Rupert Wondolowski's Blog, page 19

"Munch" by Austin Al Ackerman

Munch

Have you enough round hole flabby-strength to skate your eye lint
Let's ask someone who knows
Let's ask patchy lint custard on your elbow
About dog cough, mist halation, all that wisdom fulla smoke
When I get to going I know it sounds silly and sordid
People begin to predict I'll go to the chair
A bunch of flying snails in the end is only wrinkly folds
The way you lunge sets us to belching and the clouds
Throat combination screwy storms in my mask collection
Sets something to sparkling in my lap
I seem to see floppy shorts will name your life
Look out for bombing phones you always followed
When you place your trust in cheese then blocks of salt
Glisten in your tub like lumpy ashcakes
No wonder a football bursts and stinks
I'd have to say I'm charging you with that
You who made these letters act all screwy and thud
Like apples behind the toilet
Thanks to you I smelled and stunned the coughing hat
That's what it means to foam beside the river
And find the birds stacked to north and south
Have you enough round hole flabby-strength to munch on those buggers
I bet you have

(from jmb of 11/3/10 etc etc)

Tardy Thoughts On the Grammys

Thanks to a Big Daddy Roth of a stomach virus - Rat Fink bulging eyes, colors not found in nature, everything ensconced in flame - last Sunday found me doing some serious couch riding, missing the love filled resonant acoustic show at Normal's with Sea Couch and Her Fantastic Cats.

One thing led to another, including viewing a filmic charmer named "The Black Death" that would make a great double feature with the original "Wicker Man" with its tale of a small pagan town living peacefully without the plague until Christian Crusaders invade and next thing I knew Kim Jong Ev had me watching The Grammy Awards for the first time since maybe High School when The Andrews Sisters were battling it out with Leslie Gore and Cee Lo Green was still nothing but a protoplasm being stirred up in an ice cave on some far away planet.

Either it was the absence of a stomach lining putting a drain on my brain or perhaps the cobwebs of age itself, but I was pleasantly surprised. Not by the winners since I didn't like any of the nominees (other than an appreciation for Arcade Fire, of course, although the singer is still sporting that Nazi Youth hairdo and naming an album after a concept - the suburbs -that is long dead and already dealt with handily by '80s New Wave), but by the entertainment.
Loved crazy Old Man Bob stretching his pretzel legs with the new kids on "Maggie's Farm". He got quite a bit of dramatic effect out of minimal movements and gesturing with his harmonica mic. His fifteen seconds of harmonica playing at the end though was a bit of a tease. And I want to enter whatever world Cee Lo Green is on. What the what! Muppets, '70s funk, Gwyneth and Big Bird and somehow it all works. Love that guy.
And fucking Mick Jagger. Always kind of put up with him so I could love the Rolling Stones great early music, but of course truly only loved Keith, but sweet Jesus, the guy is a stage natural. Where the hell is he coming off like that at his age???? I guess being filthy rich for four decades and being able to spend your whole life exercising, swimming on tropical islands, fornicating with models and eatng only the finest foods and drugs pays off.
It also always warms my heart to see soulful Kris Kristofferson on stage in all his raw warmth, even if it is just to introduce Dame Babs Streisand. Was it just me or were all the black superstars filmed during Babs sequence hating on her? Man, some real sour expressions.

Of course right off the bat at the beginning during the red carpet sequence there was Lady Gaga supposedly being carried in an egg and spoken of as if she was Christ carrying a cross. What, what is her mysterious attraction? A 21st Century female Liberace? Performance art that is so campy and put to robotic beats that even the masses can spoon it up? The thin extended pointy shoulder blade was a nice touch, but sweetest of all was picturing her under the giant hat as all the awards passed her by.

"Like Gandhi, I Want More" by William Merricle

Like Gandhi, I Want More


Raindrops penetrate a chthonic sonnet
limning the gluons that propel fetid corpses,
a limping wartime river,
a newfangled abyss the size of a neutron,
your tempting tongue's cruel care,
god's hands covered in dark ointments,
the sickly fire in the center of sincerity,
all the worldly kisses in the afterdeath foyer.

The band strikes up a tune analogous to entropy,
the world turns and twists in Klimt-light,
the beginning of a universe radiates itself out of existence,
wisdom's penetralia deliver a wallop of spontaneous symmetry,
innocence carries profound implications for the concept of putrefaction,
Janus turns lazy and bitter,
I perform a bad imitation of cruelty
for the faces in the back of the car just ahead.

Back of the forest lies groggy with sunshine,
death looks for kindred moisture,
logic emends the manuscript
until it falls off the edge of the world,
rain feels like a dove to the heart,
light predicts the future by
rummaging through the universe's rotting body.
How do I sleep? Because space-time is curved.


-----------------------------------------------------------------------------


William Merricle lives in Lima, Ohio. He once was the assistant manager of a porn theater, and would open up the little window panel in his office and throw paper airplanes with quotes from Heidegger at the patrons below. His latest chapbook, "Heimlich the Donut," is available from Pudding House Publications.

Baltimore Bon Vivant Linda Franklin Celebrates Her 70th Birthday By Channeling Her Grandmother Grace at Show and Tell

With breasts stuffed with blackeyed peas and exhorting the crowd to "Smell my purse!!", Baltimore artist and gadfly, avatar of Robert E. Lee dog park, Linda Franklin celebrated the milestone of her 70th birthday taking a packed crowd in Minas on a trip through her eyeballs and heart and through time itself.

And just as the presence of the Elvis Impersonator was too powerful to glimpse clearly with modern technology, so too the image of Linda summoning the spirit of her long gone grandmother.

If you have ever met Linda you not only remember it, but you lose any belief in linear reality. Former writer of books on antiques and kitchen collectibles? Wood nymph of Robert E. Lee. Filmmaker. Folk art collector. Raw nerve open receptor of wonder 24/7.

It was a Boite: Show and Tell night hosted by the enigma known as Lauren Bender at the ever friendly and well curated Minas shop and gallery. Two of the showers on this night were Linda who was turning 70 and radio star Aaron Henkin. Linda celebrated her birthday by inhabiting the clothing and spirit of her grandmother, Grace, having Grace tell us about her own life at the age of 70. It was a moving and illuminating look at her family and at her childhood with Linda right there feeling it. After the show she was dj'ing at a party down the street where she promised the crowd "There will be funk". One day I hope to have a satori that fills me with half the energy that she contains. Truly she has supped at The Cup of Borgnine.

Dr. Henkin of The Mellifluous Pipes took us back to his early days in Baltimore when he and his pal Todd started up a heavy metal band called Destroyer 666, a name they found out was already taken by an Australian white power heavy metal band. The moment of truth came when Aaron unveiled the flying V electric guitar he purchased after Destroyer 666's first gig. Not only did it have devil horn's at the head, but it rested in a coffin shaped pleated purple cloth lined case. I for one was relieved that it wasn't the shrunken cold corpse of Andy Bienstock revealed when Aaron with a leering smile swung open the lid of the case.

"Fuzzy Grape Drink" by Austin Al Ackerman

Fuzzy Grape Drink



   And as my doggy link drops behind garage
my stone box rotted like a frog wet with what
I clawed forgot like head a box of matches
filled with
     &nbspbuttons barking making those who come
to peddle
     &nbspflat pants and piles peddle flat pants and
piles plus certain large black face phones
           &nbspleaking
paragraphs. The Purple Big Heads with my ghost
sit there
     &nbsptantamount so that in the file cabinet
where my tongue sits greased you may find a little
laughter in your life.
        &nbspStill, you can't have everything,
I'm no Ray Bolger.
        &nbspI'm no collection of gopher holes
neither.
     &nbspI'm a believer! which is to say you can have
an OK time
     &nbspif you'll just realize that suddenly everyone
starts screaming.
     &nbspBecause you might say dung clock radish
the size of a door while through it the noodles creep on an
adorable high
     &nbspas an enormous root begins breaking the walls


(from jmb of 1/17/11 etc)

Somewhere In the Back of Beyond: The Sublimely Strange Stories of Robert Aickman

Reading someone's "Top 20 Horror Writers Of All Time" list online that left off my favorite, Robert Aickman, completely inspired me to post this old piece I did for The City Paper a while back when I had hair. Aickman is one of a kind, in my top ten of any kind of writers.

Somewhere in the Back of Beyond

The Sublimely Strange Stories of Robert Aickman

Chuck Shacochis Imprints Literary Supplement 1999 Our Favorite Things Writing about books for a living means reviewing new releases, covering publishing-house hijinks, an... Bright Lights, Big City Dawn Powell and the Glory of Revival | By Heather Joslyn A Time to Be Reborn How Dawn Powell Came Back | By Heather Joslyn Memphis in the Meantime Peter Taylor and the Pleasure of Elegant Fiction | By Eileen Murphy Somewhere in the Back of Beyond The Sublimely Strange Stories of Robert Aickman | By Rupert Wondolowski California Dreaming The Old and New Worlds of John Fante | By Patrick Kenndy Life During Wartime Nuruddin Farah's Nation of Horror and Hope | By Frank Diller This is Not Your Father's Homer Mark Merlis Separates the Gods From the Boys | By Karl Woelz The Rest of the Story Tracking Down Out-of-Print Books | By Eileen Murphy The Best Books You've Never Read 1066 and All That | By Miles Anderson The Best Books You've Never Read Fisher's Hornpipe | By Carl Davies The Best Books You've Never Read Suds in Your Eye | By Faye Houston The Best Books You've Never Read The Thirtieth Year | By Sandy Asirvatham The Best Books You've Never Read Now in November | By Richard Gorelick The Best Books You've Never Read Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up to Me | By Michael Anft The Best Books You've Never Read The Gormenghast Trilogy | By Mahinder Kingra The Best Books You've Never Read A Treasury Of Railroad Folklore | By Joab Jackson The Best Books You've Never Read Borstal Boy | By Jack Purdy The Best Books You've Never Read Forms of Verse: British and American | By Jenny Keith By Rupert Wondolowski | Posted 10/13/1999 Email Print Twitter

Great Review of The Tinklers' The Elements In Chicago's "Roctober"

To the left is "Portrait of The Blogger As An Auxiliary Tinkler On The Way To Jersey City". This new issue of Roctober with a great review of The Elements by The Tinklers on Shattered Wig Press was a good excuse for me to pull out this old snapshot of me with Chris Mason in the parking lot of a New Jersey rest stop on the way to play legendary WFMU.

I got to play both as a member of The Tinklers Auxiliary and in The Diana Froley 3. These were the days when Tinkler Charles Brohawn was in his retiring "T.S. Eliot" phase and refused to leave his ivy covered cottage to take the stage. Now he not only is playing many gigs with the reinvigorated Tinklers, but also rocking out in Elvis shades with David Fair's Coo Coo Rockin' Time.


If you're not familiar with it, Roctober is a thick classic "punk" zine that does feature articles and also reviews a heady mix of music and books and zines and movies. And I say punk in kind of a catch-all philosophical DIY way of life manner. This issue not only boasts a fine review of The Tinklers, but has a well written article on the Cleveland '80s punk band The Easter Monkeys. I hadn't heard of them before I read the article, but it excited me and reminded me of Baltimore's Marble Bar period. There are also articles on Chicago soul music and Ian Whitcomb. Also, there's an article about White Sox organist Nancy Faust, who has been active with that team for four decades. Below is an illustration of her:



But enough of hawking Roctober! On to their great review of The Tinklers' The Elements!!

"The Elements by The Tinklers (Shattered Wig Press). I was surprised to see this book because I knew The Tinklers from a couple of great albums I bought years ago at the space that sold Shimmy Disc albums next to CBGB's. But according to the press release and clippings, and part of a documentary I saw on The Documentary Channel (which I didn't even know was a channel until I stopped to watch this movie) The Tinklers have been around for over thirty years and have done as much writing, art, and happenings as music.

"This book is a brisk, triumphant morsel of edutainment that imparts information about several elements occupying the periodic table. This is done through a narrative that is sort of like a Dick and Jane old time book where a guy and gal go around meeting people who conversationally, indirectly, teach them things. But in this case as we learn about the remarkable properties of magnesium from a Milk of Magnesium swilling Magnesium Unlimited intern or sodium's benefits from a little girl at the saltwater beach doing a science fair project, each impartation of scientific knowledge also reveals the damage our country suffers because of problems in industry and labor, and we get a glimpse of the inevitable erosion and dysfunction in our protagonists' relationship (that science fair girl gets Mary's biological clock ticking, forcing Steven to make a heartbreaking false promise).

"In other words: awesome book. (sidenote: Microsoft Word spellcheck had no problem with the word 'Edutainment'. Apparently Bill Gates is a KRS-ONE fan.)"

Morning Arrives With John "Beltway Sniper" Muhammad and The Arrival of Dusk Is Heralded By Burt Reynolds In His Plum Dandies

Notes of An Aged Bookseller Told That Books Will Shortly Be Extinct



Ah, the snow day. Often slightly magical as long as there isn't ice in the mix or too many desperate drug addict sellers panicking at the thought of being cut off from the world and the juice for a day or two.


I'll never forget digging out my car AT MY HOME, many blocks from the store, when one of our pushier sellers saw me bundled up scraping at my car. He started a sales pitch of his books on me in the blinding snow without even knowing who I was. Then once he did recognize me he was like a pitbull who had just settled onto a good leg joint.

Of course a year later, when The City Paper ran a feature article on him as a long time repeat felon charged with rape and murder who keeps slipping through the disjointed jaws of the system, we discovered that he was something beyond a daily pushy seller of horror novels. But at first when he started coming around I gave him the benefit of the doubt because he was selling and had obviously read Le Fanu, Maugham, E.T.A. Hoffman, M.R. James and Algernon Blackwood.


This snow day, a mid-sizer - somewhere in the 4" zone, started with the first customer being the guy who looks like John "Beltway Sniper" Muhammad coming in darting around and looking anxious. "I'm just going to leave my bag up here to perhaps deflect any suspicion you may have of my darting eyes and then wander into the back with my bulky coat and when I leave I will be walking like a hunchback who has a load in my pants. But do not get distressed, the square book-like humps in my shorts and back will only be true loads in my pants and exploded postules, nothing for you to be concerned about." At least John Muhammad's song and dances are brief. He doesn't do the added indignity of dragging them out so that not only does he decrease your stock, but he also attaches onto your time and pretends to be your bud.

Luckily, the false "John" was followed by two friend Johns, cultural power hitters who shall be named in no more detail, other than one of them has and one of them used to have a long flaxen ponytail and both would look at home riding steeds through a lost kingdom. They circled each other quietly, giving each other sidelong glances.

Suffice it to say that other than the tales the two Johns spun for me, one of them involving historic moments with Baltimore legend Ethel Ennis, the day drifted like the flakes outside as I dreamt of finishing my cyber thriller novel where the world turns out to be a chip inserted into a hedgehog which is the only thing of flesh that truly exists. Or something like that.

Finally around 4 I acknowledged that Nature had beaten Retail thoroughly this day and even though I've been in this game for decades I still had a fierce battle with my conscience to close early so I could hit the post office. As I made peace and worked on counting out the drawer, in walked Burt Reynolds, the star of our stable of Duckville regulars who pride themselves on coming here for 20 years without buying anything. Impressive. But even more impressive than his withholding of his wallet essence was the fact that he was sticking to his plum dandy shorts, despite the blustery snowy weather. He is of the School of Playboy Jazz whose main tenet is that if a man is able to wear shorts on a daily basis he is one smooth badass dude.

The irony was that when I told him I was closing early he was taken aback: "What, now?" "How much time do you need for your invisible purchases sir? Should one of our non-existent elves carry the many tomes and vinyl slabs to your jazzmobile?"

He sulked back out and I slowly skidded my way to the post office. Beginning the day with John "Beltway Sniper" Muhammad and ringing it out in the gray dusk with the fading legend of Burt Reynolds. Later that night I dusted off my sled, wired it beneath a Colt 45 truck with deliveries to make and for four hours I breathed the lightning cold air of the gods, my lungs and head exploding with true life.

Wildman of Literature Cort McMeel Returns Triumphant For a Shattered Wig Night Reading

Old friend of Normal's Books & Records and Shattered Wig, former Baltimorean and co-editor of the dear departed Murdaland magazine, Cort McMeel returns to town triumphant after St. Martin's Press published his first novel, Short. The picture of Cort here is taken from a Baltimore City Paper article about Murdaland. Here is a link if you want to read more:




http://www2.citypaper.co/arts/story.a...

If you've ever met Cort before - say, at a bar, literary salon or howling drunkenly outside Melville's home - you surely remember him. He is an exuberant burly gent who is outspokenly passionate about literature like your old High School football coach on a few hits of mescaline is about Joe Namath's skills with the ladies. And he knows his shit, as they say. His magazine Murdaland is much missed (and not just because they were wise enough to solicit a piece from yours truly) and he now teaches modern literature - like Hammett, Chandler, Fat City, and of course Melville, in Colorado.

This colorful writer will be returning to Harm City on February 25th like the bulls in Pamplona chasing Hemingway's tired old ass to read from his new novel at Shattered Wig Night. His novel masterfully depicts a brutal cluster fuck in the world of energy traders. Here is an excerpt from the Denver Post's review of the novel:

The floor at a trading company is alive with a crazed energy, one that is captured to perfection in Cortright McMeel's engaging debut, "Short." A writer who has worked as a commodity broker and energy trader, he knows well the world he writes. This novel in stories juggles the lives of a multitude of rich and deeply drawn characters, all fueled in varying degrees by ego, alcohol and cholesterol.


McMeel's novel, if it were focused on the details of trading energy futures, would have limited appeal. It is not, and it does not. It is, instead, about the people who inhabit this world. The structure of the work, in which each chapter can stand on its own as a story, supports the actions of a huge cast of characters. The main players are seen off- stage as well as on: Gallagher with his artist wife, who feels smothered in Boston; Andrews with his family; the Ghost in his Boston penthouse, with a sweeping view of the harbor, one he cannot appreciate due to his failing eyesight.

It is this approach that spotlights the complexities of character, revealing the whole as a sum of the parts, much as a prism reveals white light comprising a rainbow of colors. The result is fueled by resonant high-octane prose that glues the reader to the pages; the temptation is to immediately go back and reread this singularly rich and satisfying work. The world in which these characters operate may be initially unfamiliar to the reader, but it is nothing that stands between the reader and the character. In the end, each character is rewarded for his choices, and the reader will care deeply about whether these rewards are just. That is the measure of the work, coming to live along side these characters in their often tawdry but addicting world.

Read more: Book review: "Short" takes look at electric, excessive trading life - The Denver Post http://www.denverpost.com/entertainment/ci_16820178#ixzz1B8HnZqLA
Read The Denver Post's Terms of Use of its content: http://www.denverpost.com/termsofuse





I'm really excited for Cort and to be honest, envious! The book is a great read, fortuitously timed to come out right after the tanking of our odd Wall Street economy. Told believably in great detail through the eyes of many well drawn characters it's a great read. I have got my "office" all set up at home now, life is calming down, it is time for me to buckle down and do "The Great Used Bookstore Novel". Lurkers and Duckvillers beware!

The Shattered Wig Night featuring Cort will be Friday, February 25th and so far the lineup includes The Go Pills, led by Skizz Czyzyk with one of the best pedal steel players in town, Randy Austin, right up there with Susan Alcorn.














(Photo From the Baltimore City Paper)

http://www2.citypaper.com/arts/story....

Buff Joe Medusa Has Left His Post at The Shattered Wig Empire Building

The job of "Door Man" is a brutal, thankless job. Frequent gunplay defending the bankroll that each Wig Night brings in, mopping up the frequent vomit of performers (Aye, we could fill the Baltimore Aquarium with Chris Toll's "green slushies" alone!), having to listen to angry paying customers demand their money back, or worse yet - read aloud their own poems, saying it should be them up there on that glittering stage.

And unlike some clubs (Not to name names, but let's say THE OTTOBAR, at least back when I was an active youngster), the door man at Wig Nights and Cabarets does not receive two or three times the pay of the performers. Buff Joe Medusa, who is himself an amazing theatrical performer and director, has steadfastly worked the doors at 218 W. Saratoga Street for decades. But enough is enough! His doctor will no longer write the script to make this bearable and he has decided he has "better things to do on a Friday night"(??)(!!!)

We heartily thank Buff Joe for doing us the huge favor of performing this task over the years and do not blame him one bit for bowing out now in his Golden Years. We will miss him up there, but hopefully now he will attend Shattered Wig Nights as an audience member or performer.

We love you Buff Joe!