Know your Poe: Fairy Land

Blogger's note. I think this is going to be my last entry in Know your Poe. And while I haven't covered every single work he wrote in his scant 40 years on earth, you must admit I have bitten off a good chunk. 

I am hardly a Poe scholar, and my mucking around in his work is merely an exploration, but it has been compelling (for me, anyway). What I have noticed, especially in his dense, difficult poetry, is that he often starts off on a positive, even exalted note: but at a certain point, there is a "turn". By the end of the poem the mood is extremely dire, terror-stricken, even hopeless. What happens here, and why?

It is as if Poe does not trust happiness. It will all fall out from underneath him eventually (and here we see why I feel a certain kinship with him and his work). He knows it will end, as surely as life ends. And he does not trust women. They are exalted to the point of appearing supernatural, or at least supernaturally beautiful. He sits beside them and woos them. He does not have sex with them. Now surely, he must have had sex with someone, because it's the rare person who doesn't. A lot of these types who exalted women went to prostitutes for fulfillment (Beethoven comes to mind: and it gave me a thrill of shock to realize that Poe was born while Beethoven was in his heyday. They walked the earth at the same time, though Beethoven managed his self-pity much better.)

I wasn't sure whether to post this only with illustrations (subconscious images, in case anyone wonders why I don't do "line about a rose" (picture of rose); "line about eyes" (picture of eyes). This sort of approach makes me yip and scream with its unimaginitiveness.) But I have things to say about this, and I need to interject. So I will have to run it twice. Hoo-ha. 

FAIRY LAND.

————

Sit down beside me, Isabel,

Here, dearest, where the moonbeam fell

Just now so fairy-like and well.

Now thou art dress’d for paradise!

I am star-stricken with thine eyes!

My soul is lolling on thy sighs!

Thy hair is lifted by the moon

Like flowers by the low breath of June!

Sit down, sit down — how came we here?

Or is it all but a dream, my dear?

You know that most enormous flower —

That rose — that what d’ye call it — that hung

Up like a dog-star in this bower —

To-day (the wind blew, and) it swung

So impudently in my face,

So like a thing alive you know,

I tore it from its pride of place

And shook it into pieces — so

Be all ingratitude requited.

The winds ran off with it delighted,

And, thro’ the opening left, as soon

As she threw off her cloak, yon moon

Has sent a ray down with a tune.

And this ray is a fairy ray —

Did you not say so, Isabel?

How fantastically it fell

With a spiral twist and a swell,

And over the wet grass rippled away

With a tinkling like a bell!

In my own country all the way

We can discover a moon ray

Which thro’ some tatter’d curtain pries

Into the darkness of a room,

Is by (the very source of gloom)

The motes, and dust, and flies,

On which it trembles and lies

Like joy upon sorrow! ­

O, when will come the morrow?

Isabel! do you not fear

The night and the wonders here?

Dim vales! and shadowy floods!

And cloudy-looking woods

Whose forms we can’t discover

For the tears that drip all over!

Huge moons — see! wax and wane

Again — again — again —

Every moment of the night —

Forever changing places!

How they put out the starlight

With the breath from their pale faces!

Lo! one is coming down

With its centre on the crown

Of a mountain’s eminence!

Down — still down — and down —

Now deep shall be — O deep!

The passion of our sleep!

For that wide circumference

In easy drapery falls

Drowsily over halls — ­

Over ruin’d walls —

Over waterfalls,

(Silent waterfalls!)

O’re the strange woods — o’er the sea —

Alas! over the sea!

FAIRY LAND.

————

Sit down beside me, Isabel,

Here, dearest, where the moonbeam fell

Just now so fairy-like and well.

So what's the mood here? Warm, inviting, certainly comfortable, with a romantic mention of moonbeams - in fact, she's sitting on the moonbeam, an odd thing. 

Now thou art dress’d for paradise!

I am star-stricken with thine eyes!

My soul is lolling on thy sighs!

Poe uses words like "lolling" and "gloating" as a sort of onomatopoeia (though I am not sure how gloating works - and yet, it does). This is sensuous, even sexual language, as if he's swooning at her feet. Almost.

Thy hair is lifted by the moon

Like flowers by the low breath of June!

Sit down, sit down — how came we here?

Or is it all but a dream, my dear?

Oh-oh, we have our first indication that all this pleasure isn't real.

You know that most enormous flower —

That rose — that what d’ye call it — that hung

Up like a dog-star in this bower —

To-day (the wind blew, and) it swung ­

So impudently in my face,

So like a thing alive you know,

I tore it from its pride of place

And shook it into pieces — so

Be all ingratitude requited.

The winds ran off with it delighted,

And, thro’ the opening left, as soon

As she threw off her cloak, yon moon

Has sent a ray down with a tune.

I just don't know where to begin here, it's so brilliant and strange. The "what d'ye call it" shouldn't work at all, but does, in establishing a sort of naturalness. The dog-star is the strangest thing I've ever heard - a rose that looks like a star? Now the rose is in his face, literally, and he grabs it "from its pride of place" (Poe had a thing about status) and tears it to pieces, not exactly a romantic or friendly gesture. Why does he do this? "Be all ingratitude requited" - what's that all about? The rose is ungrateful, is it - or is he? Or is Isabal? (I could stay here all day, especially in light of the symbolism of rose as female genitalia.)

And this ray is a fairy ray —

Did you not say so, Isabel?

How fantastically it fell

With a spiral twist and a swell,

And over the wet grass rippled away

With a tinkling like a bell!

Be prepared for the "turn". Fairyland lasts but a moment. And let's not ask about that "swell".

In my own country all the way

We can discover a moon ray

Which thro’ some tatter’d curtain pries

Into the darkness of a room,

Is by (the very source of gloom)

The motes, and dust, and flies,

On which it trembles and lies

Like joy upon sorrow! ­

O, when will come the morrow?

Eddy, don't go there! But he has already gone. "In my own country" surely refers to more than the United States of Poetry. He means HIS psychic landscape, his place of doom. The moonbeam has exposed all the ugliness that lurks in his soul, darkness and crawling things. He already wants it to be tomorrow, so where has gone the joy?

Isabel! do you not fear

The night and the wonders here?

Dim vales! and shadowy floods!

And cloudy-looking woods

Whose forms we can’t discover

For the tears that drip all over!

Genius is something that makes us smack ourselves on the forehead and exclaim, "Why didn't *I* think of that? " (Because you're not a genius, is why, but that's the form it takes.) It's also something so deceptively simple, it's as if anyone COULD think if it, but somehow didn't. Moreover, it is as if it has always been there. "Dim vales! and shadowy floods!/And cloudy-looking woods" - not "cloudy", but "cloudy-LOOKING", as if seen through a fogged-up windowpane, fogged up by, perhaps, someone's desperate breath. "For the tears that drip all over" is candlewax (a candle that sheds light only for a brief while, then consumes itself with flame and dies?), the melting of hope, uncontainable sorrow, pitiless rain and its drippy aftermath - I could go on and on, but he does it in a few words. Damn.

Huge moons — see! wax and wane

Again — again — again —

Every moment of the night —

Forever changing places!

How they put out the starlight

With the breath from their pale faces!

Poe knows how to use repetition, sometimes to an outrageous degree. From the raven's relentless "nevermore" to the "bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells," he not only gets away with it, he haunts us, grabs us, shakes us with it. This moon is, to say the least, not the lovely shining silver thing we see every night, but some inexplicaby multiple, ghastly phantom that changes shape and location, waxing and waning bizarrely as if in time-lapse photography. These "huge moons" even have the capacity to blow out and extinguish the stars like so many birthday candles.

Lo! one is coming down

With its centre on the crown

Of a mountain’s eminence!

Down — still down — and down —

Now deep shall be — O deep!

The passion of our sleep!

For that wide circumference

In easy drapery falls

Drowsily over halls — ­[page 58:]

Over ruin’d walls —

Over waterfalls,

(Silent waterfalls!)

O’re the strange woods — o’er the sea —

Alas! over the sea!

Why does it end this way, on a note of terror, even hysteria? This horrible moon, personified into some creepy animate being (and just "one" is coming down, so what about all the rest?) is settling over everything like a suffocating blanket. Thus everything is ruined, waterfalls dried up, the "strange" woods stilled, and - at last - the sea itself conquered. And those eerily erotic, narcotic lines about sleep: "Down - still down - and down - /Now deep shall be - O deep! The passion of our sleep!"

You could spend a month squeezing this, and not get it all. Was Poe as afraid of sleep as death itself? Was he just a scaredy-cat, having strange visions in the woods? Had he gotten into the laudanum again (though the Poe Society site keeps insisting he didn't use it)? It has a hallucinogenic, almost insane quality, describing not just a menacing moon but mutiples of ghastly, ghostly, animated phantoms, sending a lunar ambassador down to expose his inner ugliness as well as suffocate and conquer everything.

Was Poe writing about "lunacy" then? And what about poor Isabel? Whatever happened to her? She must have run screaming at some point. Talk about a lousy date.

OK, the moon. . . women's sexuality. . . waxing and waning. . .the menstrual cycle (which he may have barely known about). . .something you howl at. . . something lovers stroll under. . .something that makes you insane (oh-oh, it's a full moon tonight) - OK, I give up, Poe, you've thrown us a good one this time, and beautiful as it is, I have to confess I don't understand it at all.

ADDENDA.

A little more information about the "dog-star", verse 2, line 3:

Sir·i·us  [sir-ee-uhs] noun

1. Astronomy . the Dog Star, the brightest-appearing star in the heavens, located in the constellation Canis Major.

2. Also, Seirios. Classical Mythology  a)  the dog of Orion.

    b) Icarus' faithful dog, who was changed into a star.

Origin: 1325–75; Middle English, Latin Sīrius; Greek Seírios

It is a binary star whose companion, Sirius B, is a very faint white dwarf. 

So now we are off again! Faithful dog; that which "dogs" you and won't let you go; Icarus, whose wings melted when he flew too close to the sun (the tears that drip all over!). . . and on and on. . .and of course, the obvious play on "serious'. . . Interesting that the dog-star has a twin, so that its brightness is something of a cheat.

The name Isabel,a variation of Elizabeth, means "God is my oath".

And I can't resist this - I took another look at that title and thought, "Fairy Land - Sirius-ly?"

Badda-boom.

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That's why she can't get a man!

"That's why we can't get a man for Edith!"

(word-for-word transcript)

CRUEL WORDS – yet it was lucky she heard them

“How dreadful! They said I was careless about perspiration odor in underthings. 

Oh dear, I don’t realize I was offending that way”

(Due to the vicious comments of her friends, Edith sees the light)

“Girls, may I join the Lux party tonight?”

“You bet, Edith – it takes only a jiffy”

“Lux is swell – it takes away odor, yet saves colors”

“My, that was easy! I’ll do it every night – then I’ll be sure I’m not offending anyone ever”

PARTIES ALL THE TIME NOW

“Edith is having a grand time”

“Yes, all the men rave about her now – she’s always dainty, thanks to Lux”

AVOID OFFENDING

Underthings absorb perspiration odor. Protect daintiness this easy way. . .

Wearing underthings a second day is a careless habit no girl can risk. We all perspire, and the odor clings. It becomes noticeable to others even before we’re aware of it ourselves.

But it’s easy to be sure of never offending. Just swish underthings through Lux each night – perspiration odor vanishes.

Of course, Lux has none of the harmful alkali ordinary soaps often have, and with Lux there’s no injurious cake-soak rubbing. These things weaken fabrics, fade colors. Anything safe in water alone is safe in Lux.

Oh. . . KAY. Now that I've had a chance to absorb all that, if absorb is the right word, I wonder if it belongs in the same category as those awful "can this marriage be saved?" Lysol douche ads.

But when I really look at it, as Lucy would say, "Euuuwwwwwww."

Standards of hygiene really were different then. People bathed once a week, in many cases, and washed their hair once a month (in the sink, then wrapped their head in a towel like a turban). Washers were inefficient, and clothes were dried on a line in the back yard.

Deodorants weren't common, and unheard-of in men.

So I don't know about this ad. Unless Edith's potential "man" was down on his hands and knees sniffing her crotch, I'm not sure it would be such an obstacle (in fact, I have heard that certain men enjoy such things).

But the ad pretty much states that poor Edith is wearing the same pair of panties (and note how they avoid that word - too sexual?) over and over again. Double-euuuwwwwwwwww.

It's worse than the guy who turns them inside-out and wears them again.

Yuck.

But wait, they do say "underthings", don't they? In the cartoon, she's holding up a slip. I wonder how stinky a slip could be after two days?

The Lysol douche ads were secret code for "birth control douche", which could not be mentioned by law. So  I have a theory this wasn't about slips at all. It's just that they couldn't mention panties. Panties, to my mind anyway, are the only item of apparel that could get really stinky after a day.

So she's swishing her gitch, or gotch, or ginch, or gonch, or gitchies, or gotchies around in warm water and Lux. (To do this, you join with your friends at a "Lux party", which by today's standards is hard to imagine.) The weird thing is that the ad implies you should do this "every night", as if you have only one of everything. So how would it dry? By blowing on it?

Hey, Edith - now that you're so popular because you smell like Lux soap - get one of those boyfriends to come over and help you out.

Know your Poe: The Raven

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore –

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door –

"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door –

Only this and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow; – vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow – sorrow for the lost Lenore –

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore –

Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me – filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,

"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door –

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; –

This it is and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you" – here I opened wide the door; –

Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" –

Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore –

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; –

'Tis the wind and nothing more!"

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door –

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door –

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore –

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning – little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door –

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

With such name as "Nevermore."

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing further then he uttered – not a feather then he fluttered –

Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before –

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."

Then the bird said "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore –

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

Of 'Never – nevermore.'"

But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore –

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore

Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,

But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,

She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee – by these angels he hath sent thee

Respite – respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird or devil! –

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted –

On this home by Horror haunted – tell me truly, I implore –

Is there – is there balm in Gilead? – tell me – tell me, I implore!"

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil – prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us – by that God we both adore –

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore –

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting –

"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken! – quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted – nevermore!

THE AFTERMATH. Never explain yourself! says the poet. All right then, I will. My dalliance with Poe is a shallow thing, and who knows if it will go anywhere. I certainly will NOT be writing any books about him. I have found a superb site hosted by the Poe Society of Baltimore, and I hope to slosh around in it in the coming days. It has simply everything - remarkably complete, even down to what his voice sounded like ("melodious", as poets' voices were often described, with a touch of Southern accent, the kind we hear in the polished and well-moneyed.  And in spite of dire poverty, he always affected a slightly shabby gentility.)

But this is my Poe moment. Having strung together a crazy assortment of subconscious images (and some people are SO annoyed at the lack of one-on-one or sequential significance to these, as I prefer to dredge them up from the depths of the Land of Bye-Bye), some of them taken from a weird old cartoon called Inky and the Minah Bird in which a mournful black bird trudges along, with an occasional hop-step, to  Mendelssohn's lugubrious Fingal's Cave - having done all that - yes, done all that - well - well - I bought a cask of amontillado, and. . . and. . .

Actually, I went for a walk. Sasamat Lake, a gorgeous place where I love walking, because the winding trail is bang up against the shore, so close you can dip your toe in. There's a white sand beach, and breeze, and many geese with goslings (we counted 18 babies last time, and by now they were almost as big as chickens and looking weirdly ostrichlike). We were delighted to see them promenade again, the adults with stiff necks and nodding heads which seemed to say, eloquently, "Bugger off, you humans, you're bothering me."

But it wasn't that.

Wasn't. That. At all.

When we arrived, just as we walked toward the white sands, we heard a - squawk.

An - AWWKK.

An - AWWWHHKKK!

This was a primal, even prehistoric sound, and soon it was joined by another voice even more evil and squawky, and then a third, and a fourth, and - God, how many were there?

"Ravens," I said to Bill. "It's ravens, and they're completely insane."

These ravens, at least four of them, or perhaps five or six, or even more, were not happy campers. The croaky squawks just escalated in frequency and volume until I thought I was in a Hitchcock movie. The resonance of their croaky Nevermore-ish throats just richochets and bounces off trees and rocks, and other ravens. This couldn't have been a good situation. Were they defending their territory? Nesting? Just plain pissed off?  I could see them wheeling in the sky, looking vaguely vulturelike above the treetops, while some of them hunched blackly in the branches.

The squawking and awwhhk-ing went on and on, until we outwalked it on the trail. Still there was an echo behind us, crows on steroids, murderous birds whose deep-throated squawks made cawing seem melodious.  I had the thought: a murder of crows, yes, but ravens - ?*  (See footnote - at the foot, idiot!).

At any rate, in light of my Poe-ish mood, it did seem like serendipity, or at least synchronicity, if only of a darkish shade.

I have not had time nor energy to analyze The Raven - God, what an undertaking, if I may use such an expression! And I hear there are Poe scholars who make it their life's work to sift out the meaning of all this macabre stuff. But I did notice some dark humor in it, lines that others don't seem to have noticed (humor? In Poe?).

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore –

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; –

'Tis the wind and nothing more!"

To me, this verse, if not ALL the verses, has the feeling of a black ditty, a rhyme and rhythm scheme that is almost fun. "Surely THAT is. . . at my window LATT-ice. . . what there-AT is. . ." He's funnin' us here, and he knows it. It sounds like a patter song from Gilbert and Sullivan, perhaps "I am the very model of a modern Major-General". 

And thinking the bird's name is Nevermore - why, that's nothing but an early version of "who's on second, what's on third"!

Surely Poe was one of the strangest men, who wrote one of the strangest poems, at the strangest time. For The Raven, which ran in an American newspaper, he was paid $17.00, not enough to keep him in amontillado for a week. Sometimes he was destitute enough to break up and burn his chairs for warmth in the winter - can't you see it? Poe always having to stand up? No wonder he looked so desperate!

But for him, this crow on steroids is an appropriate companion. The ideal Poe pet.  AWKKKKHH!

*Collective nouns for the corvids varies. 

A parliament of ravens is a reference to the robes the members of British parliament wear. 

An unkindness of ravens is another collective used because the birds are known to taunt and torment other predators. They will work together to steal prey and drive off raptors or dogs in the raven's territory. As in Poe's poem, ravens have an ominous image

A constable of ravens is what the roosting birds that live in the Tower of London are called. 

A conspiracy of ravens refers to their low rough group muttering. Ravens have a range of vocalizations that sound like undecipherable talk. 

(To that, I have nothing to add.)

Order The Glass Character from:

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Clowns who sell shit

It doesn't take too many trips to the YouTube store to make you realize that Milky was far from alone in existing just to sell stuff.

He may have been more dedicated than most, wearing a bedsheet costume (hopefully, not used - whoa there, Mr. Milks) to match his product. But this Kedso creature, covered in mysterious spots and holding a tiny useless umbrella, is willing to take some major leaps for the corporation.

Live-action clowns are, of course, far creepier, like this Fizzies clown with the orgasmic facial expression. One of the worst aspects of clown closeups is the fact that we can see the guy's real eyebrows, lips, teeth, etc. - which was probably never meant to happen while clowns pranced around the circus ring at a merciful distance. This guy has the teeth of a rabid beaver or a most unfriendly hamster about to fasten itself on to the end of your index finger. Fun.

This is Clarabell, perhaps the most famous clown in TV history, and goddamn, is he mud-ugly! The makeup consists of two squares drawn above the eyes, and a gory-looking Satanic mouth ringed in white. The advantage is that he could probably apply his makeup in less than five minutes, but the disadvantage is that, this close, his creepiness is so extreme as to be nearly incomprehensible. Yet clowns are always described as "loveable". Might there be something a little bit wrong with a man who needs to do this every day?

Krinkles the Klown is downright disturbing, so much so that I had to make two gifs of him. Here he hands a bowl of his product to an unwitting victim. If he looks a little more peculiar than usual (for this isn't the first time I've giffed Krinkles), it's because someone, not me, mind you, but SOMEONE has slowed down the YouTube video just a hair, so that he looks glassy-eyed and stoned (I mean, more than usual).

This guy's upper lip freaks me out. Watch it while he talks, and when he chews his cud, it's awful. And the way he blinks his eyes, blink, blink. I want to rip the fake hair out of his fake skull and tear off his nose. Perhaps this is where John Wayne Gacy got his inspiration.

Post eventually replaced the oh-so-stoned Krinkles with something a little more animated. But might the boy have a sugar problem?

But for sheer incomprehensibility, we can't beat the first incarnation of Ronald McDonald, a goof with a crappy cheap clown suit, surgical gloves, and a box on his head. Yes, a box, with burger, fries and drink. At first I thought that was a toilet paper roll strapped to his nose, but now I see it's an empty paper cup. Does he anticipate a nosebleed, or a freshet of snot, or what? I apologize for the quality of this one - it was the best I could do with a badly-edited, flickering video so degenerated that it's nearly green. It's so cheaply made, so jerky, that one wonders how this could have been the genesis for Ronald McDick, a cultural icon second only to Chairman Mouse in universal appeal.

OMG: MORE new photos of Milky the Clown!

OK, so it isn't THAT great. Somebody put together a collage or montage of the few existing photos of Milky (unless someone, some day, discovers a cache of hundreds or even thousands of images of the Twin Pines clown, stashed away like reels of ancient movies from 1914). I did isolate two that I haven't seen:

I apologize for the bleariness of these, but this was another time. Meantime I did a little digging about the origins of Milky's "Pierrot" costume, which actually fits the category of a Pulcinella (in English, Punchinello, or Punch for short, a la Punch and Judy). Hard to believe that the original medieval clowns wore white. No rainbow wigs or slap shoes here.

Pulcinellas (or Pulcinellae, as I prefer to call them) were nasty little creatures in costumes made out of bedsheets, and this one seems to be holding a butter-churn (though most of them were troubadours and played lutes or flutes or whatever came to hand). They typically wore black masks with long curved beaks on them, raven-like. Like most clowns, like ALL clowns, there was a creepy element to them, and part of their mandate was to sneak up on people and scare the shit out of them.

When the Milkster dominated the airwaves in Detroit, the Pulcinella-style clown was rare, if not unheard-of. They're still pretty rare outside of Europe. But I think I figured it out: the Punch costume is white, like - well, like milk, of course! The only way a clown could wear a costume that matched the product he was flogging was to style himself like his nasty medieval forbears.  His dry cleaning bill must have been astronomical.

CLOP: must be Monday!

I find weird things on the net,  probably just because they are there to be found. At some point when I was rewriting my piece on Richard Correll, I wanted to find an image of a chimera - something elusive, secretive, and probably not even real, the sort of thing that exists mainly in your mind but tortures you forever.

Tortures you forever, for this particular chimera keeps getting its horn stuck in the ground. 

These gif images are part of a game - at least I think it's a game - called CLOP. I don't know how to play it because I have never played an internet game in my life, nor will I ever, I don't think. I don't particularly like games - they seem stressful to me, and a waste of time, when you could be doing something much more enjoyable, such as eating.

This unicorn does not strike me so much as a chimera as, well, myself. The course of my life has been sort of like this, a rough gallop with periodic nasty spills, from which I must try to pick myself up. Each time, a little more damage is done. But like an idiot who never learns, I always get back up, and for the most part things aren't any better. Lather, rinse, repeat.

This gif is particularly strange because while the unicorn seems to be advancing - the tree and the mystery person slowly disappear stage right - we can't see how it could ever propel itself in this manner. It seems to be sliding along on its nose, hind legs kicking frantically in the air. A state I know all too well.

Here, the unicorn is having a really bad day. Must be Monday.

Determined to move forward nonetheless, the unicorn encounters a flight of stairs. Stairyway to freedom? Or at least uprightness?

He's doing OK, folks. . . let's cheer him on. . . 

Now we KNOW it's Monday.