Wicked Milk of the North
Fifty Shades of Milky
Milkitudes
Flourescent Milky
Through a Glass (of milk) Darkly
Stained Glass Milky
Orange Milk
Across the Milkiverse
Milky, Prince of Darkness
Wednesday, May 21, 2014
Tuesday, May 20, 2014
Go ask Milky
One spell makes you larger, and one spell makes you small. Go ask Milky, the Magic Clown.
A few years ago when I first revived my strange relationship with the dreaded clown of my childhood, I could find almost no images, nothing about him at all except on Ed Golick's fantastic Detroit kids' TV site. But since then, there has been a renaissance. This one even features the hand-puppet Creamy the Rabbit, for some reason looking at a drawing of a pig.
I mean, I just keep finding new stuff! Not really new, of course, because it looks pretty brown to me. But this ad, curiously, is from Texas, which is nowhere near Detroit. Wonder what happened there.
Unless TExas was just one of those phone curiosities of the times, phone numbers beginning with letters that maybe indicated the region, i. e. ELgin 2-8994 (a number burned into my neurons which will be buried after my last gasp. Hopefully not before.)
It's always a thrill to discover a new Milkster photo. This one reminded me of the call letters WJBK, and the size of the camera reveals a lot about the technology of the late '50s - early '60s.
This must be some sort of game. I do remember, though vaguely, lots of games on these Detroit kids' shows. Poopdeck Paul had a limbo contest, and Captain Jolly was giving away something called OJ Squeeters (plastic things you stuck into an orange and sucked) for winning something-or-other. If you won something on Milky's show, the spectral figure with the Pagliaccio costume would allow you to stick your hand in a jar of pennies. Room temperature, I hope.
This is fan art, though I am unaware of the provenance of it. Believe it or not, there is lots more of this, but I won't post it. An artist named Mike Kelly has done a series of four (at least) portraits of His Milkness, at least one including the immortal Creamy. This is serious art however, not amateur stuff (though I would describe it as primitive, painted on pieces of plywood, particle board, etc.) But the point is, there has been a Milky art boom, or at least boomlet, just in the past few years. Awful repressed memories are emerging from the brains of people who were traumatized back in 1963. To cope with this, they're making art and creating Pinterest and Facebook pages.
I will admit, I fell into it myself. I started noodling around, and hey, if Mike Kelly can stencil a perfectly round likeness of Milky onto a scrap piece of wood, can't I use photoshop here and there? Andy Warhol used adulterated photos all the time, didn't he? It's my only real hope for making art of any kind.
"You can have worry-free. . . home de-li-ver-y. . . "
Post-blog ruminations. Call these philosophical ramblings, made late at night when I usually blog. I did find one more mysterious picture of His Milks with a boy scout (and when Milky isn't doing lame magic tricks with "crippled children" like Little Nancy, above, who by the way never gets to sit down but just spends the whole three-hour fundraising program standing, he's always shown with a boy scout), but I have no idea what he's doing. Strange are the ways of Milky. Is that a sandwich he's giving him, on dark rye maybe, or a huge square Oreo with the filling squishing out, or a book, or just some sort of lame magic prop from his lame magic prop storage room? Sorry, Nancy, I didn't mean "LAME lame". More like "lame-o".
.jpg)
Monday, May 19, 2014
I hate clowns
(In dishonour of my returning nightmares of Milky the Clown, and because I don't feel like writing anything, here is a pre-summer repeat of a kind-of-favorite/not-too-bad post.)
I hate clowns, I hate clowns, I truly hate clowns,
They always depress me and drag my soul down.
When somebody puts on such strange things to wear,
The human condition is truly laid bare.
I ask, what's the point of all this tom-foolery?
It triggers in me a deep incredulity.
Now here is a clown who caused me great dread.
In childhood this creep rented space in my head.
His name was Milky, which was awfully scary,
Just clowning and whoring for Twin Pines, the dairy.
Before John Wayne Gacy came ambling along,
There was this guy here. And he was just wrong.
He wore stars and stripes for some unknown reason,
Though flag mutilation's a high form of treason.
Back when I lived near old Detroit town,
I saw a strange act performed by a clown.
When he mounted his friend, to my child's mind,
of course he
Was riding on Bozo, just playing at horsey.
When I saw this old photo of black-and-white clowns,
I climbed on a bridge and just threw myself down.
There's Milky and Bozo, the two that were lovers,
Jingles, and Whatsis - who cares, they're all mothers.
This clown guy I mentioned, and those of his ilk
Did a lot of hard-selling by sucking down milk.
In Milky the dairy thought they would invest - right?
Then found out that he was a flaming transvestite.
Twin Pines weren't aware that they'd started a fashion.
Soon clowns 'round the world drank their milk with a passion.
And poor Pagliaccio was filled with a rage,
So he drank milk, then killed his poor wife right on-stage.
With hijinks like this, some dark force was released.
The ringmasters shot themselves: all were deceased.
Clowns threw nasty fits, banged their heads on the wall:
These Komedy Kapers weren't funny at all.
If this gets much weirder, I'm going to be sick.
I've never laughed once when a clown did his trick.
I can't speak for you, but I think this is rude -
I never knew clowns were this nasty and lewd.
Milky is dust now, and Bozo is dead.
Their romance still haunts me and lurks in my head.
I hate clowns, I hate them, I'll never be free,
They never will get one guffaw out of me.
Sunday, May 18, 2014
Bouncing tits: the wacky world of palindromes
Some of them are, I'm warning you, pretty weak, but the palindromes are magnificent.
A dog, a plan, a canal: pagoda.
A man, a plan, a canal: Panama.
A new order began, a more Roman age bred Rowena.
A tin mug for a jar of gum, Nita.
A Toyota. Race fast, safe car. A Toyota.
Able was I ere I saw Elba.
Animal loots foliated detail of stool lamina.
Anne, I vote more cars race Rome to Vienna.
Are we not drawn onward, we few, drawn onward to new era?
Are we not pure? "No sir!" Panama's moody Noriega brags. "It is garbage!" Irony dooms a man; a prisoner up to new era.
As I pee, sir, I see Pisa!
Barge in! Relate mere war of 1991 for a were-metal Ernie grab!
Bombard a drab mob.
Bush saw Sununu swash sub.
Cain: a maniac.
Cigar? Toss it in a can. It is so tragic.
Daedalus: nine. Peninsula: dead.
Dammit, I'm mad!
Delia saw I was ailed.
Denim axes examined.
Dennis and Edna sinned.
Depardieu, go razz a rogue I draped.
Desserts, I stressed!
Did I draw Della too tall, Edward? I did?
Do good? I? No! Evil anon I deliver. I maim nine more hero-men in Saginaw, sanitary sword a-tuck, Carol, I -- lo! -- rack, cut a drowsy rat in Aswan. I gas nine more hero-men in Miami. Reviled, I (Nona) live on. I do, O God!
Doc, note I dissent: a fast never prevents a fatness. I diet on cod.
Drab as a fool, aloof as a bard.
Drat Saddam, a mad dastard!
Draw, O coward!
Draw pupil's lip upward.
Ed, I saw Harpo Marx ram Oprah W. aside.
Eva, can I stab bats in a cave?
Evil did I dwell; lewd I did live.
Gateman sees name, garageman sees name tag.
Go hang a salami; I'm a lasagna hog.
Goldenrod-adorned log.
Golf? No sir, prefer prison-flog.
Harass sensuousness, Sarah.
I roamed under it as a tired, nude Maori.
Laminated E.T. animal.
Lay a wallaby baby ball away, Al.
Lepers repel.
Let O'Hara gain an inn in a Niagara hotel.
Live not on evil.
Lived on Decaf; faced no Devil.
Lonely Tylenol.
Ma is a nun, as I am.
Ma is as selfless as I am.
Madam, I'm Adam.
Madam in Eden, I'm Adam.
Marge lets Norah see Sharon's telegram.
May a moody baby doom a yam.
Meet animals; laminate 'em.
Mr. Owl ate my metal worm.
Murder for a jar of red rum.
Never odd or even.
No, Mel Gibson is a casino's big lemon.
No cab, no tuna nut on bacon.
No lemon, no melon.
No sir -- away! A papaya war is on.
On a clover, if alive, erupts a vast, pure evil; a fire volcano.
Party boobytrap.
Poor Dan is in a droop.
Reviled did I live, said I, as evil I did deliver.
Rise to vote, sir.
Saw tide rose? So red it was.
Senile felines.
So many dynamos!
Some men interpret nine memos.
Stab nail at ill Italian bats.
Stack cats.
Stella won no wallets.
Step on no pets.
Stop! Murder us not, tonsured rumpots!
Straw? No, too stupid a fad; I put soot on warts.
T. Eliot, top bard, notes putrid tang emanating, is sad. I'd assign it a name: gnat dirt upset on drab pot-toilet.
Tarzan raised Desi Arnaz' rat.
Ten animals I slam in a net.
Too bad I hid a boot.
Was it a car or a cat I saw?
Wonder if Sununu's fired now.
Won't I panic in a pit now?
Won't lovers revolt now?
Yo, banana boy!
Yo, Bob! Mug o' gumbo, boy!
Yo, bottoms up! (U.S. motto, boy.)
POST-SCRIPT. Like the success of my book, this doesn't want to happen, so head-bashing is useless indeed, unless I wish to become a rampant alcoholic who lives for the advent of Happy Hour. And I've had enough of that. But I have tried to piece it back together after a large chunk of it just disappeared, along with the last gif which I retrieved from the garbage, i. e. the recycle bin.
Wondering about the last gif, the palindrome? Oh OK, this is OTTO Klemperer. Father of Werner Klemperer, who played Colonel Klink on Hogan's Heroes. We were sitting in a symphony concert back in the '60s, and my Dad said, "Look, there he is." "Who?" "There's Klink." He was right, but we didn't speak with him, too cowed by his greatness.
Wondering about the last gif, the palindrome? Oh OK, this is OTTO Klemperer. Father of Werner Klemperer, who played Colonel Klink on Hogan's Heroes. We were sitting in a symphony concert back in the '60s, and my Dad said, "Look, there he is." "Who?" "There's Klink." He was right, but we didn't speak with him, too cowed by his greatness.
Order The Glass Character from:
Thistledown Press
Amazon.com
Chapters/Indigo.ca
Milk-a-bilia
.jpg)
By all the saints in freakin' Beulah Land, guess who's got his own Pinterest page! Yes, that's right: His Satanic Majesty, Milky the Clown.
Milky keeps coming around in my life like a chronic disease, with horrible outbreaks followed by deceptive remissions. Here he is again, looking none too well himself - in fact I'm not even sure that's really Milky, he looks so sallow. Hung over, perhaps. The pictures on Pinterest were about an inch square, and the only larger ones on Google were from my own blog. Harrumph.
Yes, I know I've run this one before! The Milky the Clown Ash Tray. Don't you want to see it again? You wanna make something out of it?
Milky says: WHAT? "Is we not zee Super Race?" It could be anything.
One o' dem games where you put the little balls in the little holes, though it looks vaguely like a sack of flour to me. Or some weird sort of pencil sharpener.
Now, I know this is original. It's a tennis ball with a clock built in. It lasts for one serve. Either that or it's a stopwatch of some kind, set to stop when the world ends.
Pretty slimy stuff.
.jpg)
Milky with a boy scout. I apologize for the poor quality of these. They were made with a camera obscura in the 17th century.
When I first saw this, I swear I thought the Milkster was doing lines of cocaine, but it appears, on closer inspection, that he's blowing up a balloon.
Somebody's idea of fan art.
Saturday, May 17, 2014
"What did you do to his eyes?"
This is not the best gif technically, but it will do: it captures the "reveal", the most sublime moment in Rosemary's Baby, which I watched for the third time last night on DVD.
Though this hardly seems possible, I saw it on TV in about 1969 - I know it's true because I watched it in the den when I was sleeping in the pull-out bed, and we moved away later that year, so there were no more late-night fright nights. Back then, it usually took quite a few years for a movie to go from theatrical release to television, and then only in adulterated form. How could it have shown up on TV, pretty much intact, in only a year?
Then the movie completely disappeared. It never came on television, not even on Turner Classics. It was never re-released. I could not find a trace of it anywhere, so was finally forced to buy a rather shitty DVD with grainy quality, perhaps a knockoff.
43 years had gone by, but what I retained from that night in the pullout bed was amazing.
I remembered so much of it, in fact, it became apparent on second viewing that it had burned itself into my brain. Some movies barely register, but this one became part of my neural network.
Why? IT'S BLOODY GOOD. Everything about it is enthralling and strange, especially the dream sequences. Mia Farrow is excellent in it, creating sympathy while at the same time setting up doubt that any of this is real, that it isn't just a product of her fevered "pre-partum" brain.
And John Cassavetes - HE is the devil, as far as I am concerned. He is evil incarnate, far worse than the dotty old people chanting about Lord Satan. One of the creepiest scenes is when he tries to justify to Rosemary the sacrifice of their child to Satanic forces:
"Think of all we're getting in return."
Roman Polansky's reputation was forever besmirched by a statutory rape case, though the victim came out a few years ago and (bizarrely) came to his defense. That aside, there is no doubt that this is an inspired work. The sense of weirdness, of the world slipping sideways, the eerie tension juxtaposed with normalcy, does not let up for a second. It pulls tight and lets go, taking us with it. That horrible sense of "they're all in it together", a prime feature of paranoia, plays on our fears of surrendering control. And having one special, beloved ally, one person who "gets it", then losing him to those dark forces, is heartbreaking.
OK, so then, why did I watch this masterpiece again? Because one of the networks decided to do a remake, which was so atrocious I only watched it to see how truly bad a remake could be.
In stark contrast with the original, nobody was good in this, and they changed all the best parts, including that astonishing "reveal" (one of the great moments in the horror genre).
Leave it alone, I tell you! But nobody does. Did they think they could make this any better? They even wrecked the quirky charm of the short-skirt, go-go '60s by trying to "bring it up to date".
But we've lost the ability to make movies like this, that ruthlessly pull and claw at the emotions. All is slash-and-splatter now, and somehow or other it does not have anywhere near the impact of a 98-pound waif wielding a butcher knife. Married to Sinatra, in the bargain.
Order The Glass Character from:
Thistledown Press
Amazon.com
Chapters/Indigo.ca
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)