or, "March did indeed go out like a gentle lamb...so what the fuck is April's problem?" The last thing on my mind as I was driving through the pouring rain this morning (or is it "pouring through the driving rain?") was the firebombing of Dresden. But bad news comes in threes and I was dealt a seriously disappointing blow when I heard that Kurt Vonnegut died early this morning -- and from head injuries suffered during a fall, no less. The third piece of bad news?....

I read Vonnegut for the first time in high school and although I didn't realize it at the time, it was probably the best thing I read during the 12-year "literary dry-spell" that is public grade school (I hear Catholic school kids get to read lots of Penthouse. True story). It was my first taste of the "theatre of the absurd"...I remember being shocked that something this bizarre, biting, sharp and scattershot could be considered serious literature -- although it probably isn't hard to understand my surprise when what had passed for "literature" so far was The Scarlet Letter (why didn't we read "Young Goodman Brown"? So much more interesting). Anyway, my Vonnegut is more than a little rusty, but reading Slaughterhouse-Five was one of those formative experiences that doesn't come around quite as often as I get older and more cynical/critical about what I see/hear.

In tribute to Vonnegut, I'm including these two National Geographic images:

This young lady's name is Kilgore. This is a trout who has either said something scandalous or disarmingly charming and witty judging by Kilgore's expression.

This image belongs in the category of "We photographed this because it was wacky, but it has no inherent anthropological value." This category is a close runner-up to my favorite category, "This is unwittingly-yet-patently racist." It also reminds me of Captain Beefheart's "Trout Mask Replica," which in turn reminds me of Kilgore Trout. Get it? I can't turn off this word association nonsense. Check this out: my car has been christened "Professor Moriarty" because it's shape reminds me of a monocle for some reason. But do I picture Professor Moriarty with a monocle? No, not at all. I don't even picture him with a tophat. And no, I'm not confusing the arch-nemesis of Sherlock Holmes with Mr. Peanut (although a reality show that included the two of them as roommates would be wonderful).
Anyone interested in a fine essay/interview about Vonnegut -- where he points out the following

"You must realize that the priceless gift that African Americans gave us musically is now almost the only reason many foreigners still tolerate us. That specific remedy for the worldwide epidemic of depression is 'the blues.' "

-- should check out this link.

**I should note that this was written more than a week before it was posted, as the internet here apparently died with Mr. Vonnegut. Oh, and "ghoulishly excited" means excited in a learing, maniacal and often morbid way. Imagine the look on Vincent Price's face if he opened his front door to find a life-sized chocolate rabbit. It's like that, but usually less entertaining.**

After a weekend spent gutting the basement/nasally ingesting an amount of mold that would mummify a lesser man, I'm reminded that I've been neglecting one of my serious obsessions: old things. This general category includes remnants of a 5-foot tall styrofoam T-rex, vinyl album art, other people's grandmas and, most importantly, old advertisements/posters/photographs (I'm ghoulishly excited about the day I inherit my grandmother's collection of turn-of-the-century 4x6 photographic slides).
In celebration of this (and my impending certification as a professional snippet writer and word associator), I'm going to start posting ads I scavenged from issues of National Geographic circa 1955 - 1963. Here's one that will hopefully ring in an era of compelling and boisterous ad copy on my part:

Allow me to enlarge some select lines (why oh why is Blogger's "very large" setting for images this small?):

"Out of the mountains they came with hunting knives, Kentucky rifles and freedom blazing white-hot in their eyes [emphasis in the actual ad]."

WOW! I will melt some internet faces if I can harness that kind of rhetoric. Let's see more:

"And you can muse for a moment on the unlettered backwoodsmen who wrote a shining page in freedom's book. The handwriting might be crude -- but the message was unmistakably clear...no mountain is too high for men to scale when freedom waits at the top."

Holy smokes that is over the top. And what's better than advertising that has absolutely no concept of its place in the world?

There are so many things I have to write about, but the new work schedule doesn't allow for a lot of time once I get home (and 8+ hours in front of a computer screen is enough at the end of the day). But I am going to go Weekend Warrior on this blog -- obviously more fun than spending my birthday discussing minor drinking problems with Nicolai Dunger like last year -- and catch up on what hasn't been posted this week. Right now, enjoy the creepiest level of Batman exploitation since George Clooney (and my evidence in support of fast-tracking Adam West to sainthood, or at least Nessie mythic status):