Ask Swearengen
Dear Al,When you find yourself in the Costco picking up whiskey and canned peaches, what do you do when you get in the self-checkout line and find yourself behind some hoople-head who don’t know how to use it?Onanistic in OK- – -
Dear Self-Stroker,
I’ll tell you this, son, you can mark my words, Crazy Horse went into Little Bighorn, bought his people one good, long-term ass-fucking. You do not want to be a dirt-worshipping heathen from this fucking point forward. Pardon my French.
Love,
Al
More From Hazel Green, AL
We climbed to the top of the old Indian burial mound, where a beautiful plantation house stood for a century before burning to the ground in 1968. We have history with the site, so my sister, brother-in-law and I went in late one afternoon. Friends of the family lived there and the twins babysat for my sister and me. They loved scaring us with tales about the ghosts that roamed that house. And we loved being scared.
The woman who lived in that plantation house in the 1800s was the subject of wild rumors. A Black Widow, they said, accused of killing seven husbands. Some of them were buried in old graves at the bottom of the old mound. So we looked at the graves there first, then my sister started charging up. We had no idea what we would find. We saw the foundation, then the back steps. This photo was taken by my sister because I had the video camera, filming. I think it’s quite spooky.
All of a sudden, I was alone, at the top. It was utterly dark up there, and quiet. Then I heard what sounded like gunfire in the distance. And voices. I couldn’t find my way out. Everything was grabbing at me, it seemed, at my clothes, my hair, removing the bandana on my head, pulling out the intricate barrett anchoring my hair in an up-do, finally snatching at my hair itself.
It was “The Blair Witch” all over, but real. My sister, who had easily walked off the mound, had to send my BIL to haul me out. The fear in my voice was palpable. I wouldn’t put the camera down, though. I was clinging to it with one hand. My other hand was shown pushing away overgrowth.
After I got out, I realized there had been no gunfire. It was July 4, fireworks were exploding in the skies. Then it came to me. No one goes up there anymore. The fertile land all around is farmed, but the mound is grown up and the long driveway planted over with cotton. We don’t even know who owns the land now.
I didn’t feel any menace up there on top of that mound. I think it was just lonely. The mound probably just wanted some company.
Ask Swearengen
Dear Al,
My favorite blog recently had some discussion about Alcoholics Anonymous and alternatives. I am curious about your thoughts on such groups. My roommate just left the house with a Holy Bible tucked under his arm, telling me that he and his sponsor were “on our way to a meeting”. I am distrustful of these meetings, preferring to sit on the sofa with my cat under one arm and a bottle of Ten High Whiskey under the other while watching M*A*S*H re-runs. Should I think about trying a meeting?
Shit-faced and Skeptical
—
Dear Shit-faced,
“On our way” means they’re getting drunk and blown in some saloon in Cheyenne and running their mouths about the big fuckin’ filibustering expedition they’re being commissioned for under the command of the famous Hawkeye; the laziest, most shit-faced whore-mongering cocksucker to ever piss my money away!
Al
Ask Swearengen
Dear Al,
Although I don’t usually like to keep secrets, I recently ordered a bicycle in anticipation of moving to a house in the city. While I obviously wouldn’t try to hide my bicycle from my partner, I did neglect to tell her about the purchase at the time. I wanted to have the bike so that there would be something tangible associated with the expenditure. Alas, the vendor–who had promised discretion–mailed a postcard to our current home thanking me for the purchase. While the discovery was coincidental, I feel remorse over withholding what was a happy moment for me. What should I do?
Pussywhipped in Parsippany
—
Dear P’Whipped,
Oh, a turn of events. Your partner calls it a coincidence. So, what with this coincidence and turn of events starin’ me in the fuckin’ face and five other fuckin’ things I’m supposed to be payin’ attention to, I still make you a sensible proposal and you answer by insulting me in my own joint. Fuck off.
Al
Enlist!
Conspicuous drinking is the deliberate theme in both photographs—the soldiers appear absolutely mellow—while the entertaining fencing match can only invite speculation. Endorsing drunkenness as [a] means to lure recruits seems to be an outlandish proposition, or can this be taken as a brash if surreal recruiting scenario? The table is rich in detail replete with a little brown jug, bottles and corks, full drinking glasses, and smoking apparatus—sufficient vice to sooth[e] the rigors of campaigning and the terror of the battlefield.
From the catalog for Cowan’s auction 2010, American History, Including the Civil War, which took place on June 11. These beauties sold for $1,057.50.
There is about ten thousand times more information about American history in this auction catalog than the sum of everything I ever learned about it in school.
Ask Swearengen
Dear Al,
I’m having problems at work. The people I work with are petty, dishonest, and sleazy. They undermine each other and attack people for the tiniest things. They put meetings and pointless documents ahead of their families and their own health. A day at work is almost entirely about dealing with politics and incompetence rather than getting anything meaningful done. I realize that a lot of this is just part of the organizational culture, but what causes people to abandon basic human values to behave so unnaturally? I really feel like I need to take drastic action.
Cockblocked by my Coworkers
—
Dear Cockblocked,
Now it’s not for me to tell anyone in this camp what to do, as much as I don’t want more people gettin’ their throats cut, scalps lifted or any other godless thing that these godless bloodthirsty heathens do. Or even if someone wants to ride out in darkest night. But I will tell you this. I’d use tonight to get myself organized. Ride out in the morning clear-headed. And startin’ tomorrow morning, I will offer a personal $50 bounty for every decapitated head of as many of these godless heathen cocksuckers as anyone can bring in. Tomorrow. With no upper limit! That’s all I say on that subject, ‘cept next round’s on the house. And God rest the souls of that poor family. And pussy’s half price, next 15 minutes.
Al
Ask Swearengen
This is a revival of sorts (but without tents or snakes). On another blog several years ago, I introduced an advice column called “Ask Swearengen”, in which the proprietor of Deadwood’s first saloon, the Gem, dispensed advice on matters of life and love. At risk of introducing a glut of advice columns to the ‘flock, I surmise from people’s “7 favorite” answers that Al’s help might be just what Doc Cochran ordered.
Dear Al,
This oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico really troubles me. I find myself staying up late at night, unable to turn off CNN. When I sleep, I dream of oily dolphin carcasses washing up in Biloxi. I don’t trust BP to fix this, but I don’t know who else can stop it. How should I handle my despair?
- All Lubed Up and Nowhere to Go
—
Dear “Lubed”,
Pain or damage don’t end the world. Or despair or fucking beatings. The world ends when you’re dead. Until then, you got more punishment in store. Stand it like a man… and give some back.
Al
This post needs no explanation
The Eugenics Experiment That is Jessica Simpson
I saw the VH1 ad in People magazine, and I was all like WTF?? And then I was like wait, I have seen this before:
I Have A Question
I went to the Post Office first thing this morning to fetch a package. Ahead of me was a guy who had a P.O. box application. I learned–from his escalated conversations with managers–that he had gone online to the USPS site early this morning, found that this particular branch had boxes available, reserved and paid for one, and made a special trip to finalize it. Turns out, only one person–the branch manager–can issue a P.O. box, and he’s on vacation. The customer (early 30s, smart, fat–has to be an IT guy) obviously was not happy with the poor service (I snorted when the manager on duty said to him, “How online suppose to know what we got at this station?”). But what the guy was really upset about was that he needed a P.O. box today. Right now. And he wasn’t about to leave until he got one.
So I ask you, dear clusterflock: Why might a person be so in need of a same-day post office box?
Afterglow caused by the eruption of Krakatoa, 9 November 1883.
One of a series of sketches by William Ascroft, documenting the meteorological effects of the eruption of Krakatoa, Indonesia. On 27 August 1883, the volcano on the island of Krakatoa erupted in a massive explosion, throwing large quantities of ash and dust high into the atmosphere, producing spectacular sunsets and afterglows around the world. Volcanic dust also has a more serious impact on the world’s climate. Because it blocks a proportion of the incoming solar radiation, temperatures on the Earth’s surface are reduced. After the Krakatoa eruption, several years of poor summers and harsh winters followed as a result of this effect. Ascroft recorded optical phenomena attributed to the after-effects of the eruption until 1886.
Annoying DRM watermarks marring the images, but still worth a gaze or two.
J.A. Tyler’s marvelous
Mud Luscious Press chapbook series has just issued my Dr Polidori’s Sketchbook. Celebrate with me.
Update: I changed the link to go to the chapbook page. [DB]
Before and After: a Professional Job
Dear Clusterflock
Today I quit on an online survey concerning a “buying experience”; the only reason I was doing it was because it kept popping up in my mail and taking it seemed the quickest way to make it go away. But I came to a question that pissed me off and made me delete the whole thing. It asked me to indicate my “position” in my household: was I the Head of household? The spouse of the Head of household? A dependent of the Head of household? and so on. Do you find yourself thinking as I do that the whole notion of there necessarily being A head of household is archaic? In my view, the whole thing smacks of that Southern Baptist insistence that women “submit” to the will of their husbands, which I find to be one of many reprehensible notions they espouse. Can’t we get past the whole Command Structure thing? Is this just me going off, or do you have feeling about this?
The death of Jermyn Street
I had just settled in my easy chair when a key turned in the lock and a nattily-dressed man in his 60s let himself in. He held a bottle of Teachers’ scotch under his arm. He walked to the sideboard, took a glass, poured a shot, and while filling it with soda from the siphon, asked me, “Fancy a spot?”
“I’m afraid I don’t drink,” I said.
“Oh, my.”
This man sat on my sofa, lit a cigarette, and said, “I’m Henry.”
“Am I…in your room?”
“Oh, no, no, old boy! I’m only the owner. I dropped in to say hello.”
This was Henry Togna Sr. He appears in a Dickens novel I haven’t yet read. I’m sure of it. He appeared in my room almost every afternoon when I stayed at the Eyrie Mansion.
—Roger Ebert, “I met a character from Dickens,” Chicago Sun-Times, February 5, 2010
(Via @davidmoldawer)
My ideas about Looking-glass House
First, there’s the room you can see through the glass–that’s just the same as our drawing room, only the things go the other way. I can see all of it when I get upon a chair–all but the bit behind the fireplace. Oh! I do so wish I could see THAT bit! I want so much to know whether they’ve a fire in the winter: you never CAN tell, you know, unless our fire smokes, and then smoke comes up in that room too–but that may be only pretence, just to make it look as if they had a fire. Well then, the books are something like our books, only the words go the wrong way; I know that, because I’ve held up one of our books to the glass, and then they hold up one in the other room.
(From CHAPTER I. “Looking-Glass house.” Through the Looking-glass. Lewis Carroll.)
Dickens’ Toothpick
An ivory and gold toothpick once owned by Charles Dickens has sold at a New York City auction for $9,150.
“It’s always six o’clock now.”
A bright idea came into Alice’s head. "Is that the reason so many tea-things are put out here?" she asked.
"Yes, that’s it," said the Hatter with a sigh: "it’s always tea-time, and we’ve no time to wash the things between whiles."
"Then you keep moving round, I suppose?" said Alice.
"Exactly so," said the Hatter: "as the things get used up."
"But what happens when you come to the beginning again?" Alice ventured to ask.
"Suppose we change the subject," the March Hare interrupted, yawning. "I’m getting tired of this. I vote the young lady tells us a story."
(From Chapter VII. "A Mad Tea-Party." Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. Lewis Carroll.)
Cast y’all’s votes, y’all.
Should I be the next Oprah?
Chart Showing the Aggregate Number of Idiots and the Proportion of Males and Females, White or Colored, Native or Foreign, at the Ninth Census 1870; also the increase since 1860.
Excerpted from the Statistical atlas of the United States based on the results of the ninth census 1870 with contributions from many eminent men of science and several departments of the government Comp. under the authority of Congress by Francis A. Walker, M. A., superintendent of the ninth census.
(by way of Eminent Man of Science and Art Graham Parker; entire census report at loc.gov)
This Living Hand
This living hand, now warm and capable
Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
And in the icy silence of the tomb,
So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
That thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood
So in my veins red life might stream again,
And thou be conscience-calmed—see here it is—
I hold it towards you.
("This Living Hand". John Keats.)
apostrophically speaking
Originally the peak was called “Pike’s Peak”, but in 1891, the newly-formed US Board on Geographic Names recommended against the use of apostrophes in names, so officially the name of the peak does not include an apostrophe. In addition, in 1978 the Colorado state legislature passed a law mandating the use of “Pikes Peak” only. Even so, the old name is often seen.
How Doth the Little Crocodile
How doth the little crocodile
Improve his shining tail,
And pour the waters of the Nile
On every golden scale!
How cheerfully he seems to grin,
How neatly spreads his claws,
And welcomes little fishes in
With gently smiling jaws!
Lewis Carroll. From Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. Parody of the didactic “Against Idleness and Mischief” by Isaac Watts (“How doth the little busy bee/Improve each shining hour”).
The Longman Companion to Victorian Fiction by John Sutherland
The appearance, after more than twenty years, of a second edition of John Sutherland’s The Longman Companion to Victorian Fiction, is exciting news for Victorian enthusiasts, whether students, academics or readers. For the book represents a staggering achievement that is unlikely ever to be equalled. That a single scholar, working un-assisted, should undertake to synopsize 554 (now 560) novels and offer biographical accounts of 878 (now 900) novelists, as well as compiling entries on forty-seven magazines and periodicals, twenty-six major illustrators and thirty-eight (now forty-one) miscellaneous items (“Sandism”, “the Yellowback”, “The Nautical Novel”), is a feat that beggars imagination, especially since much of the work was completed before the availability of the internet and searchable digitized texts.
(via marginal revolution)
Missed Connections
a century before Craigslist or the back page of the Voice:
Will Lizzie, or Clara, or Julia, or any other handsome and agreeable young lady that was seen on Broadway any day last week, and is matrimonially inclined, send her address, enclosing photograph, to Romeo, box 144 Herald office?
If any two young gentlemen who were on Broadway any day last week are desirous of forming the acquaintance of the two young ladies who crossed Fulton ferry one day last month, they can do so by addressing either Lizzie or Clara, at station A.
