Well, I am back, like last year’s Christmas Fruitcake, from my brief trip overseas. The voyage to and from Copenhagen, home of Andersen, the Little Mermaid, tasty brined fish, and the occasional lost Swede, was uneventful. The only moment of excitement, well, comic relief, was watching some titans of capitalism turn green when we ran into heavy weather in the Belt. Socialism becomes more attractive after you’ve witnessed a member of the Oil Trust all peaked and curled up in a corner of the orlop deck. It is good to be home, and just in time to witness the arrival of the Giant Sheep tomorrow.
While on my trip, I did have occasion to enter into conversation with a few fellow-travellers with me in Steerage—which, curiously, the ship’s purser kept calling the “Service Department” and, remarkably, a few declared they had seen the Sheep in person. One man had seen it being loaded into a special wagon of the B&O Line outside of Fairfax, Virginia; another had spotted it in a special stall erected next to the Capitol in Washington. The consensus was that the Sheep isn’t nearly as big as we’ve been led to believe and, in fact, one of my companions, a solid foe of Imperialism and an advocate of Free Silver, even passed along a Kodak he had taken last year that pretty much proves them right:
I’ve been informed our Sheep is the one in the back by the tree. (I realize that is something that is hard for us to understand, a tree, I mean.) A few people I’ve shown this too already have claimed that the Sheep must be the one on the Right; I think, however, that is unlikely, since this one seems pretty vigorous and independent; no, I think, based on what I’ve been told about the Sheep, it would likely be in the back; it would also make sense that it would be near a tree since, by all accounts, it loves to have its back scratched. In any event, it is not big, not big at all, and more or less the same as all sorts of other sheep. But we’ll just smile, be neighborly, and endure until it and its entourage depart. I just hope they don’t spread mange.
It is with considerable regret that we have learned that Trapper Matt has decided to move to the Coast. We have long known his inordinant fondness for small vessels and the aquatic life; on more than one occasion he has admitted to this correspondent that it has been hard to “square” his trapping small furry creatures with his desire to “live the sailor’s life, aye!” We wish him well and hope that he will once and awhile find his way back to our desiccated plain. If he does, he better bring some snapper. On a far cheerier note, it is a delight to record for posterity what we have all known for the last few days. The Heroic Horseshoeman has won the Company’s Annual “Top Performer” award. This achievement certainly came as no surprise to Dustspec; Vizzini’s prowess in production has long been admired by one and all. That the Company, however, finally recognized this is a source of wonder and amazement. So far, he has only received one prize, a personally autographed copy of the Company’s latest manual:
But he has been informed that there is more coming his way.
It is May, May, May, a month that pretty much everone seems to like but me. Granted, it has some quaint traditions, traditions with deep roots in the rich loam of Anglo-Saxon and Teutonic lore. No doubt, the fair maidens prancing around the Maypole are being animated by the Folk Memory generated by their ancestors among the piney bogs of the Rhine’s mouth. If we had trees, poles, and maidens, we’d likely dance as well. Heck, I’d even settle for a bog. The problem is, behind every pole—well, in fact, every leaping maiden—there is always a darker side lurking. You don’t have to spend much time reading the Golden Bough to discern that many of our festive rituals, like the wax paper covering those new “Liver Cleansing Suppositories” available at Stuntz’s, merely hide something painful and likely of dubious value. Racial memory is all the rage these days. Sure everyone want to be Nordic, as long as you are not the victim hung up in the tree. Thus, rituals, like May itself, are deceptive. Haven’t had a satisfactory May since ’90. Now, I know some, indeed most, of you are far more sanguine than I. May, to you, is a time of renewal. I’ll grant you that, and since we still live in a free country, though the week is not over yet, you are welcome to your view. But what, exactly, is being renewed? Finally, school is out for the summer.
I commend our teacher, Miss Amy, and her pupils for their dedication and hard work. Should any have free time over the summer, I will, again, be offering my series of lectures on why the subjunctive mood must be saved. As always, there should be plenty of room. Until next time…
I’ve yet to meet a patriot behind a tree.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Beware the Night Air, Controversial Sheep, My Trip
Well, I apologize profusely for not writing recently; I’m certain at least one or two may have missed my scattered comments on the tilted “plain of mankind” (to borrow an image from Piers Plowman) that is Dustpec. Had a bout with the vapors; I’m certainly glad that they have finally passed. I blame them, frankly, on the night air. While most of you hold to the scientism of our modern age that blames all on “germ theory,” I, for one, still believe that noxious gasses still play a role in contagion. Well, one way or another, whether you believe it or not, I recommend you avoid the night air. Even if it doesn’t turn you inside out, there may very well be something flying in the wind that is going to hurt you. Take my advice, hunker down, hunker down Dustpecians. Daylight is bad enough.
Seems like every time I am gone—especially those months I was in the Sanatorium—all sorts of controversy breaks forth in Dustpec, breaks forth like a flywheel gone horribly wrong. I remember the time the Crusading Young Editor’s miniature version of the Corliss Engine took on a life of its own and ended up knocking Hoots to the ground. But I digress. I came back to work on Monday and all I kept hearing about was “that damn sheep is coming to Dustpec.” After various enquires, the Wandering Historian finally set me straight on the matter. Seems that people at the Company Store decided to change the theme of its annual “Farm and Ranch Day”—which, traditionally, has been “You have to buy the seed from us, and you will pay again whether it sprouts or not,” to “Sheep: A Model for Young America.” As yet, I haven’t heard anyone who is enthusiastic about this; indeed, most Dustpecians seem just this side of enraged. “We are cattle country!” opined Thunderclap, “at least when they live.” “Sheep are like Congress,” commented Stuntz while mixing an elixir, “they may look docile, but a musty odor bodes no good.” I suppose Miss Amy put it best, “I fail to see why a preternaturally large sheep will inspire our youth to greatness. At best, wool may itch enough to get them to move; at worst, it will cause a rash, a lack of attention, and sloth.” Indeed. One way or another, however, the GIANT SHEEP is coming to Dustpec, and I guess we are going to have to put up with it. I’ve decided to attend. Now, some of you will not, or are going to protest the GIANT SHEEP in various ways—I hear that Trapper Matt is going to wear a hat shaped like a giant bear, and Lightening will wear dark glasses and be dressed like George Sand—that’s fine. After all, it is still a free country, though the week is not yet over. For my part, I’ve decided that I’ll attend and behave; please be assured, however, that this is not mere supine submission on my part nor, to be sure, is this any sign of support for sheep. My unswerving passion for red meat remains the same. I guess, all in all, the coming visit of the GIANT SHEEP is a challenge not dissimilar to the time last year when the “Travelling Temperance Brigade” passed through town on their way Downstate:
We put up with their singing, their unexpectedly swift and random movements, their decidedly monotonous garb, and even their ability to bore dogs into slumber; they eventually left, and we woke up the dog and got back to drinking. So, if we were able to endure them, I don’t see why we can’t put up with the sheep. Then again, what if it decides to pasture here…Well, I’d better close. I’ve got to start packing my trunk for my trip overseas next week. Yes, the King of Denmark has indeed invited me to a royal audience. Seems he’s heard of Manly Thoughts and Dustspec and, in a typical fit of royal whimsy, wants to learn more about our tiny, quadrilateral, oasis of HUMANISM and TRUE PROGRESSIVE THOUGHT out here on the rim of the known world. I’ll be back soon and will report on the herring. Till then…
Our Country’s Independence Was Not Won By Creatures That Bleat
Seems like every time I am gone—especially those months I was in the Sanatorium—all sorts of controversy breaks forth in Dustpec, breaks forth like a flywheel gone horribly wrong. I remember the time the Crusading Young Editor’s miniature version of the Corliss Engine took on a life of its own and ended up knocking Hoots to the ground. But I digress. I came back to work on Monday and all I kept hearing about was “that damn sheep is coming to Dustpec.” After various enquires, the Wandering Historian finally set me straight on the matter. Seems that people at the Company Store decided to change the theme of its annual “Farm and Ranch Day”—which, traditionally, has been “You have to buy the seed from us, and you will pay again whether it sprouts or not,” to “Sheep: A Model for Young America.” As yet, I haven’t heard anyone who is enthusiastic about this; indeed, most Dustpecians seem just this side of enraged. “We are cattle country!” opined Thunderclap, “at least when they live.” “Sheep are like Congress,” commented Stuntz while mixing an elixir, “they may look docile, but a musty odor bodes no good.” I suppose Miss Amy put it best, “I fail to see why a preternaturally large sheep will inspire our youth to greatness. At best, wool may itch enough to get them to move; at worst, it will cause a rash, a lack of attention, and sloth.” Indeed. One way or another, however, the GIANT SHEEP is coming to Dustpec, and I guess we are going to have to put up with it. I’ve decided to attend. Now, some of you will not, or are going to protest the GIANT SHEEP in various ways—I hear that Trapper Matt is going to wear a hat shaped like a giant bear, and Lightening will wear dark glasses and be dressed like George Sand—that’s fine. After all, it is still a free country, though the week is not yet over. For my part, I’ve decided that I’ll attend and behave; please be assured, however, that this is not mere supine submission on my part nor, to be sure, is this any sign of support for sheep. My unswerving passion for red meat remains the same. I guess, all in all, the coming visit of the GIANT SHEEP is a challenge not dissimilar to the time last year when the “Travelling Temperance Brigade” passed through town on their way Downstate:
We put up with their singing, their unexpectedly swift and random movements, their decidedly monotonous garb, and even their ability to bore dogs into slumber; they eventually left, and we woke up the dog and got back to drinking. So, if we were able to endure them, I don’t see why we can’t put up with the sheep. Then again, what if it decides to pasture here…Well, I’d better close. I’ve got to start packing my trunk for my trip overseas next week. Yes, the King of Denmark has indeed invited me to a royal audience. Seems he’s heard of Manly Thoughts and Dustspec and, in a typical fit of royal whimsy, wants to learn more about our tiny, quadrilateral, oasis of HUMANISM and TRUE PROGRESSIVE THOUGHT out here on the rim of the known world. I’ll be back soon and will report on the herring. Till then…
Our Country’s Independence Was Not Won By Creatures That Bleat
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