Tuesday, December 10, 2013

Feel like I'm made out of gingerbread




So this was the idea, the thing I was hoping to do: a little knitting project, short but sweet, cute enough to hang on the mantlepiece or pop in a stocking.

All I wanted was a pattern. A pattern like all the other ones I've snarfed up on the internet for free.

I saw one I liked. This one. A cute little knit-man sitting in clover. The site, called Big Fat Crafty Mama or something like that, teasingly described how wonderful it was to knit Mr. Ginger, then said nothing about the pattern. Relentlessly, I hunted on.




This time of year can be horribly depressing, and this is why. This is a "craft", a "FREE" craft you can Do Yourself, but who would want to? Hanging this on your tree might scare away crows.






This is a vintage pattern, only useful as a curiosity, but what's this? Someone actually posted the above graph or chart or whatever-it-is, handwritten in pencil.  Just tell me how many rows to knit!




At some point, it just gets bizarre. I am NOT going to knit this. It's supposed to be a "hot water bottle cover", when hot water bottles haven't been seen for 97 years. My grandmother used one, and the plug would always come out and flood her bed. Personally, I think this is just an obese gingerbread man, having eaten too many cookies.




Perhaps this one is meant to be cute, but it isn't. Someone knitted a rectangle, then sewed in some lines for arms and legs, along with what looks to be leg-irons. This little man is entering the oven, and there isn't a thing he can do about it.




If you're going to make a costume as silly as a gingerbread man, why not make it a GOOD gingerbread man, a cute one like the little guy sitting in clover? Though the brown oven mitts are a nice touch.








Having given up on knitting, I found myself in the netherworld of gingerbreadism: screaming victims, ginger-people with obvious and quite huge genitalia. A gingerbread bacchanalle of sorts. Bring on the cocoa.



Oops, this guy's the wrong color, and I'm not sure you can eat him, but he'll work a powerful mojo on your enemies. I suspect the Haitians use the same pattern.




Guess somebody left him in a little too long.





Sunday, December 8, 2013

Who you callin' a nut-hook?








We never liked musicians anyway




Here it is, the musicianless musical instrument: an auto-eroticon, if you will, self-stroking or pounding. These all seem to have clever, if fusty-sounding names like maestoso and orchestrion and hark back to a time when people wanted to hear something musical without bothering to hire one of those sloppy, usually inebriated boors who knew how to play.

And so, an art form was born, melding the technology of automata (first built in the medieval era, with a very few, very freaky surviving examples) with things like organ pipes and drums. The mechanics of these things, sometimes visible like sewing machine workings, are truly incredible. Somebody must have worked it out. Restoring them was a process in itself, kind of like working on a '61 T-bird on the weekends.Where they would get the parts, I don't know.

The videos I've posted today are things I found years ago, then lost (couldn't find the name of the place anywhere, then when I randomly hit on it, 71 videos jumped out at me). They're taken at a place called the Siegfried Mechanical Musical Cabinet Museum in Rudesheim, which is in either Germany or Switzerland depending on your bias. The contraptions have a mildly Bavarian flavor to them, most of them, and some of their heartily Germanic ha-ha-ha anthems are so hearty they are personally disturbing.

I can see these things loaded on circus wagons or in the village square to celebrate an execution or something (because people really did - my parents told me once that it was considered festive in their day to go see a hanging). They were a way to bring people together to hear some truly hideous music, without having to pay anybody to play it. Does it get any better than that?


Is the German guy part of the show?





This is the sound of an orchestrion, one of those cleverly-named self-playing musical instruments at the Siegfried Museum. When I first heard it, I just thought it was weird, then realized it was a meld of at least four sounds: the orchestrion, a mechanical bird chirping insanely, someone ringing an obnoxious bell, and a guy yelling loudly in German. (Did anyone ever yell softly in German?) I was a little disappointed the orchestrion didn't have a "guy yelling loudly in German" setting. But it could have. Who knows.

(Post-blog observations. Watching this thing a little more closely, I notice something going on that reminds me of the Beer Hall Putsch. The place is stuffed with Germans, most of them having some sort of Oktoberfest celebration with beer and bratwurst. If you look carefully on the left, there is a man wearing a military beret. Something odd going on here. And why on earth does this Orgasmatron or whatever-it-is have a big mirror on the front of it? You could take selfies that way, of course, in the good old-fashioned way.)


The first computer



This is an old, old computer run by a sewing machine engine. It plays some sort of tune, a mystery, maybe like HAL in 2001 singing "Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do".

(We won't talk about the guy pedalling this thing. He's out of sight. You don't want to see it.)

Post-blog observation: why are there venetian blinds on this thing? The possibilities are just too bizarre.

Bloody hell, what's THIS??




This is just so vulgar and terrifying, I had to share it with you today. It seems to grin at us like some twisted corpse, rattling and banging as it tries to decide what the tune is. There isn't one, and we have to listen for two whole minutes to find that out.


Friday, December 6, 2013

Invictus: Mandela Lives!



Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.







Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.


William Ernest Henley

I'll have a blingee, blingee Xmas







http://members.shaw.ca/margaret_gunning/betterthanlife.htm 

Wednesday, December 4, 2013

14 Habits of Highly Miserable People





I didn't write this - it was a Facebook thing  I cut and pasted, which I realize is a no-no, but I HATE posting links which no one ever looks at. This is some kind of minor masterpiece and worth reading, even if it's WAY too long (kvetch, kvetch). I defy you NOT to find yourself on this list somewhere. There are days I seem to be practicing all 14.

How do you know when you are around such people? The oxygen is slowly sucked out of the room, and/or you feel a large, suffocating, 3000-pound weight descending on you until it crushes the life out of you. Enjoy!

The 14 Habits of Highly Miserable People
How to succeed at self-sabotage.

Most of us claim we want to be happy—to have meaningful lives, enjoy ourselves, experience fulfillment, and share love and friendship with other people and maybe other species, like dogs, cats, birds, and whatnot. Strangely enough, however, some people act as if they just want to be miserable, and they succeed remarkably at inviting misery into their lives, even though they get little apparent benefit from it, since being miserable doesn’t help them find lovers and friends, get better jobs, make more money, or go on more interesting vacations.




Why do they do this? After perusing the output of some of the finest brains in the therapy profession, I’ve come to the conclusion that misery is an art form, and the satisfaction people seem to find in it reflects the creative effort required to cultivate it. In other words, when your living conditions are stable, peaceful, and prosperous—no civil wars raging in your streets, no mass hunger, no epidemic disease, no vexation from poverty—making yourself miserable is a craft all its own, requiring imagination, vision, and ingenuity. It can even give life a distinctive meaning.


So if you aspire to make yourself miserable, what are the best, most proven techniques for doing it? Let’s exclude some obvious ways, like doing drugs, committing crimes, gambling, and beating up your spouse or neighbor. Subtler strategies, ones that won’t lead anyone to suspect that you’re acting deliberately, can be highly effective. But you need to pretend that you want to be happy, like everybody else, or people won’t take your misery seriously. The real art is to behave in ways that’ll bring on misery while allowing you to claim that you’re an innocent victim, ideally of the very people from whom you’re forcibly extracting compassion and pity.



Here, I cover most areas of life, such as family, work, friends, and romantic partners. These areas will overlap nicely, since you can’t ruin your life without ruining your marriage and maybe your relationships with your children and friends. It’s inevitable that as you make yourself miserable, you’ll be making those around you miserable also, at least until they leave you—which will give you another reason to feel miserable. So it’s important to keep in mind the benefits you’re accruing in your misery.


• When you’re miserable, people feel sorry for you. Not only that, they often feel obscurely guilty, as if your misery might somehow be their fault. This is good! There’s power in making other people feel guilty. The people who love you and those who depend on you will walk on eggshells to make sure that they don’t say or do anything that will increase your misery.

• When you’re miserable, since you have no hopes and expect nothing good to happen, you can’t be disappointed or disillusioned.

• Being miserable can give the impression that you’re a wise and worldly person, especially if you’re miserable not just about your life, but about society in general. You can project an aura of someone burdened by a form of profound, tragic, existential knowledge that happy, shallow people can’t possibly appreciate.




Honing Your Misery Skills

Let’s get right to it and take a look at some effective strategies to become miserable. This list is by no means exhaustive, but engaging in four or five of these practices will help refine your talent.

1. Be afraid, be very afraid, of economic loss. In hard economic times, many people are afraid of losing their jobs or savings. The art of messing up your life consists of indulging these fears, even when there’s little risk that you’ll actually suffer such losses. Concentrate on this fear, make it a priority in your life, moan continuously that you could go broke any day now, and complain about how much everything costs, particularly if someone else is buying. Try to initiate quarrels about other people’s feckless, spendthrift ways, and suggest that the recession has resulted from irresponsible fiscal behavior like theirs.

Fearing economic loss has several advantages. First, it’ll keep you working forever at a job you hate. Second, it balances nicely with greed, an obsession with money, and a selfishness that even Ebenezer Scrooge would envy. Third, not only will you alienate your friends and family, but you’ll likely become even more anxious, depressed, and possibly even ill from your money worries. Good job!

Exercise: Sit in a comfortable chair, close your eyes, and, for 15 minutes, meditate on all the things you could lose: your job, your house, your savings, and so forth. Then brood about living in a homeless shelter.




2. Practice sustained boredom. Cultivate the feeling that everything is predictable, that life holds no excitement, no possibility for adventure, that an inherently fascinating person like yourself has been deposited into a completely tedious and pointless life through no fault of your own. Complain a lot about how bored you are. Make it the main subject of conversation with everyone you know so they’ll get the distinct feeling that you think they’re boring. Consider provoking a crisis to relieve your boredom. Have an affair (this works best if you’re already married and even better if you have an affair with someone else who’s married); go on repeated shopping sprees for clothes, cars, fancy appliances, sporting equipment (take several credit cards, in case one maxes out); start pointless fights with your spouse, boss, children, friends, neighbors; have another child; quit your job, clean out your savings account, and move to a state you know nothing about.

A side benefit of being bored is that you inevitably become boring. Friends and relatives will avoid you. You won’t be invited anywhere; nobody will want to call you, much less actually see you. As this happens, you’ll feel lonely and even more bored and miserable.

Exercise: Force yourself to watch hours of mindless reality TV programs every day, and read only nonstimulating tabloids that leave you feeling soulless. Avoid literature, art, and keeping up with current affairs.





3. Give yourself a negative identity. Allow a perceived emotional problem to absorb all other aspects of your self-identification. If you feel depressed, become a Depressed Person; if you suffer from social anxiety or a phobia, assume the identity of a Phobic Person or a Person with Anxiety Disorder. Make your condition the focus of your life. Talk about it to everybody, and make sure to read up on the symptoms so you can speak about them knowledgeably and endlessly. Practice the behaviors most associated with that condition, particularly when it’ll interfere with regular activities and relationships.

Focus on how depressed you are and become weepy, if that’s your identity of choice. Refuse to go places or try new things because they make you too anxious. Work yourself into panic attacks in places it’ll cause the most commotion. It’s important to show that you don’t enjoy these states or behaviors, but that there’s nothing you can do to prevent them.

Practice putting yourself in the physiological state that represents your negative identity. For example, if your negative identity is Depressed Person, hunch your shoulders, look at the floor, breathe shallowly. It’s important to condition your body to help you reach your negative peak as quickly as possible.

Exercise: Write down 10 situations that make you anxious, depressed, or distracted. Once a week, pick a single anxiety-provoking situation, and use it to work yourself into a panic for at least 15 minutes.




4. Pick fights. This is an excellent way of ruining a relationship with a romantic partner. Once in a while, unpredictably, pick a fight or have a crying spell over something trivial and make unwarranted accusations. The interaction should last for at least 15 minutes and ideally occur in public. During the tantrum, expect your partner to be kind and sympathetic, but should he or she mention it later, insist that you never did such a thing and that he or she must have misunderstood what you were trying to say. Act injured and hurt that your partner somehow implied you weren’t behaving well.

Another way of doing this is to say unexpectedly, “We need to talk,” and then to barrage your partner with statements about how disappointed you are with the relationship. Make sure to begin this barrage just as your partner is about to leave for some engagement or activity, and refuse to end it for at least an hour. Another variation is to text or phone your partner at work to express your issues and disappointments. Do the same if your partner is out with friends.

Exercise: Write down 20 annoying text messages you could send to a romantic partner. Keep a grudge list going, and add to it daily.





5. Attribute bad intentions. Whenever you can, attribute the worst possible intentions to your partner, friends, and coworkers. Take any innocent remark and turn it into an insult or attempt to humiliate you. For example, if someone asks, “How did you like such and such movie?” you should immediately think, He’s trying to humiliate me by proving that I didn’t understand the movie, or He’s preparing to tell me that I have poor taste in movies. The idea is to always expect the worst from people. If someone is late to meet you for dinner, while you wait for them, remind yourself of all the other times the person was late, and tell yourself that he or she is doing this deliberately to slight you. Make sure that by the time the person arrives, you’re either seething or so despondent that the evening is ruined. If the person asks what’s wrong, don’t say a word: let him or her suffer.

Exercise: List the names of five relatives or friends. For each, write down something they did or said in the recent past that proves they’re as invested in adding to your misery as you are.





6. Whatever you do, do it only for personal gain. Sometimes you’ll be tempted to help someone, contribute to a charity, or participate in a community activity. Don’t do it, unless there’s something in it for you, like the opportunity to seem like a good person or to get to know somebody you can borrow money from some day. Never fall into the trap of doing something purely because you want to help people. Remember that your primary goal is to take care of Numero Uno, even though you hate yourself.

Exercise: Think of all the things you’ve done for others in the past that haven’t been reciprocated. Think about how everyone around you is trying to take from you. Now list three things you could do that would make you appear altruistic while bringing you personal, social, or professional gain.

7. Avoid gratitude. Research shows that people who express gratitude are happier than those who don’t, so never express gratitude. Counting your blessings is for idiots. What blessings? Life is suffering, and then you die. What’s there to be thankful for?

Well-meaning friends and relatives will try to sabotage your efforts to be thankless. For example, while you’re in the middle of complaining about the project you procrastinated on at work to your spouse during an unhealthy dinner, he or she might try to remind you of how grateful you should be to have a job or food at all. Such attempts to encourage gratitude and cheerfulness are common and easily deflected. Simply point out that the things you should be grateful for aren’t perfect—which frees you to find as much fault with them as you like.

Exercise: Make a list of all the things you could be grateful for. Next to each item, write down why you aren’t. Imagine the worst. When you think of the future, imagine the worst possible scenario. It’s important to be prepared for and preemptively miserable about any possible disaster or tragedy. Think of the possibilities: terrorist attacks, natural disasters, fatal disease, horrible accidents, massive crop failures, your child not getting picked for the varsity softball team.






8. Always be alert and in a state of anxiety. Optimism about the future leads only to disappointment. Therefore, you have to do your best to believe that your marriage will flounder, your children won’t love you, your business will fail, and nothing good will ever work out for you.

Exercise: Do some research on what natural or manmade disasters could occur in your area, such as earthquakes, floods, nuclear plant leaks, rabies outbreaks. Focus on these things for at least an hour a day.

9. Blame your parents. Blaming your parents for your defects, shortcomings, and failures is among the most important steps you can take. After all, your parents made you who you are today; you had nothing to do with it. If you happen to have any good qualities or successes, don’t give your parents credit. Those are flukes.

Extend the blame to other people from your past: the second-grade teacher who yelled at you in the cafeteria, the boy who bullied you when you were 9, the college professor who gave you a D on your paper, your first boyfriend, even the hick town you grew up in—the possibilities are limitless. Blame is essential in the art of being miserable.

Exercise: Call one of your parents and tell her or him that you just remembered something horrible they did when you were a child, and make sure he or she understands how terrible it made you feel and that you’re still suffering from it.





10. Don’t enjoy life’s pleasures. Taking pleasure in things like food, wine, music, and beauty is for flighty, shallow people. Tell yourself that. If you inadvertently find yourself enjoying some flavor, song, or work of art, remind yourself immediately that these are transitory pleasures, which can’t compensate for the miserable state of the world. The same applies to nature. If you accidentally find yourself enjoying a beautiful view, a walk on the beach, or a stroll through a forest, stop! Remind yourself that the world is full of poverty, illness, and devastation. The beauty of nature is a deception.

Exercise: Once a week, engage in an activity that’s supposed to be enjoyable, but do so while thinking about how pointless it is. In other words, concentrate on removing all sense of pleasure from the pleasurable activity.





11. Ruminate. Spend a great deal of time focused on yourself. Worry constantly about the causes of your behavior, analyze your defects, and chew on your problems. This will help you foster a pessimistic view of your life. Don’t allow yourself to become distracted by any positive experience or influence. The point is to ensure that even minor upsets and difficulties appear huge and portentous.

You can ruminate on the problems of others or the world, but make them about you. Your child is sick? Ruminate on what a burden it is for you to take time off from work to care for her. Your spouse is hurt by your behavior? Focus on how terrible it makes you feel when he points out how you make him feel. By ruminating not only on your own problems but also those of others, you’ll come across as a deep, sensitive thinker who holds the weight of the world on your shoulders.

Exercise: Sit in a comfortable chair and seek out negative feelings, like anger, depression, anxiety, boredom, whatever. Concentrate on these feelings for 15 minutes. During the rest of the day, keep them in the back of your mind, no matter what you’re doing.





12. Glorify or vilify the past. Glorifying the past is telling yourself how good, happy, fortunate, and worthwhile life was when you were a child, a young person, or a newly married person—and regretting how it’s all been downhill ever since. When you were young, for example, you were glamorous and danced the samba with handsome men on the beach at twilight; and now you’re in a so-so marriage to an insurance adjuster in Topeka. You should’ve married tall, dark Antonio. You should’ve invested in Microsoft when you had the chance. In short, focus on what you could’ve and should’ve done, instead of what you did. This will surely make you miserable.

Vilifying the past is easy, too. You were born in the wrong place at the wrong time, you never got what you needed, you felt you were discriminated against, you never got to go to summer camp. How can you possibly be happy when you had such a lousy background? It’s important to think that bad memories, serious mistakes, and traumatic events were much more influential in forming you and your future than good memories, successes, and happy events. Focus on bad times. Obsess about them. Treasure them. This will ensure that, no matter what’s happening in the present, you won’t be happy.

Exercise: Make a list of your most important bad memories and keep it where you can review it frequently. Once a week, tell someone about your horrible childhood or how much better your life was 20 years ago.




13. Find a romantic partner to reform. Make sure that you fall in love with someone with a major defect (cat hoarder, gambler, alcoholic, womanizer, sociopath), and set out to reform him or her, regardless of whether he or she wants to be reformed. Believe firmly that you can reform this person, and ignore all evidence to the contrary.

Exercise: Go to online dating sites and see how many bad choices you can find in one afternoon. Make efforts to meet these people. It’s good if the dating site charges a lot of money, since this means you’ll be emotionally starved and poor.

14. Be critical. Make sure to have an endless list of dislikes and voice them often, whether or not your opinion is solicited. For example, don’t hesitate to say, “That’s what you chose to wear this morning?” or “Why is your voice so shrill?” If someone is eating eggs, tell them you don’t like eggs. Your negativity can be applied to almost anything.

It helps if the things you criticize are well liked by most people so that your dislike of them sets you apart. Disliking traffic and mosquitos isn’t creative enough: everyone knows what it’s like to find these things annoying, and they won’t pay much attention if you find them annoying, too. But disliking the new movie that all your friends are praising? You’ll find plenty of opportunities to counter your friends’ glowing reviews with your contrarian opinion.

Exercise: Make a list of 20 things you dislike and see how many times you can insert them into a conversation over the course of the day. For best results, dislike things you’ve never given yourself a chance to like.






I’ve just listed 14 ways to make yourself miserable. You don’t have to nail every one of them, but even if you succeed with just four or five, make sure to berate yourself regularly for not enacting the entire list. If you find yourself in a therapist’s office—because someone who’s still clinging to their love for you has tricked you into going—make sure your misery seems organic. If the therapist enlightens you in any way or teaches you mind-body techniques to quiet your anxious mind, make sure to co-opt the conversation and talk about your misery-filled dreams from the night before. If the therapist is skilled in dream analysis, quickly start complaining about the cost of therapy itself. If the therapist uses your complaints as a launching pad to discuss transference issues, accuse him or her of having countertransference issues. Ultimately, the therapist is your enemy when trying to cultivate misery in your life. So get out as soon as possible. And if you happen upon a therapist who’ll sit quietly while you bring all 14 items on this list to life each week, call me. I’ll want to make an appointment, too.





Cloe Madanes is a world-renowned innovator and teacher of family and brief therapy and one of the originators of the strategic approach to family therapy. She has authored seven books that are classics in the field: Strategic Family Therapy; Behind the One-Way Mirror; Sex, Love, and Violence; The Secret Meaning of Money; The Violence of Men; The Therapist as Humanist, Social Activist, and Systemic Thinker; an d Relationship Breakthrough. Contact: madanesinstitute@gmail.com.



http://members.shaw.ca/margaret_gunning/betterthanlife.htm 


Tuesday, December 3, 2013

Christmas Cartoons from the Third Reich





I searched far and wide, long and hard for this special Xmas video. Took maybe 2 minutes. There are numerous weird, antiquated cartoons out there that express, supposedly, the spirit of the season, but this is the strangest: it's a Santa's Workshop kind-of-thing with a decidedly military flavour. This was from the early '30s and I don't think the Nazis had really happened yet, so this must have been a kind of foreshadowing.

From that disturbingly hearty beer-hall anthem at the beginning to the precision-march of the toys at the end, the whole thing is an exercise in conformity and obedience.  I was completely squicked out by Santa's final song, which reminds me of nothing more than that festive Yuletide carol,Deutschland, Deutschland Uber Alles. As with most cartoons and  film portrayals of Santa, he is terrifying, with an evil whiskey-voice that sounds like the guy who did Peg Leg Pete or whoever he was,  that big ugly guy with the villainous laugh. 




No wonder little kids' first encounter with Santa Claus seems to uniformly inspire terror and screams, until their parents force them to sit on this bizarre character's bum-hot lap and listen through a synthetic beard to his wet flabby lips pronouncing lies about what they'll get this year.  All that "well, we'll see" bullshit.

Who IS this monster who envelops them in the scent of sweaty polyester? As with almost all childhood mysteries, no one explains it to them. They have no idea who or what Santa is. It's a kind of initiation, almost a Christmas circumcision in which the cost of entry into the Spirit of the Season is bleeding and pain.





Kids want to believe, they really do, though it must really fly in the face of logic in these days of high technology. It was hard enough when I was a kid and technology had reached its apogee with our giant Webcor reel-to-reel tape recorder in which the tapes constantly broke and had to be spliced with scotch tape. We could at least record the sound tracks of our favorite  cartoons and movies and play them over, and over, and over again until our parents screamed, the tape snapped and the reel went flap-flap-flap-flap-flapping around. 

So now how do they do it? How do they maintain such a transparent fiction? Aren't they frightened by some strange man dressed in a red fur costume breaking into their house? At some point, don't they realize that their parents have been lying to them?




My daughter, a TV news reporter who at 8 years old already had a gift for getting to the real story, one day asked me in a sort of "come on, tell me" voice, "There isn't really a Santa Claus, is there?"

So what was I to say? At eight, she wasn't even disillusioned. She just wanted to wring the truth out of me. 

"Well. . . ummm. . . Christmas is a lot more magical and fun if you pretend there's a. . . "

"I thought so." She looked more satisfied than dismayed, her suspicions confirmed. Then she looked at me again with that let's-get-the-real-story expression.

"What about the Easter Bunny?"





Ye gods! Was there anything left of childhood? Were there no harmless illusions we could maintain? Not in the face of an 8-year-old future TV news reporter.  It wasn't long until I overheard her talking to one of her little friends, sharing her newfound knowledge about how they'd all been blatantly deceived for years.

"Uh, Shannon. .. "

"WHAT? I'm just setting her straight here. I'm doing her a favor."


We never got to the Tooth Fairy, but I am sure by then she had figured it out on her own.








Sunday, December 1, 2013

Dull, drunk, dead: my life with Dylan Thomas



Blogger's note. It never ceases to amaze me with what reverence people approach the work of Dylan Thomas. You can't even throw one brickbat at the guy! If he were alive he'd be too drunk to notice anyway. But of all his hallowed writings, even more hallowed than Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, which holds the record for the most misquoted poem in the history of the world ("Don't go gently into the night"; "Let's go gently into the night"; "you should go gently into the night, listen to me, I'm your hospice worker," etc., etc.), this one is the most hallowed, even more hallowed than Halloween.

As I was saying (and in this I am approaching the windbaggedness of my own chosen subject), there is one particular work which is considered his Masterpiece. This is Under Milk Wood, in which the ravelled and burlap-clad townsfolk of Llareggub (which is, surprise-surprise, nudge-nudge, wink-wink, "Buggerall"spelled  backwards) declare themselves as if each one of them stood on a soapbox in the Town Square.



These people are "good" because they are RURAL: they live in small towns, which makes them Real. They aren't big city folk with their evil habits. They shine with goodness even if they are total rotters and ratfinks. We love them. We love them because Dylan Thomas loves them, and Dylan Thomas loves them because they are lucrative.

It's pretentious, it's showy, it's writing that calls attention to itself, a thing I loathe beyond description. I've probably reviewed 350 books in my time (and if that sounds like a lot, I did one a week for a long time, and doesn't that add up, folks? Or can't you do math?). It's verbal fireworks, it's "oooooooh" and "ahhhhhh" and "oh, isn't it marvelous", which (like all showing off and verbal swaggering) it isn't. 


In my tireless and demanding research for this thing, I discovered how many different versions of this "play for voices" have been produced over the years. God knows how it was supposed to be presented: each player standing in front of the audience with a paper bag over their head? (for after all, each one has an annoying habit of introducing him/herself so there won't be any confusion: "Fiddle-dee-dee, I am Mr. Prothero the Butcher! Come and see my meat!" And stuff like that.)


The thing was made into a movie, of course, with Richard Burton playing the town drunk. I discovered today that there was a highly-praised dance version, though how you can dance in Welsh is simply beyond me. 

What next, I wonder? Under Milk Wood performed in American Sign Language? With semaphores, or maybe in Morse code? How about Dylan Thomas on Ice?



There's no end to it, it seems. In my exhaustive (and exhausting) research,  I stumbled upon a far better writer who never got his due because he was too busy fuming bitterly about how his famous rival Dylan Thomas got all the babes, even if his prick was as limp as a pickled eel from the Llanfairwlllpggygygogoch Tavern.

His attempt to copy Dylan Thomas almost succeeded until he got partway through the play and broke into one of his inebriated rants. Plus people were just a little puzzled by his name: Dullyn ("Cosmo") Thomas: didn't he look just a little bit like Kramer from Seinfeld? SinceSeinfeld wouldn't be invented for another 40 years, it was a strange comparison to make.

So here, without any reservations except for the quality and relevance of the work, I present a heretofore ignored and neglected masterpiece.


Under Skim Milk Wood

by Dullyn Thomas

Hark! Listen ye! Come closer, closer! until ye can breathe in me foul alcoholic breath. For I am about to tell’ee of many things! Of many things, yes! that you are not interested in. Of many quaint people! Of many quaint folk in the buffling, baffling, blustering, blistering darkness, buffooning like circus-tents in the sussurating Swansea spring, of many fair quair folk who aren’t like anybody, see, 'cause I just made ‘em up on the spot.

Come see, everybody, how this imaginary Welsh town carved out of malt and marzipan made Dylan Thomas rich! And an injustice it was, too. It was Dullyn Thomas that got here first, which is how this rip-roaring cascade of clichés got started. I’m like to rip his fat sodden gullet out and wring his crapulous neck like a chicken! But that is a tale for another time. For Mr. Thomas now holds up the wall of the pub, and as he holds it up, he begins to remember. . .


About the old lady, Mrs. Teacozy, who used to sit on her front porch and wonder when the tide would come in. Which is strange, because Mrs. Teacozy lived 450 miles inland.

About Mr. Prothero, the scientist, who blew off his hair doing an experiment in the bedroom and lost his wife’s favour forever, for he blew off his dick at the same time.

(Which is a shockingly earthy, sexual, explicit thing to say. Oh my goodness, Dylan Thomas is such a sensualist and was probably great in bed.)


First voice: Lookee here, I’m dead! Can’t you tell?

Second voice: Frankly, this play’s so dead, I can’t distinguish it.

Third voice: Extinguished, are you?

Fourth voice: Oh, the wordplay, the wordplay!

Fifth voice: Yes let us gasp at the wordplay as if we’re seeing the fireworks. Which in fact we are.


Mr. Curmudgeon: And you mean to say, me lad, that you don’t think of all this play-writin’ business as just a lot of literary showin’-off?

Me lad: Yes, me Mr. Curmudgeon. It IS a lot of literary showin’-off, but that’s just the point.

Mr. Curmudgeon: The showin’ off?

My lad: No, the point.


Plump Young Lady in the Bushes: And then I seduced him, aye. I rolled around in the grass gettin’ me dress dairty, and I opened me legs and I sinned and sinned until me diaphragm exploded.

Fifteenth voice: Oh Mr. Playwright, please,please isn’t it about time this play got started? I meansay, up to now it just doesn’t seem to have much of a point.

Mr. Cadwalladwrrwrr: Oh but the point is, I drownded at sea fifty years ago and it were wonderful. Now the fishes swim through me eye sockets and eat me brain.

Mrs. Cadwall-whatever: You bastard, get back into bed and sarrvice me!


(Oh, the earthiness! The bawdiness! The Chaucerian attempts at naughtiness!)

So. Ye heark. Heark ye, for the citizens of Blowitoutyourarse are about to Speak. They don’t have much to say but that never slowed down that other Mr. Thomas up until now. Moreover, I am about to reveal his Literary Secret, his method. He collared some lad in the White Horse pub and had him scrawl down any-such-thing because he had a publisher’s advance, see? So it was time for him to get right poetical-like.

Miscellaneous voice:  Yes. Nothing inspires the poet like a few dozen pints of Guinness, a pathetic publisher’s advance that’s already spent and a towering deadline, after which will follow a timely and merciless lawsuit. So it were time Mr. Thomas began to write about his imaginary little village, which to avoid being sued for libel he renamed Lllargybargybrwllltwlltwwlt – 


Another Plump Young Lady, but not as seductive
- which keeps on changin’ its spellin’ -         just to confuse the tourists – who come to here to Blowarse, as we like to call it, to see the heavin’  bleedin' whales in  the place of his boyhood – that other Thomas, I mean, the one who could write –

Parson Llewwllynn: Silence, woman! Shut thy slutty mouth and speak no more! Thou hast been found out: thou possesseth a vagina and will be cast into everlasting hell because you suddenly realized it!

(Oh, the tight-lipped pastor – such wicked mirth at his expense!)

Dylan Thomas:  There are no whales in Wales.

(All voices, in unison): Just wails!