Poor Mojo's Almanac(k) Classic issue #419 (published January 29, 2009): "Be honest. The future won't depend on shit."
This post will remain here for one day. Scroll down for new news.
Poor Mojo's Almanac(k) Classic issue #419 (published January 29, 2009)
Be honest. The future won't depend on shit.
Giant Squid: Ask the Giant Squid: To Knit, Perchance to Dream; Aye, There's the Rub by the Giant Squid. . .
To All of My Knit-Bewitched Mojonauts,
These are but a very small sampling of the many missives electronique I have received in the three-and-three-thirds years since I first showcased the quick-knitted-wit of my dearest Sara Swanson and her noble knitted squid hat for infants and the consuming of cats' crania, as pictured below:
Today, I am proud to announce that finally, finally, we are well prepared to sate the hunger of those many, many stitchwomen looking to knit a net of architeuthic splendor to ensconce and ensorcle the heads of the very important adults in their lives (including, but not limited to, themselves). . . .
Fiction: Whiteman's Blood by Onyenezi Chika Victor. . . We called it Porto Kiri, they called it Fernando Po. That's were I set out early to prove a point in my life. Maybe to prove a point to my beloved Adaure. She was the loveliest of all fruits in the largest of all trees; succulent and stunning. My village, Umuaki, was the largest village among the six clans, that's why the old men described it as okeosisi, big tree. In this big tree a beautiful fruit hung, every passerby wants to pluck this fruit including the Whiteman in our town, the district officer. We called him Nwadishi. He drive a beetle, a Volkswagen car. Children would happily pursue Nwadishi's car just to touch it—then you could hear them shouting in Ibo, "Emeturum moto Nwadishi aka" ("I touched Nwadishi's car.") Then it was the first car to set its foot in Umuaki. . . .
Poetry: Fleas in the Thatch by Nadine GalloThey say fleas used to
be an awful bother to people
in the thatched houses.
You wouldn't need an alarm
clock to get you out of bed . . .
Rant: Tallest of Allest by Doug MathewsonWhen I was kid nobody seemed as tall as a cowboy. The cowboys I admired changed as I grew up, from Roy Rogers singing on the range to Clint Eastwood delivering harsh retribution. I knew nothing about sports, but was astonished by how Michael Jordon flew, arching higher and higher in magnificent flight. Latter heroes loomed large to me as rock-and-roll giants. They delighted me with their music, cleaver lyrics, and brilliant shows. Giants they were, till I encountered someone larger by far.
I was in Manhattan, headed for a gallery opening downtown. Tower Records in Times Square projected a moving image eight stories high of Jay-Z walking majestically and confidently, striding out of a fog-filled back ground, Savile Row overcoat slung over Armani shoulders, his penetrating eyes looking at, and then through, me. A completely over-powering image, commanding and compelling. . . .
