Just in time for the celebration of the 500th anniversary of his Sistine Chapel paintings. including the iconic “The Creation Of Adam,” a brilliant new Michelangelo was turned up this week by the Indiana Jones Division of the Flying Pie Museum. It is presented here for its first public showing. Shocked art aficionados everywhere are gushing over this exciting new find.
“It’s just fabulous,” exclaimed world-famous art critic, Frederick Fotheringay-Phipps of the Tate Museum of London. “The richness of the colors might even exceed that of the better-known ‘Creation Of Adam.’ It’s a humdinger, no doubt.”
John-Paul Beignet, curator of the Louvre in Paris, commented “The subject of the painting is much more relevant to contemporary times. Once more, Michelangelo shocks us with his ability to see into the future. And I really like the hat.”
Incredibly, the priceless masterpiece was uncovered by our elite squad of treasure-hunters at a lonely yard sale in Zuber, somewhere between the short shorts and the rusty ammo clips. It just goes to show you. One man’s junk is another man’s jellybeans. Stay tuned for further developments.
An Alternate Reality
Every year, as all you old compadres are aware, we must publish a no-holds-barred picture of Bill so that all his friends and family can see that he is in fine health. Occasionally, people will suggest that Bill might think of inserting an old 1999 or 2005 picture from times when he looked better but Bill would consider that to be cheating, besides which defeating the original purpose. We hope that everybody can appreciate the difficulties inherent in this awkward undertaking. First, of course, we must find some competent photographer who is comfortable taking pictures of a 72-year-old naked man, no box of chocolates to be sure.
We started out by contacting a Gainesville photographer named Amy Oxner. We liked her website. Amy was very friendly and did not seem terrified by the project. When she never called back, however, we were forced to conclude that some women might be put off by the prospect of spending time in a remote location with a nude oldster. Silly, of course, but what can you do? We decided that a better course of action might be to pursue a male photographer with a portfolio of nekkid stuff. We found one in Moishe Groger, a naturist and jack of all trades. We began by discussing the difference between Moishe’s usual clients (young) and Bill (not young). There ARE differences, you know. Moishe did not seem especially flummoxed by this problem. To quote him, “I’ve seen old people before.” Fine, then. We’re off to a good start.
Now, you might not know this, but from my earlier experiences with the Charlatan magazine, I quickly learned that if you start taking pictures of naked people it will inevitably draw a crowd. In this case, it would certainly not be as big a crowd as healthy young women generate but a nuisance nonetheless. And no nude subject appreciates hecklers, we are all well aware of the shortcomings of aging flesh. Turns out Moishe knew of a quarry we could use just west of Gainesville, near the little town of Newberry. I went out there to check it out. This required climbing over a gate surrounded by barbed wire and large yellow POSTED signs. But you know me—a lifer at ignoring unpleasant edicts. I had only been on the property overlooking the vast maw of the quarry for three or four minutes when I heard a truck pull up in back of my car. A lifetime of lawbreaking has prepared me for these moments. I hopped back over the gate to confront caretaker Dave, a fencebuilder by trade. Dave had not emerged from his truck.
“Howdy,” I greeted, in my best Newberryese. “Is this property for sale?” Whoops. Whatever Fencebuilder Dave had reserved for his first scoldiness must be given greater consideration now. Nobody wants to piss off the moneyman.
“Way-ull, Ah don’t rightly know, but Ah can sure find out fer ye.” I gave him my name and phone number. After a pause of a few days—no seller wants to appear too eager—I got a call back from the realtor handling the property. And I can report to any of you who may be interested that 1.6 mil will buy you a 140 acre quarry, complete with a healthy-sized lake (clean enough for swimming, mind you), just outside G’ville. I was informed by the agent that lots on a similar quarry nearby were selling for $300,000 an acre so this was an absolute steal. I mean, c’mon, you do the math. Anway, it was good enough for us. We roamed around every nook and cranny of the place and got the job done.
Photos in hand, it now became necessary—if we were to recreate Michelangelo’s masterpiece—to find someone who had a special relationship with God. I mean, it’s not like you can just ring a bell and get the Creator of the Universe to show up, let alone the Heavenly Host. Fortunately, after a little digging, we discovered Mike Kantz, a happy fellow who lives with family on his very own vineyard, hard by the Interstate a little northwest of Ocala. As luck would have it, Mike used to operate a music shop called Rock Records at the same time we had the Subterranean Circus. As Walt might say, it’s a small world after all. More important, Mike was an official representative of Heavenly Enterprises (you may have tried their delicious hams at one time or another) and was authorized to enter into agreements dealing with personal appearances by Firmament Figures. For a modest fee—well, not all that modest—Mike could seduce the group down for a quick snapshot. No autographs, though. We took the deal and the result appears above. During the earlier photography session with Moishe, after a particularly difficult sequence he remarked, “I sure hope your readers appreciate everything you go through to produce your column.”
So do we, Moishe, so do we.
A Brief History Of Bill. Well, Not THAT Brief….
November 2, 1940—Born at the McGowan Hospital, Methuen, Massachusetts, 11 p.m. to Thomas Joseph Killeen and Marie Gosselin Killeen, birth weight 8 pounds plus. Mother remained hospitalized for days from complications following birth, infant went home with grandmother, Celia. Lack of early breast-feeding resulted in sexual overcompensation later in life.
1945—Begins grammar school at St. Patrick’s in South Lawrence, Mass. Same year, discovers mother’s Spiegel Catalogue and harrasses her endlessly until she buys him a Lone Ranger suit. When this arrives, he puts it on and parades next door to amaze his neighbor, Gloria Kennedy, who will undoubtedly be taken aback by this mysterious stranger. “Hi, Billy,” she says, despite his wonderful mask. Next day, Bill wears his mask to school and is confronted by bigger kid Eddie Melluci, a second-grade bully. Eddie Melluci tells Bill to take his mask off or HE will do it. This is exactly what happens to the Lone Ranger all the time and it requires immediate action. Bill grabs Melluci’s arm and throws him over his shoulder to the ground, amazing his schoolmates but none more than Bill. Eddie lies there, no longer combative. In the manner of young horseriders everywhere, Bill slaps his hip and gallops off, trailed by a new posse of admirers. Bill does not push his luck, however. He never wears his mask to school again.
1946—According to his doctor, contracts Rheumatic Fever. Leaves second grade after one month, is buried at home for the next seven. Discovers comic books and reads them inveterately. Learns multiplication tables upside down and sideways. Becomes world’s greatest speller. Has to watch his friends frolic in the greatest snowfall in years through the dining room windows. Severe psychological scarring causing a later appreciation for cocaine. Returns to school for last month, gets promoted in spite of it all.
1949—Falls in love with neighbor girl, Kathleen Carroll. Makes a fool of himself playing hopscotch, etc.—the things we do for love. Fails to persevere in the relationship. Kathleen goes on to become high-school valedictorian, causing Bill to write his greatest song.
1953—Graduates from grade school, receives valuable scholarship to Central Catholic H.S. awarded by venerable parish monsignor in big church ceremony. Gets to see a rare sight—a smile from his crusty father.
Okay, enough is enough for one week. We’ll be back next week for the second installment of Bill’s Birthday Blog Bonanza. Be here or be queer. Or both.
And You Thought We Were Just Screwing Around Here….
Letters following the Final Installment of Anatomy Of A Decade:
As good a Cliff Notes overview of the era as I’ve ever seen. (Court Lewis)
Some deep, true insightful sociological commentary with your latest post. It’s the best summary of the beat/beatnik/hippie era I’ve ever read. I may ask to quote a few paragraphs for my chapter on Musical Influences. I have already quoted from last week’s blog but would like to also use some from this week. Great stuff. (Marty Jourard) Marty’s book-to-be is titled Gainesville Rock History unless someone sends him a more seductive title.
Big News From Raceland!
On October 24, Cosmic Flight broke from the gate on top, sat just off the leader down the backstretch, moved up to contend on the turn, took a slight lead into the stretch and pulled away to win his second start by 2 3/4 lengths on a wet track at Calder. The yearlings, Puck and Hannah, are galloping on the track down the road at Eisaman Equine and doing exceedingly well. This morning , trainer Barry Eisaman commented that Puck was “extremely smart.” We’ll take these little pebbles of reassurance anywhere we can get them.
Hey, Republicans—Turn Out The Lights, The Party’s Over.
There is no joy in Ocala—the mighty Mittster has struck out. Well, there’s a little bit of joy among the five of us who voted Democrat. Of course, we don’t know how Florida voted yet, after all it’s only two meager days since the election. But we’re pretty sure Obama won here, too, and if so we’re proud of the Florida Resistance. Our friends in Austin know the feeling, living on a tiny oasis of sanity in a great desert of ignorance, prejudice and pettiness. Around here, there’s no arguing—it’s just not acceptable to be an Obama supporter—there must be something wrong with you. Forget about differences of opinion—if you are an Ocala Democrat, you will be maligned, even threatened, your political signs will be laid to waste, Obama bumper-stickers are cause enough to vandalize your vehicle, it’s a perilous existence.
So pardon us if we chortle a little as Florida goes for Obama. As the long lines of unrelenting voters hold out in Miami until two o’clock in the morning to express their preferences, refusing to see the talons of bigotry, duplicity and small-mindedness sweep up and fly off with their votes. Our Texas friend, Fontaine Maverick, calls them the “heroes of the night” and they are certainly among them, along with women (55-44 percent for Obama), particularly single women (67-31 percent for Obama), minorities and young voters who, despite their inexperience, are apparently much harder to deceive than the old clodhopper white Protestant men (you don’t want to know). A great mystery remains, however: how can ANY blacks, Hispanics, gay people vote Republican? Oh, we understand the rich people—it’s in their own self-interest. But the trailer trash, the hard-working rednecks, any women at all? Well, I guess the old saw is true—if you repeat a lie often enough, somebody will believe it.
Meanwhile, ex-Florida governor, Jeb Bush, woke up somewhere in the murky bowels of South Florida Monday morning with a crooked smile on his lips. Blessed but also cursed with his prominent political name, Bush was a moderate governor here, fairly centrist except for his pesky habit of trying to keep dead people alive past the point of sanity. The current governor, Rick Scott, has made Bush look like Mister Rogers, by comparison. Jeb is married to a Hispanic woman and his family, including George, has always pushed for the immigration reforms the Republicans are going to have to get on board with if they are ever going to win a presidential election in an increasingly brown country. Even so, the right-wingers still consider him one of them. 2016 is just around the corner, so get ready Chris Christie and Mitt Romney, here comes yet another Bush. Is there no end to the travails?
Message From Australia
Our Ghetto Line friend, Harry, always ready with a good laugh, posted the following just after the election:
To The Republicans Who Said They Will Move To Australia If Obama Won:
Australia Has Universal Health Care,
Compulsory Voting.
No Guns,
No Death Penalty,
Pro-Choice When It Comes To Contraception,
Openly Gay Politicians And Judges.
Evolution Is Taught In All Schools
And Our Female PM Is An Unmarried Atheist.
Be Sure To Declare Your Pitchforks At Tullamarine. (Felicity Ryan)
That’s all, folks….
