Prologue
Nothing much that happens on the internet is too shocking but it was a little bit of a surprise when 5 of the first 10 viewers of last week’s column were from China (we have ways of knowing these things). We have several people in Canada and Europe—including Denmark, for some reason—and even South Africa, but still, it makes you wonder. Are these guys ex-pats, native Chinese, far-flung members of the Janis Joplin fan club, what?
So we want you readers out there in Northumberland and other foreign countries to write to us at the little number below the picture of Bill and Hugo and tell us who you are and how you found us. We already know about you, Ashleigh, so you’re excused.
The Aardvark (a poem by Lieuen Adkins)
The aardvark is an animal exotic, strange and rare;
And, except for those that have none, he has quite a lot of hair;
He hardly has a tail at all, his eyes are very strong,
Except for those nearsighted ones whose tails are very long.
They only live in Africa, their only food is ants
(Though some prefer to dine on cheese and live in southern France).
Some live alone; some live in pairs; some live in colonies;
The ones with claws dig cozy dens; the others live in trees.
Their appetites are ravenous; they eat their dinners all;
They’d grow to reach tremendous size if they were not so small.
And when I meet some in the woods, I have no qualms or fears;
I know they cannot harm me, for they’ve been extinct for years.
Lieuen Runs For Office
One fine day, Lieuen arrived at the house with a particular glow on.
“Now what?” I asked.
“I have decided to avail the student body of the University of Texas of my diverse talents. I’m entering the political arena, running for Student Senate, and my campaign slogan will be “Vote For Me Or I’ll Kill You!”
“Good slogan.”
“Yes, indeed. I can see it now. This will be the first of many great campaigns, as I blaze a trail to the stars! Before long, I will be mayor or some such piffling minor official. Then, the governorship will fall. From there, it’s on to Congress and you’ll be calling me Senator Adkins. And, finally, I can launch a campaign for the greatest office of all!”
“You? President?”
“No, you fool—POPE! The president has to wear suits and stuff, but the POPE has wonderful gowns and capes and amices and albs and all. Not to mention that HAT! Nobody has a hat like the pope!”
I had to admit he had a point there.
“The campaign is on. Both you and Janis, of course, will be my campaign slaves and perform my bidding, however outrageous. Hello, hello! Campaign staffer Joplin? This is Senator-to-be Adkins here. Yes, I know it’s two a.m. But I’m famished. Bring me a chili dog immediately!”
“I was going to ask you why you wanted the dumb job, but I’m beginning to get the idea,” Janis told him.
I certainly did my part. Forever grateful to Lieuen for celebrating my Austin proclivities with the ballad Pretty Boy Bill, I owed him his very own campaign song. Written to the tune of The Battle Hymn of the Republic, this stirring music was passed on to the Waller Creek Boys for singing at the next Wednesday UT folksing. The words were xeroxed and passed out to the multitudes, and when it was time we all sang:
His eyes are blue,
His smile is white,
His lips are rosy red!
He’s got a lot of smarts inside
His funny punkin’ head!
He’s on a first-name basis now
With Jack and Bob and Ted!
He shall not meet de-feat!
(chorus)
Lieuen Adkins is the candidate for me!
Lieuen Adkins is the candidate for me!
Lieuen Adkins is the candidate for me!
He shall not meet de-feat.
He did, though. Despite a wonderful campaign song and weak opposition, Lieuen barely managed to scrape by one candidate and was pummeled by the other four. Nervous as a cat and fearful of a terrible outcome, he spent all of Election Day in seclusion. Nobody could figure out where he was, though we might have suspected. Later that night, he finally appeared, and, in a drunken rage, Lieuen bounded like a teenage ape up the Union steps to the room where the votes were being counted. When he saw the results, he charged at the blackboard on which the totals were being chalked and delivered his mightiest blow, in a powerful attempt to destroy the messenger.
As Gilbert Shelton wrote later, “He failed, of course.”
Janis Joplin Meets The Cops
About two weeks after I took up residence at Janis’ house, she decided to host a modest party. Scraping together some tip money from her short waitressing tour at the Pancake House, she went out and bought a keg of beer and a couple of bottles of Jack Daniels, figuring on thirty or so ghettoites, Ranger people and music-makers. I cautioned that these things always get out of hand and she accepted that.
“We’ll hide the liquor so it doesn’t get in the wrong hands,” she said.
“I hope you have better luck than Lieuen,” I told her, recalling Adkins’ now-famous faux pas.
The days before the party were spent cleaning up the house and borrowing and transporting a few couches so everybody wouldn’t be standing up. Win Pratt raided his father’s real estate and came up with impressive numbers of chairs. And soon enough, all was in readiness.
The guests started arriving around seven p.m., and they just kept coming. The poor little house was crammed to its limits and still they came. The keg which Janis was so impressed with was sucked dry by eight o’clock, but everyone brought ample provisions and the night rolled on.
Music filled the air and the players were animated and enthusiastic. Janis, autoharp in hand, was seldom better. The burgeoning crowd spilled out onto the small porch and into the front yard, now drawing attention from neighbors and a sorority house across the street.
For some vague reason known only to them, the pledges (uninitiated members) had agreed to semi-incarceration in this place, with very restrictive rules about going outside. They were absolutely not allowed out after dark, but many gathered at the windows to watch the action and listen to the music. This brought hooting and encouragement from the partygoers and sympathy from Janis, who, as you might imagine, hated anything resembling a sorority. She directed a song toward the house and encouraged the girls to abandon ship, denouncing all those who would withhold Freedom. Many of the pledges shrieked in agreement but they stayed put. Janis moved closer, into the street, singing and seducing, changing the words of her songs to fit the circumstances of the poor, manacled women. Now she was below their windows, and some of them could resist a good thing no longer….first one, then another, a third, a fourth fled, whooping into the street to join the magical party to the delighted cheers of the masses. Smug and satisfied, Janis slowly withdrew, happy in the knowledge that another blow had been struck against slavery and oppression everywhere.
The Waller Creek Boys were on a roll. The whole crowd was singing and dancing, though, by midnight, the first signs of trouble appeared. A lone police cruiser circled the block. After a second pass, the cops pulled over and sauntered warily through the crowd.
“Who lives here?” one asked.
“I do,” I told him.
“How about turning it down a notch or two?”
“No problem.”
Back they shuffled to their fine vehicle, and away. The party continued, unabated. For maybe twenty minutes. Then they reappeared, joined by two more units. A shiny new cop bounced up the walk as the others dismounted their cars.
“Alright, people!” he exclaimed, loudly. “Enough is enough! There’s a noise ordinance in this town and you are all in violation of that ordinance. You’re gonna have to close this thing down.”
Boos and hisses filled the air, not to mention a few beer cans. This was getting not nice.
The cop was unimpressed.
“You goddam college kids think everything in life is supposed to be the way YOU want it! You never think about anybody else! Do you know there’s a little old lady dying next door?”
Everyone there that night would like to claim as his own the immortal words that rang out next, but the true author is lost to history.
“NO—BUT HUM A FEW BARS AND WE’LL FAKE IT!”
The crowd disintegrated into hilarity and delight at the purity and prompt timing of the remark. Humiliated beyond description, the police quickly withdrew and fled shamedfacedly into the night. Janis, inspired, immediately concocted an appropriate song—There’s A Little Old Lady Dying Next Door (She Won’t Complain Anymore!)—which she sang the rest of the night. It was a memorable evening and a good time was had by all. Except, perhaps, by the little old lady, wherever she was. She was certainly not to our left, as that house was forever vacant. And she did not seem to be to our right, as that prim little cottage was maintained by raving transvestites. Unless, of course, you know….
Racing Report
Crimson Streak is in the eighth race at Calder tomorrow, September 10th. He has a big chance. So this gives Jack Gordon, one of our fine readers in Laguna Beach, ample warning to get to the race track in time to bet. Last time, with insufficient notice, Jack scurried down to Del Mar and got there fifteen minutes too late. Not one to be discouraged, he bet an exacta in the next race on “two grey horses,” a scientific wager if ever there was one. Oh, and he won, of course. So much for careful analysis.
Old College Humor Magazine Joke (from 1965)
The orderly came into Mrs. Flipperflopper’s room with the operating room stretcher.
“Oh, doctor, I’m so nervous!” she began, and she didn’t stop wailing all the way down to the operating room. The orderly’s pleas for silence went unnoticed.
While he was rolling her onto the table, she told him of her Uncle Henry, who had died on an operating room table fifty-six years before. Suddenly, seized with panic, she asked, “Doctor, has anyone ever died on THIS operating table before?”
“Oh, no!” the orderly quickly replied.
“When anyone gets close, we push him off.”
That’s all, folks.
