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The Harold Herald Volume 3 Issue 3
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All the News About Hal that Hal Deems Fit to Print
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May 1994 ~ Ite in Orcum Directe ~ Volume 3, Issue 3
________________________________________________________________________
Publisher: Harold Gardner Phillips, III
Editor-in-Chief: Hal Phillips
Virtual Editor: Dr. David M. Rose, Ph.D.
Managing Editor: Formletter McKinley
Associate Editor: Throatwarbler Mangrove
Production Manager: Quinn Martin
Circulation Manager: Dr. Margaret Bean-Bayog
Weapons Consultant: Michael Fay
Drug Tsar: Lou's "Man"
Spiritual Consultant: Massasoit
Bamboo Advisor: Lee Kwan Yoo, Prime Minister Emeritus
Motivational Consultant: Danny Gibbons, Speak, Inc.
Editorial Offices: The Harold Herald
30 Deering St.
Portland, ME 04101
Satellite Office: c/o Golf Course News
38 Lafayette St.
P.O. Box 997
Yarmouth, ME 04096
ARCHIVE SITES:
world.std.com (obi/Zines/Harold.Herald)
fir.cic.net (pub/Zines/Harold.Herald)
etext.archive.umich.edu (pub/Zines/Harold.Herald)
Subscription requests to drose@husc.harvard.edu
Submissions welcome
LOGO CONTEST: Look, I admit it, I suck at ASCII art. Send us a
new logo for the Harold Herald. We might use it and it's not like
you're going to discover a cure for cancer or somethiing, I mean
time is not exactly precious. OK? - V.Ed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A VIRTUAL HERALD! HAPPY, AL?
BY DAVID M. ROSE, PH.D.
{Editor's Note: The following piece serves as an introduction to the
electronic Herald for the Herald's stalwart paper readership. As such,
it has limited relevance to those already enamored of the charms of the
internet. Use your own best judgment.)
If you've lived on earth during the last year or so, you've heard a lot
about the Information Superhighway (IS), the massive data network which
will bring all manner of things - from the Congressional Record to
interactive professional wrestling - rocketing into your living room at
the speed of light with the touch of a button. The IS is tremendously
popular amongst the media, not least of all for the unprecedented number
of metaphors that can be employed in its description. Neophytes are
described as "just starting up the on ramp"; potential pitfalls become
"speed bumps" or "traffic jams"; technological advances invite
comparisons to "the fast lane." It's been endless and, to the more
sensitive among us, quite nauseating. Well, steel yourself, because I'm
about to dredge the whole sorry mess (sans metaphors) up again: the
Harold Herald has gone electronic.
Well, semi-electronic. The Herald that many of you have come to know
and love, that reassuring, homey bundle of murdered tree flesh, crudely
joined by a bent, razor sharp, and potentially tetanus-bearing piece of
stainless steel. and conveyed (at great expense to the American taxpayer
and to Our Editor) by an army of kindly but lethargic drones in Bermuda
shorts and support hose - in short, the stone-age, pathetic, papery
Herald - will still arrive semi-regularly at your doorstep. But,
starting this month, the Herald will also be available electronically,
via the Information Superhighway, or, more precisely, via it's current
incarnation, the internet.
If you don't know anything about the internet, there are three things
you need to appreciate: everything is on it, no one's in charge of it,
and it's free.
EVERYTHING'S ON IT. As I understand it (and our internet readers are not
invited to correct me if I'm wrong), the internet began with a thing
called ARPANET, which was a network of computers put together by the
Department of Defense to help them kill people more efficiently.
ARPANET established a standard way for computers to talk to each other,
and others adopted that standard. Other networks formed, and they all
hooked to each other, and that was the internet. Today, the internet is
basically the only game in town: if you are a company or a university,
and you have a big computer that you want to talk to other computers,
you hook up to the internet. This extends worldwide; from the point of
view of the Harold Herald, the important point is that the HH is now as
readily accessible at Chulalongkorn University (which, as you know, is
in Bangkok) as it is in Boston.
NO ONE'S IN CHARGE OF IT. After a certain point, the internet became a
sort of organic entity. At first, the designers of ARPANET had control,
but after a while there were just too many computers on-line for anyone
to keep track of them in a meaningful way, and it grew and continues to
grow. As a result, the whole internet is pretty anarchic. The advantage
of the organic nature of the internet is that there are very few
barriers to the flow of information. Since everything is hooked to
everything, everyone has access to everything. Again, from the point of
view of the HH, the important point is that if we can get the Herald on
one computer, it is available to virtually all the computers - and we've
got it on THREE computers.
IT'S FREE. OK, it's not free. Unless you're affiliated with a
university (ahem) or a fairly large corporation, it will cost you money
to get on the internet. There are lots of on-line services that will
hook you up for $10-$20/month; basically it runs about the same as
cable. BUT, once you're on, almost all the services are free. What
kind of services? Well, it's a pretty wide range. Send e-mail to
anyone in the world with internet access, free. Get National Weather
Service forecasts for anywhere in the country instantly, free. Get Moby
Dick or Romeo and Juliet, free. Get all the words to the first Boston
Album, free (it's worth it just to hear how many times they use the word
"mama"). Listen (as I did tonight) to people from all over the world,
in real time, commiserate over the suicide of Kurt Cobain, free (I got
kicked off after about 30 seconds when someone asked me if I was
"bummed." I was kind about it, but I couldn't lie). Get naked pictures
of Demi Moore, free. (OK, it's not her body but it is her head and,
after all, it's free.) Here, the payoff for the HH is twofold. First,
we get to put the Herald on many computers all over the world at no
charge (these are archives sites that think they are preserving
important literary works!); second, anyone with reasonably complete
internet access can get the Herald (need I say it) for free.
THE DOWN SIDE. There is only one small problem, and that has to do with
the issue of compatibility. In order to bring the ray of sunshine that
is the Harold Herald into the lives of as many people as possible, we
have to put it into a format that can be read by as many computers as
possible. Sad to say, the only format that meets our stringent
requirements at this time is TEXT. That means: no graphs, no charts, no
pictures, no columns, no italics, no underlines, no boldface, no large
type. Just the bare bones. To give you an impression of how stark this
can be, take a gander at the Harold Herald (electronic version) logo.
Even this took me the better part of The Lost 45's to accomplish. The
network is capable of carrying virtually any kind of data, even voice or
video, but if we want universal accessibility, we need to adopt the
lowest common denominator. This will change over time, as better
denominators become more common; even now we are looking into formats
that will give the electronic version a more Heraldesque look and feel.
In the meantime, download the Herald's electronic cousin and give it a
try.
***
THE HERALD WEIGHS IN ON SINGAPORE: LET THE FLESH FLY!
By Hal Phillips
I was in Singapore when the news of Michael Fay's celebrated caning hit
the United States. Curiously, I learned about it on Larry King Live,
which is broadcast all around the world these days on CNN International.
The Suspendered One was unusually tough with Fay's dad and the American
lawyer representing both father and son. Could the softball King have
been reacting to the outpouring of American support for Singapore's laws
on corporal punishment? Apparently, 75 percent of Americans not only
support the idea of whipping petty criminals, but think we should adopt
similar measures.
Don't get me wrong: Singapore is one helluva an impressive place:
Wealthy, multi-cultural, orderly. After World War II, it ranked 35th out
of 35 in the ASEAN region in terms of per capita income. Now it's #1.Yet
Singaporeans achieved this unprecedented growth and stability by
sacrificing things like a free press, gum chewing, a political
opposition, casual drug use, personal privacy, etc. It's a highly
controlled atmosphere, which strikes you the minute you get off the
plane.
This is why I have little sympathy for young Mr. Fay. After two days in
Singapore, I was afraid to J-walk, much less spray-paint someone else's
Jaguar. Anyone who has lived in Singapore as long as he did (two years)
should know the score. Further, he plead guilty, hoping for leniency and
eventual deportment. Where was his lawyer then?
For those who think the Singaporeans are beastly, I've got news for you:
They've been silencing dissidents and whacking petty criminals with
bamboo sticks for some time now. Just because some U.S. citizen has been
caught in the corporal cavalcade should make no difference at all.
On Larry King Live, the Singaporean ambassador to the U.S. was asked,
"If the situation were reversed, would Singapore protest?" No, he
answered. "Would a Singaporean be granted asylum in his embassy?"
Absolutely not, the ambassador said.
When in Rome...
As I said, the most interesting thing about the entire episode is
American's broad-based yearning for order. A large number of us seem to
admire Singapore for its tough statutory stance and envy its low crime
rate. I ask, "Why can't we admire and seek to emulate more democratic
countries with low crime rates, like Denmark or the Netherlands?" Their
crimes rates are just as low as Singapore's, and they don't resort to
caning teenage vandals or hanging drug dealers.
Thing is, these enlightened countries have done the hard things. They've
made it nearly impossible to buy guns. They've decriminalized drug use,
thereby removing the crime associated with it.
And lest we forget, we're Americans. Though we're citizens of arguably
the greatest country mankind has produced, we're always looking for the
easy way out. We would rather turn up the degree of punishment and hope
for deterrence than deal with a problem forthrightly.
***
(Virtual Editor's Note: the following article appeared in a pre-
electronic issue of the Herald. It is included here to allow the reader
to make reasonable sense of a response that appears in the Letters
section.)
GET ME TO THE CHURCH ON TIME!
By HAL PHILLIPS
PORTLAND, Maine Ñ Oh! The pressure!
Trees continue to fall in the Bachelor Forest Primeval, as word has been
received here that Tim Dibble and David Kett have both sold their
independence down the river. Yes, two more compatriots have opted out of
the single lifestyle, leaving myself and a mere handful of
contemporaries to perform the requisite debauchery expected of an entire
generation.
A pair of summer weddings have been planned, one in the Twin Cities and
the other in Greater Boston. Herr Dibble will wed once-and-future
companion Maureen Holland in a Tennysonian ceremony in Hingham, while
Kettle (aka Captain Dum-Dum) will take the hand of one Beth Jordan in
her native St. Paul.
I am proud to say that, at different times in life, I have lived with
both of these fine gentlemen. So, while they both display the breeding
and intellect derived from noble background and sound education, IÕve
seen them at their most foul.
Drinking to excess. Booting that excess. Womanizing (oftentimes without
the aid of any women). Gorging and belching (smoke & less savory items).
IÕve seen it all.
I feel itÕs important to air a bit of this dirty laundry so both grooms
might begin the long road of matrimony unfettered by saddlebags of shame
and degradation. Kettle, Dibs: This is for your own good.
***
With Dibble, the idea of pinning down one or two embarrassing moments is
laughably limiting. Technically, I never shared rent with Dibble. But
between 8 Warren St., and the Boston apartments on Marlboro and Joy
streets, I feel like weÕve achieved honorary roommate status. How else
would I know that Dibble, with one dump, can sully a bathroom for 72
hours? Have you ever noticed that every Dibble abode has a pack of
matches in the WC? It ainÕt for incense, lemme tellya...
I taught Dibble how to puke. ThatÕs right. It was July 4, 1985, on
Marlboro Street, and Dibble was too drunk to speak, stand or Ñ most
important Ñ continue drinking with me.
At first, the idea of a self-induced wretch so scared him that he took
cover under a large, polystyrene ÒsculptureÓ my dad had salvaged when an
extruder that went haywire at his meat tray factory. Anyway, the sight
of Dibble lying underneath this pink, foam thing Ñ moaning from
discomfort but unwilling to purge himself Ñ is an image I will take to
my grave.
Two more: Dibble contracted mononucleosis our senior year at Wesleyan
and couldnÕt drink for six weeks or so. The only responsible thing for
Dibble to do was... Mushrooms! About twice a week, if I remember
correctly. One of his first fungal excursions took place at a Psi
Upsilon party. He and then-girlfriend Betsy were terrified of the crowd
but, after some coaching from their mushroom mentor/vendor Ñ me Ñ they
would venture off into the fray, only to return after 15 minutes,
giggling uncontrollably and eager to relay their insights to one who
understood their shroom-induced state of mind.
ÒThereÕs a guy over there,Ó said Dibble, practically incontinent with
giddy
excitement, Òwho spilled his beer all over the floor!Ó
***
David Kett grew up in Swellesley with my brother, Matthew, and I. The
three of us shared an apartment in Newton, Mass. from Sept. 1990 through
Aug. 1991, when all manner of ill-conceived, ill-advised plots were
hatched Ñ including my own engagement.
The ultimate Kettle story Ñ excluding numerous ÒBy definitionÓ and
variations on the StrohÕs 30-pack theme Ñ require a further look back in
time.
At the first high school dance his senior year, Kett got legless after
playing dimes (vodka) with Uli, a Swiss exchange student Ñ David has
always been a keen student of European culture. Apparently, in a drunken
rage quite untypical of him, Kett punched an underclassmen at said
dance. Alas, he was suspended from school for three days and grounded
for the ensuing weekend.
[The disciplinary action was futile, however, as Kettle climbed out his
second story window, slid down a tree and partied heavily at the
Phillips household that Saturday night.]
Kettle remembers nothing of the alleged fight, including the identity of
the victim. Indeed, he doesnÕt fully believe he ever punched anyone. It
is amusing to imagine, however, that some underclassmen lived in fear of
Kettle, who might have blithely passed him in the halls on myriad
occasions.
***
LETTER FROM BRITAIN
And You Wonder Why They're So Pasty?
By TREVOR LEDGER
CRAWLEY, Sussex, England Ñ "Oh to be in England now that spring is
here..." Oh, how hollow those words do ring!
Rain. Rain. RAIN! More bloody rain!
Rain. Rain. Rain. Poxy, bloody rain! I hate stuff. It's wet. It's
vertical. It's totally bloody total. It's RAINING!
It's been raining now for five months. Hard to imagine, eh?! If you
can, you're probably from the tropics, where you probably associate rain
with warmth... a blinkered and pathetically parochial standpoint, and I
hate you. British rain is ever-so cold. It should really be snow, but
snow has too much potential for enjoyment: skiing, snowmen, snowball
fights, etc.We officially entered the delightfully monikered "Summer
Time" a fortnight ago and since the I have endured sub-zero temperatures
with substantial wind chills. Why? Because the climate has been screwed.
How? The Americans did it. Provocative? Oh no, it's an unquestionable
fact.
Before the last war (that is, the last one the Americans dragged their
heels over), the weather was infinitely better in Britain than it is
today. In the summer of 1940, our gallant boys sold out the French (who
better to shit on?) whilst legging it out of Dunkirk, and they did it
under blazing sunshine out of a brilliant azure sky. When "The Few"
risked their lives over the Channel to protect civilization from the
Hun, they did so in glorious summer sun. July and August of '41 were
pretty good too, but then it happened: The Japs failed at Pearl Harbour
and the die was cast. We would win, but at the cost of our climate.
So how did they do it? Well, it was very simple really. No sooner had
the Nakajima Kates performed the ultimate expression of optimism (their
victory rolls), than several thousand well hung G.I.'s honed into view
at Southampton Water.
"Super!" thought the girlies who were the wrong sex to save the country.
"Bugger!" thought the boys too lily-livered to do their bit.
The horde of cocky bastards Uncle Sam saw fit to send us shagged their
way through this sceptred isle with gay abandon and had the unmitigated
gall to complain about the beer on the way!
When the war was done, the Americans went looking for another one (and,
by Jove, they latched onto a couple of real cockers, too!)), leaving
behind them a conquered continent and scores of heartbroken young
mothers.What to do with the territorial spoils? The American ideal was
to have a demoralised puppet state offering no resistance, yet still
strong enough to act as executor in Europe. The dastardly plot was
hatched: Rain on the average Brit for a week and he'll melt into
miserable submission with only the gentlest of persuasion.
True enough, it worked. Here we are, at the beck and call of Brother
Bluecoat. And it's still fucking raining!
"Beware the Ides of March." Too right: It's bound to be pissing down.
Trevor Ledger delivers his letter each month from the south of England.
Anyone who follows Ledger's logic in the above column Ñ or the meaning
of Nakajima Kates, for that matter Ñ please contact the Herald editorial
department with all due haste.
***
JOINT JAUNTS
(Ed's Note: A series of occasional reviews of watering holes in and
around Portland ME. We particularly welcome submissions from our
internet friends for this feature, so that we will know where to get a
Black Label draught in any town in which we might find ourselves...)
POPEYE'S ICE HOUSE
By HAL PHILLIPS &
PETER MACDONALD
SUMMARY:
Credit Cards: No
Wheelchair Accessible: No
Bathroom Graffiti: None; quite clean (well, the men's room was, which is
usually a good indicator)
Juke Box: Seger, Orbison, JT, Van, REO Speedwagon (honestly), Seger,
Clapton, Petty,
Aerosmith, Seger
Harley's Parked Outside: None
Tattoos: Perhaps, but no ostentatious display
Valet Parking: No
Smoking: Nearly universal
PORTLAND, Maine Ñ There are places our mothers warned us not to go.
Unfortunately, most of us don't live with mom anymore, thus denying us
this perfect divining rod for cheap, trashy bars and generally
stimulating nightlife. Mom's advice worked in reverse, of course. We aim
to be more direct, telling you about dives that serve up tasty
diversions to the Old Port's not-so-seamy, ever-present exterior.
Superficial, Popeye's Ice House is not. Popeye's (231 York St.) feels
like a surfer bar gone to seed. It's the place with an airplane crashing
through the roof, though don't be disappointed when you venture inside
and see nothing but dusty rafters with a blow-up doll of questionable
gender hanging from them.
We arrived the eve of St. Patrick's Day, so a life-size Kathy Ireland
greeted us at the door and a goodly amount of Miller Lite shamrocks
dotted the tidy, one-room establishment, replete with hardwood bar lined
by chrome-and-black-leather bar stools. Popeye's will remind the
inveterate Old Porter of a beach-front bar on Nantucket, in winter...
all year.
It seems any self-respecting Portland watering hole isn't complete
without a pool table, and Popeye's obliges with a single table smack dab
in the bar's center. It's flat and the sticks are straight, giving Pop's
a leg up on all too many of its counterparts. The bill-taking CD juke
box (is there a box laying vinyl anywhere in Portland?) offered an
enjoyably nostalgic, albeit head-scratching array of titles. However, if
you like Bob Seger, this the greatest juke box ever.
Despite its prime location overlooking traffic on the Million Dollar
Bridge, Popeye's Ice House is a bar of regulars who like their Bud and
patrons who shows respect, for them and their Bud. No Newcastle Brown
Ale on tap here Ñ hell, there isn't anything on tap here!
Snickering Old Port refugees with an attitude will not do well here.
Popeye's is a place kick back, shoot stick and get loud Ñ as long as
everyone, regulars included, share in the bluster.
***
FREE COCKTAIL FOR YOU, SIR?
By HAL PHILLIPS
CALAIS, Maine Ñ Careful reading of Cotton MatherÕs personal letters and
diary reveals the first Thanksgiving gathering was not, as historic
canon would have us believe, the first New World meeting of the Rainbow
Coalition. It was actually an excuse to shoot some craps, an opportunity
for North AmericaÕs original lady luck, Sacajaweya, to ply her wares of
chance on unwitting Old Worlders.
This sleepy Downeast town (pronounced callous) will soon be home to
casino, despite majority votes to the contrary cast in the Maine House
of Representatives and Senate. Gaming is illegal here, but the
Pasamaquoddy Indians Ñ who plan to erect the betting parlor on tribal
land Ñ will surely appeal to ever higher courts, where the right of
Aboriginal Americans to operate casinos on federal reservations has been
established elsewhere.Connecticut. New Mexico. Nevada... There is
precedent.
Mather, the first governor of Massachusetts Bay Colony, has proved
extraordinarly clairvoyant, as the past 20 years have seen the
proliferation of ever more gaming institutions on federally designated
tribal lands. Massasoit, perhaps the Steve Wynn of his time, would have
been proud.But letÕs be honest: The casino-mania now gripping Aboriginal
Americans nationwide is the most cynical exploitation of white guilt to
come down the pike since the founding of Liberia. Some might argue the
trend is proof that Pequots and Pasamaquoddys have finally given
Westerners a taste of their own medicine. Rather itÕs an example of what
happens when misplaced conscience attempt the impossible Ð namely,
righting the wrongs
of centuries-old aggression.
Let me understand: Reservations, created by a guilty U.S. government to
provide cultural haven for tribes not interested in assimilation, are
supposed to be places where Aboriginal-American culture stands apart
from its Western counterpart which values things unseemly, diametrically
opposed to the Indian way of life Ñ the accumulation of material wealth,
the desecration of a cosmically imbued landscape through mall
development, and MTV. Now tribes seek to erect gaming institutions on
these reservations in hopes of attracting millions of Western visitors
eager to drop cash on green felt.
Tribal leaders argue that jobs will be created on reservations where
unemployment figures top 20 percent. Jobs? I had no idea that dealing
blackjack and doling out free drinks in skimpy outfits were such time-
honored vocations in Pasamaquoddy culture.
Do you see the inherent contradiction here? Aboriginal Americans were
granted autonomy on tribal land to shield themselves from an unsavory
people intent on doing away with their way of life. Now they seek to use
this exemption to get rich. Is there anything more Western than managing
a casino?
The entire reservation system is a sham, and you canÕt have it both
ways. Join the capitalist fray on equal terms or stick to the basics
upon which youÕve insisted.
***
PEJORATIVE CORNER
(Eds. Note: a regular feature in which our editor (and other
correspondents) shares his insights into the cultures of foreign lands)
Passing through San Francisco in late March on the way home from
Singapore, I spent a few days with the newly betrothed Tim Dibble.
Though we had every intention of sampling some of the City's fine
cuisine, somehow we got hung up in a drinking establishment down near
the waterfront, the Marina Lounge. Myriad beers later I experienced an
oddly indicative slice of West Coast culture, especially in
juxtaposition my own Bostonian heritage.
We were playing doubles pool with two couples Ñ the odd pair out
indulging in a fascinating spin on liar's dice peculiar to San Francisco
bars, I was told. In any case, I ran out of cigarettes and popped $3 in
a machine near the bathrooms. My Marlboro's secure Ñ alas, no Players...
no surprise Ñ I returned to shoot more stick.
About 10 minutes later, a young guy came around the corner from the
facilities. He was, if you'll pardon the stereotyping, very West Coast:
Long, curly, black hair falling over the shoulders of a beat-up leather
car coat; three-day goatee growth; jeans, tee shirt underneath an open
flannel shirt, and well-worn moccasins.
"Anybody leave their wallet on the cigarette machine?" he
queried.Immediately, I realized it was mine. In my drunken stupor Ñ and
because cigarette machines now accept bills Ñ I had left it atop the
automated vendor. I thanked him profusely.
After he had turned away, I quickly looked to see if anything was taken.
I did it quickly, feeling guilty for suspecting someone who had been so
kind.But 20 bucks were missing.
What to do? I was drunk and, by all rights, deserved to lose the wallet
completely after spacing out during my Marlboro purchase... The guy did
sort of the right thing, leaving me $60 and all my credit cards... I was
torn, but I quickly decided to let it slide Ñ I felt lucky to have my
wallet back after being so stupid.
About 20 minutes later, the guy again stood before me. I wasn't paying
attention and he had walked right up to my stool Ñ I turned my head and
there he was.
"Man, I'm really sorry but I lifted a 20 from you just now," he said,
dropping a crumpled Jackson in my lap. "I never do things like that,
man. I don't know what I was thinking..."
He wasn't crying, but he was drunk and the experience had clearly shaken
him. After accepting advice from that little devil on his shoulder, he
agonized for 20 minutes and hoped to ease his conscience.
"Don't worry about it," I said, quite stunned.
Everyone in our group of six hailed from eastern cities, and Dibble
spoke for us all when the guy cleared earshot.
"That would never happen in the East," he said.
***
LETTERS>>>>>
Dear Mr. Phillips:
While I enjoyed your last edition's article in which some of my supposed
past deeds were discussed, and quite flattered that a publication the
caliber of the Herald would announce my engagement (beating to the punch
none other than a publication the stature of the Wellesley Townsman), I
must voice my disappointment over the use of an alias to which I was
referred in that piece.
I take some offense that following my name was written "a.k.a. Captain
Dum-Dum." If the truth be known, as I'm sure your astute readers demand,
the origin of the captain nickname to which I have at times been
referred was the product of the intellect of one Tripp Mutrie. He has
been known to call me as "Kaptain Kool" in reference to the character in
the Kaptain Kool and the Kongs skit from the "Kroft Supershow," a 1970's
Saturday morning television creation that will likely stand out as one
of that medium's crowning achievements.
As for the "dum-dum" part, while I have at times been called something
like that, this name came, no doubt , as the result of some less-than-
thought-provoking utterance I must once have made. At the very least,
that thought was one which lacked the benefit of screening by the higher
"faculties" and, therefore, would be best forgotten.
Sincerely,
David Kett
St. Paul, MN
Ed: We stand corrected and forever in debt: Never in our wildest dreams
did we anticipate the Kroft Supershow would warrant a mention in these
pages. Perhaps "Land of the Lost", but not "the Supershow", to which it
was referred colloquially among us eight-year-olds (Fast Fact: When you
run the word "Supershow" through the spell-check, the only suggested
corrections is "suppression". At any rate, Kett has always been a
magnet for nicknames - so many, in fact, it's hard to pin one down.
"Kettle" always sufficed, and "numb nut" was bandied about. Further I
distinctly remember brother Matthew calling him "Dingy" when he had said
or done something out of character, i.e. stupid or incomprehensible....
***
An open letter to Milliard S. Drexler.
Milliard S. Drexler
President, The Gap, Inc.
San Francisco, CA
Dear Millard:
The first thing you need to know about me is that I don't buy your
pants. I don't buy your shirts, your socks, or anything else in your
store. I have three or four pairs of Gap pants (given to me my friends
or family members who lost or gained weight and couldn't wear them
anymore) and a couple Gap shirts (more or less the same story), but I
didn't pay for a bit of it, and I wasn't about to come into the Gap and
drop a pile of cash. It's not that I have a long-standing grudge
against the Gap; truth be told, I have spent less than $100 per year on
clothes for the last five years, because I'm not much of a clothes
horse, and because I'm cheap. So, from a financial perspective, the
fact that your organization has offended me is of absolutely no
consequence.
That notwithstanding, I am writing to express my dismay at your "So and
so wore khakis" ad campaign. The campaign, in case you haven't seen it,
features black and white photographs of notable and almost exclusively
dead people wearing khaki pants. The ads are meant to suggest, I
suppose, that one can become notable by the simple expedient of
purchasing a pair of Gap khakis. This sort of chicanery is the bread
and butter of advertising, and I have no qualms with it.
What bothers me is that these ads have the further effect of making the
dead people in question posthumous, de facto agents of The Gap, Inc.
For example, the first ad I saw featured the dead writer Jack Kerouac.
While I have no doubt that Kerouac wore khakis (the photographic record
suggests strongly that he did), I question whether the living, breathing
Kerouac (the one who wrote the books, thereby becoming notable) would
have agreed to appear in the ads; he was not much of a capitalist, and
preferred buy clothing in second-hand stores. Clearly this presents a
problem for your advertising people: here is a notable individual, and
yet he refuses to put that notability to use in the noble struggle to
sell trousers! Happily, a solution is found. Wait until he dies, and
then buy him from his relatives, who are not notable and will therefore
sell cheap. I have no doubt that this strategy is completely legal. It
is, however, the moral equivalent of necrophilia.
Turnabout is fair play. I hereby express my intention to wait
patiently, saving my money, until the time of your demise. I shall then
purchase the rights to your corpse from your family, sever your head,
scoop out the insides, and use the resulting vessel to hold paper clips
or little mints. Surely you don't mind; you'll be dead, after all, and
your family will be well compensated; another triumph of commerce over
human dignity.
Sincerely,
David M. Rose
***
Speaking of dead heroes, in late March Henry Charles Bukowski died of
leukemia in Los Angeles at the age of 73. A widely regarded poet,
Pulitzer prize nominee, and author of some 40 books of both prose and
poetry, Bukowski was a controversial figure. To his detractors (among
them the Herald's editor in chief), he was a self-indulgent drunken
nihilist, by turns racist, sexist, and misanthropic, a sort of literary
Howard Stern. His supporters know all this, of course, but also detect
a humanity, humor, and intelligence in Bukowski's work that, in my
opinion, ranks his among the greatest voices in modern American fiction.
I suspect the problem many people have with Bukowski is that they've
read the wrong books. Let's face it, if you're drunk all the time (as
he undeniably was), you are going to write some shit. I like Bukowski's
shit, because I have a real affection for him. But when I'm reading,
say, Notes of a Dirty Old Man (a collection of columns he whipped off
for an LA underground paper called Open City), I think, "Boy, if this
was all you knew about Charles Bukowski, you'd think he was a real
asshole." If you've read Bukowski and hated him, give him another
chance. I suggest you read either Ham on Rye, an autobiographical
novel focusing on his childhood, or Hollywood, the story of the making
of the movie Barfly. They're great books, and if you read them and
still don't like Bukowski then you're tragically misguided, but at least
you gave it a shot.
Incidentally, one of the tragic consequences of Bukowski's death was
that I read TWICE that his most fervent admirers included (god help us)
that diminutive bug-eyed professional nuisance Bono (properly pronounced
with a long o and a strong note of distaste). The Nasal One, who
frequently takes time away from his primary occupation (ego farming) to
indulge his penchant for Dead American Worship, has previously sullied
the memories of Jack Kerouac and Elvis Presley. Aren't there any
deceased Irish luminaries whose visions he could co-opt? Why's he
always picking on our boys?
copyright 1994 the harold herald all rights reserved for what it's worth 
