Week 589: Blessed Benedictines and Bad Celery

We should keep the past closer than we do our enemies. There is much ago worth remembering, and not just in what George Santayana had to say.

For example, nearly a hundred years ago, the great Dorothy Parker (1893-1967) penned a bit of advice that, upon my finding it some seven decades down the road, has stayed with me and is one of the few guide stars in my life (I live in one of the cloudiest places in the world, so my guide stars are often metaphorical and/or flat out imaginary). Regardless, in her “Constant Reader” book review column, published by the New Yorker on Saturday, 28 January 1928 Mrs. Parker wisely warned readers against the perils of assumedly healthy eating and at the same time averred a particular form of hydration that has always been superior to simple and extremely boring H2O. (As it goes with natural items found in abundance, drinking water when choices are plentiful is as dull as dentist office decor.)

Apparently, putting it all together from Dorothy’s article (which eventually got around to her reviews, but the contents of her mind were far more entertaining), on Thursday night, 26 January 1928, she re-acquired a short-term disease she called “the rams.” Although the rams affect us all differently, among her symptoms were “heartbreak, an inability to remain seated or standing and a constant sound in the ears as of far-off temple bells.” But for her the worst part involved a fear of turning around and seeing (again) “a Little Mean Man about eighteen-inches tall, wearing a yellow slicker and roller skates.”

The evening before the rams found her once again, Mrs. Parker had wisely hydrated on “two or three side cars, champagne with dinner” then followed those with a steady procession of “Benedictines and brandies.” She said dinner was at eight and that it took seven hours until everyone had been conquered by the festivities. And although milady’s malady may seem like something else to the untrained ear, I know it well. Very well. Beyond, actually.

The liquids she bravely stated as having consumed were illegal in the United States at the time (Prohibition lasted from 1919-1933, which were by far the sweetest times for the Mafia), without their procurement things may have landed her back in the hospital (at which her extremely fair and precise biographer, the excellent Marian Meade stated was a familiar place to the Authoress due to frequent suicide attempts and abortions. That might sound terrible, but, really, it was quite true, and something “Dotty” would have said if it had come to her). But as Mrs. Parker stated, she was made merely slightly off by the stick of bad celery, that was her dinner. And she more than inferred that the case might have been tragic if she hadn’t lined the entire inside of her organism with speakeasy hootch.

Mrs. Parker stood just under five feet tall, nor did she ever weigh quite a hundred pounds until she reached middle age, so for her partial protection from the rams it required enough liquor to drop a lumberjack. And it was all so preventable. If the offending produce had been included in a margarita, the same way olives are saved by gin, she would not have had to endure the constant visitation of the Little Mean Man whilst she was rushing to finish her review column.

This producer (in my case) of an every other Saturday column owes Dorothy Parker a measure of gratitude. I often put the hurt on a liquor cabinet toward a deadline, but I have never seen a Little Mean Man in a yellow slicker. That’s because when the hors d’oeuvres tray comes round I examine the dangers on the platter, dismiss the poison and stridently chide the hostess for exposing her guests (actually just me) to the rams. Then, unless I’ve been eighty-sixed, later in the evening I will sit her down and explain the evil situation.

It’s how I give back.

Speaking of giving (yes I’m using the lamest segue possible, but it is too late to turn it down), we had six writers who gave to the sixth power This Week That Was. And I am proud to report that there were no cases of the rams caused by anything we have published, neither recently nor ever.

It all began on Sunday with A Reader’s Guide to Bukowski by Dale Williams Barrigar. My relationship with speedy time has often resulted in surprises in which six months is actually a year and change. But on this note I am not astonished by the number of literate essays Dale has produced on the subject of writers. Of course he is a PhD on the subject of the literary arts so knowledge is expected. But what cannot be assumed of anyone is their natural artistic expression, of which he has plenty. And his latest essay about a man who wrote a lot but probably since his death over thirty years ago has had more words used to describe him is another incisive look at not just the poet but how so many people do not know how to read literature. They know the words but turn away from deeper thought.

Monday does not bring the blues to LS. This week it brought Time Was by David Calcutt. This is a wonderful bit of the fantastic that loathes change for good reason. Nobody really worried too much “why” the bridges existed; and although they appreciated the magic, it died anyway. Like the end of childhood, reality eventually turns magic into rubble. Great work by Mr. Calcutt.

Nicholas Starr Kellogg won the day on Tuesday with Bon Appetit. There is a tremendous depth in this piece that is hard to achieve in under three-thousand words, but this author did it. Moreover this work is proof that there is plenty of new things to say about familiar topics when you are willing to look “deeper” and work harder. And even though you’d have to be a pot roast not to figure it out, the story has such tasty prose that you sit at the table and dig in.

Nickel by Steve Eckroad hit the middle of the week with elan. After a long run the penny is leaving the US currency, and perhaps even someone my age will live long enough to see the end of coins. It makes sense and it probably should be that way already. And here, Steven shows us a very probable sort of event that might happen more than once in the future. Charming and on the mark. (Personal note–until I was six I thought a nickel was worth more than a dime due to its greater size. Sixty years down the road and nobody has yet to explain that to me. Live and Learn.)

Bomb Defuser Barbie by Calla Gold is another winner. It takes the right touch to convey the thoughts of a child to an adult and have them entertain and inform. We think we remember, but I know for certain (at least I’ve convinced myself) that the best way to go is to recall the way things felt and avoid “what you think it was like” language. This one manages to find the right space. The only thing I can compare it to is this: Calla created a wonderful kid, who is a sort of Scout Finch with a combination of the lady next door and commando Barbie in place of Atticus.

The Recurring Donor: It Startred With a Kidney by Jack Powers closed the sense-making part of This Week That Was. As we continue to chop and harvest each other with technological ease (I remember when heart transplants were science fiction), the lower behaviours will locate a place in the game. Mr. Powers shows this with wit and restraint.

And there you have them, the artists of the week. And I also commend those of you who support writers with comments. You need not critique the work with the scholarly finesse of Harold Bloom (or our own DWB for that matter), a nice pat on the back is just as welcomed.

The Non-Listless List of The Week

Poetry Songs

Most song lyrics are, well, shit. Even many of the good ones, nearly all the popular numbers. But there are a few that stand out as poetry. Some writers are much better than others, so the list cannot contain more than one entry per song writer or we’d have ten by Dylan or Cohen or The Beatles (one might feel that the Fab fellows grew the most when you compare the lyrics of Love Me Do to those of A Day in the Life). Moreover these are ten great poems put to music, but it is not a Top Ten list because that would be impossible. And although these are numbered 1 to 10, these are all as good as each other, and merely appear this way because it is when each one came to mind. Suggestions are always welcome. The song and the writer(s) are presented.

1. Mama Tried-Merle Haggard

2. Eleanor Rigby-Paul McCartney (I’m sure they soon regretted the Lennon McCartney thing)

3. Strawberry Fields Forever-John Lennon

4. Dance Me to the End of Love-Leonard Cohen

5. The Hurricane-Bob Dylan (like the others already mentioned he has like eighty that will do)

6. If You Could Read My Mind-Gordon Lightfoot

7. Wuthering Heights-Kate Bush (the youngest person on the list, recording this at nineteen)

8. Tomorrow Wendy-written by Andy Prieboy, brilliantly performed by Concrete Blonde

9. Goodbye Yellow Brick Road-Bernie Taupin Lyrics, Elton the music

10. Diamonds and Rust-Joan Baez

Word of the Bi-Week: Agathokakological (adj) Traits of good and bad. As we all go.

Leila

The following song belongs on the list but, hey, there are only so many slots.