention that they've poisoned the water supply?  Yeah, well they have.

Sunday, March 14, 2010

That Singing Feeling

Most bastions of Arts, Literature and the Humanities will not have even one anthem in their history. The Rubber Bomb, has two. Of course, as the Gadsden Flag is to Old Glory, so this rusty ol' bag o' notes laid out here is to the wondrous and elusive Späten Song (you'll have to click around to find Issue 2).

It should be noted that this ancient Rubber Bomb anthem is sung to the tune of O Canada as sung to the tune of Danny Boy as played by Skitch Henderson after wolfing down particularly suspect order of veal oscar.

O Rubber Bomb!
The pipes, the pipes need cleaning

Two parrots live in all thy lumpy highlands.
With glowering mugs we see thee prance,
The True North strong and priced to move!

From filthy and cramped,
O Rubber Bomb, your hammered watresses forgot the ketchup.

Good king Wenceslas stole our hose stretched out and soggy!
O Rubber Bomb, your blasted gargoyles flounce.
O Rubber Bomb, we made a killing on the third at Aqueduct.

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Juiced Tin Time


TO: Trans World Supermarket and Cpt. A.E.G. Throckmorton

FROM: Five equals 3.327

SUBJECT: The Passing Mrs. Ankle Flowers and Cpt. A.E.G. Throckmorton

DATE: You ask a lot of questions.

In an effort to rectify the divergence of capitol as outlined in section II of the Bittersweet Chocolate (Yummy Yum Yum) and Chest Diving Treaty of 1987, it is the firm belief of the firm -- belief of the firm (belief of the firm [belief of the firm]) -- that the governess is fully entitled to the entirety of the full remainder of the withhold as identified in the Kern County jailhouse public line-up held on 3rd June, 1993... 1993... Red 27... hut HUT ([whistle] "Neutral zone infraction, #91, Defense.  5 yard penalty resulting in a first down").  In accordance with Wyoming state law, I recommend that the defendant get a room.  We are seeking the wisdom of the court and rely on its superior knowledge to recognize when its ass is being kissed.  Further, we beseech the court rule in favor of the ass-kissers and accept this coincidental gift of a brand new Bentley Mulsanne. Further still, we request that the public defender stop drooling on my Kenneth Coles and offer to pay for half of the club sandwich, as it has disappeared from my tray and reappeared in his lap looking a little the worse for wear.  Still further still, we demand an injunction against anyone because we feel that it's cool to so demand. Sincerely, Argus Greensleeves, Lisbon, KY.  We rest your honor.  We also make peepee-poopoo in our pants if you rule against us.

--Me Timbers (shivered, not stirred)