Seventy-two. 72. Seven. Two. Gee. I don’t feel a day over 71. Or 41, for that matter. But a look at the calendar—or old photographs, even—tells me different. Seventy-two years of getting up in the morning, hooking the oxen to the plow and seeing what could be accomplished that day despite all those rocks in the furrow. Sisyphus, the ancient Greek king, knew the feeling, condemned as he was to roll a giant boulder up a steep hill day after day without reaching the top—certainly a metaphor for life. Sisyphus, of course, was so incautious as to piss off the wrong gods, not something most of us are aware of doing. And if I have done it, it was certainly a passive act. The longer you live, the more aware you become that these gods are nobody to mess around with.
Unlike Sisyphus, however, there have been a few occasions when I managed to get my rock to the crest of the hill, where it rested precariously for awhile before slipping back to the bottom. Horse racing provided me with Juggernaut, who won a couple of $100,000 stakes races and $225,000, as well as Vaunted Vamp, 21 times a winner and banker of $420,000, and a few others of consequence though less distinguished. The gods provided me with a good family and a colorful place in which to grow up. I can’t say enough about the many good women in my life, some gone now, who have brightened the corridors of daily existence and occasionally hung stars on the top of the tree. Nor the friends who took me in, nourished my days and helped me to learn The Way.
The Flying Pie is a kindly boulder, but a boulder nonetheless, which I have taken upon myself to push to the top of the hill each Thursday, come hell or high water, both of which are occasional visitors. One memorable Thursday, I was in such a mental and physical funk, I just couldn’t get going. I did about a hundred jumping jacks. I ran up and down the driveway—and ours is a long driveway—several times. I drove to Williston to get coffee. Then, I just started in spite of it all. After about half an hour, everything went back to normal. Some days are diamonds, some days are stones. These rocks are everywhere. There will come a day when the rock looms too large, when the desire to continue wanes, when this column is no more. But today is not that day. Today, we continue to wade into the battle, toting that barge, lifting that bale, if not getting a little drunk and landing in jail. Once more, we grease up the shoulders and gird the loins for the assault on the Great Boulder. Time marches on and The Flying Pie marches along with it.
Three-Quarters Of A Century Of Rockin’ And Rollin’
An Alternate Reality
We got a call the other day from the little-known planet of Neocon in the far-flung Misanthrope galaxy. It was Eddie again. Eddie is the Prime Minister of the Perplexus race, the rulers of the planet. Although we are diametrically opposed to most of the politics of the ruling class, we still have a sympathetic ear and each conversation with Eddie gives us an additional opportunity to proszelytize and try to turn Eddie toward The Light. Anyway, it went something like this:
“Hi Guys, Eddie here.”
“’S’up Eddie?”
“Well, I’ve got a helluva problem up here and I need some help. Maybe you could round up the Titanic Three and get up here to see for yourself. I’m not kidding, it’s a doozy. We’ll pay you, of course, in the usual Great Rhubarb and Superior Strawberries, the better to construct your famous pies.”
“Will Tuesday be alright?”
“The sooner the better.”
The Perplexus race was obviously on the horns of a significant dilemma to page us during the height of their growing season, when all Neocon is aflutter with agricultural activities. I called Moishe Groger and Mike Kantz and we met over at Mike’s place where he has constructed a giant space transporter out in his vineyard. To the uncultured eye, this fantastic machine looks like nothing so much as a sophisticated outhouse, a rare three-seater, useless to the average itinerant nincompoop who might accidentally stumble upon it. But in the hands of Mike and his Magic Twanger, a conduit to the remotest outposts in the universe.
I think I should mention at this time that some of the space transporters you may have seen in the movies or on television are frightfully misrepresentative. Why, I have seen machines which not only will transport you but also all your clothes, a couple heavy suitcases and even your dog, Ben. It just doesn’t work that way. You get to go but you carry nothing, no lunch, no sunglasses, no Oil of Olay. It’s like Arnold and those guys in The Terminator, you arrive naked. This is okay with Moishe and I but Mike absolutely insists that a comfortable robe be provided on arrival and that it be in a particular shade resembling robin’s egg blue. Mike can be very huffy sometimes.
Anyway, we made it in short order and there was no mistaking the problem. An enormous boulder, nay, a spectacularly COLOSSAL boulder had detached itself from Neocon’s greatest mountain and plunged into the valley below, the valley where, sad to say, all of the crops were grown to feed this small planet. This mammoth rock, as great in size as our Empire State Building (rounded off, of course) was huge enough to blot out the Neocon Sun, no great shakes in the first place.
“If we can’t move this rock,” moaned Eddie, “the crops will not grow and our planet will die!” Gee, Eddie, talk about putting the pressure on.
“Okay,” I said, “I have an idea. Why not free all the Troglodytes from the Tar Pits and get them over here to help you. The Trogs are by far the strongest race on the planet. They could mass an army of bodies beneath that thing and roll it out of the way.”
“We can’t do THAT!'” squealed Eddie. “That would be perilous for our society. We’d never get them back into the tar pits and they’d be over here bonking us on the heads and making off with our triffin (cashola, in Perplexese).”
“Well, then,” offered Mike, “how about you bring the Philistines back from the Outlands? The Philistines are great thinkers and engineers. They could erect a system of pulleys and gears and get rid of that boulder in no time.”
“What’s the matter with you people?!?” screamed Eddie. “Those Philistines are the enemies of the gods! Before you know it, they’d be raiding our temples and, worse yet, picketing the Happy Uterus Centers. It’s inconceivable!”
“I have an idea,” spoke up Moishe. “A lot of the GLANDTs have experience with explosives from their old protest days. If you let them out of the jails, they could blast that sucker to smithereens and your worries would be over.”
“But then we’d have NEW worries,” protested Eddie. “Those GLANDTs would be running around, men marrying men, women marrying women, trannies marrying everybody! What would our youth think? Our planet would be irretrievably corrupted! It’s an impossible idea!”
“Well, gee, Eddie,” I shrugged, “that’s all we got for you. We’ve given you three ways to save yourselves but you can’t see the forest for the trees. Time for us to hit the trail.”
“Okay,” said Eddie. “I do appreciate the effort.” With that, Mike neatly folded his robe and handed it back to Eddie. The three of us took to our stools. Mike plunked his Magic Twanger and we were back in Ocala, wondering what would happen next on the woebegone planet of Neocon.
Two weeks later, Eddie called back with the answer.
“Well, we implemented your plan and it pretty much worked,” he said. “First, the GLANDTs blew the boulder in half. Then the Philistines rigged up a pulley system to get it near the top of the hill. And then the Trogs pushed it over the top into the abyss. We thank you for your foresight.”
“And what about the chaos to your society?”
“Well, it’s not as bad as I thought,” he admitted. “A couple of the Trogs got liquored up and robbed a few convenience stores, but we nailed them early on. The others have been okay although they have a penchant for standing around with their underwear hanging out, pants on the ground. Some of the Philistines went into the newspaper business and are trying to rile everybody up about societal reform. The GLANDTs are, as I suspected running around, men marrying men, women marrying women, but nobody really seems to care. So I guess we’ll survive.”
“Glad to hear it,” I exulted. “I’ll let the boys know. They’ll be thrilled with your success.”
“Okay then, Bill, till next time….”
“Um, hold on a second, Eddie….”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. We had a slight holdup. But your strawberries and rhubarb are in the mail….”
A Brief History Of Bill, Chapter II
September, 1958—Emigrates via train to Stillwater, Oklahoma to begin college. Discovers new panaceas in boredom. Detrains in Chicago to take in a Cubs game at Wrigley vs. the St. Louis Cardinals and Hall of Famer Stan Musial. Stan is sick, alas, and doesn’t show up. Bill gets lost on the El and misses his train to Ponca City.
1958—Sits next to the lovely Betty Jane Kendrick, native Oklahoman, in Biological Science Lab. Eventually asks Betty Jane out. Betty Jane looks askance. “You’re a Yankee, arentcha?” she says. Never mind.
1959—Meets first college girlfriend, Rita Payton, part Indian and just up from the reservation. Rita discusses her background, Indian traditions and her experience with various weapons. Bill decides to stay on the better side of Rita.
1959—Publishes the first Charlatan magazine, which is immediately banned from campus. Enlists a horde of rebels to invade the dorms and sell his product, to great success. Oklahoma State relents and lets him sell the magazine in the Student Union.
1960—Publishes a “University Is Going To Hell” issue of Charlatan. OSU is unamused, tosses Bill off campus and threatens to expel him if shenanigans continue. Bill publishes one more issue and moves to New York.
1960—Moves into the beautiful Hotel Lindy on Lexington Avenue, near Grand Central Station. Hookers abound. Fights with johns occur daily in the stairways. To shave, Bill has to carry his mirror down to the second floor bathrooms where there is actual hot water. Very good daily rates, though.
1961—Moves to Champaign-Urbana, Illinois, to edit Bruce Johnson’s humor magazine, Chaff. Meets nice Jewish girl, Karen Meckler. Gets tossed in jail for one whole week while parents spirit Karen out of town. Makes mental note to give serious consideration to sticking with gentiles.
1962—Moves to Austin, Texas, where the real fun begins.
Last Minute Bulletin
Cosmic Flight is running in the 4th race at Calder today, his first start since breaking his maiden October 25th. On Saturday, Cosmic Crown goes, also in the fourth. Keep your fingers crossed. Results are available about half an hour after the races from Equibase.
And that’s all, folks. Yes, we will show up again next week, giving you yet another reason for Thanksgiving….
Unlike Sisyphus, however, there have been a few occasions when I managed to get my rock to the crest of the hill, where it rested precariously for awhile before slipping back to the bottom. Horse racing provided me with Juggernaut, who won a couple of $100,000 stakes races and $225,000, as well as Vaunted Vamp, 21 times a winner and banker of $420,000, and a few others of consequence though less distinguished. The gods provided me with a good family and a colorful place in which to grow up. I can’t say enough about the many good women in my life, some gone now, who have brightened the corridors of daily existence and occasionally hung stars on the top of the tree. Nor the friends who took me in, nourished my days and helped me to learn The Way.
The Flying Pie is a kindly boulder, but a boulder nonetheless, which I have taken upon myself to push to the top of the hill each Thursday, come hell or high water, both of which are occasional visitors. One memorable Thursday, I was in such a mental and physical funk, I just couldn’t get going. I did about a hundred jumping jacks. I ran up and down the driveway—and ours is a long driveway—several times. I drove to Williston to get coffee. Then, I just started in spite of it all. After about half an hour, everything went back to normal. Some days are diamonds, some days are stones. These rocks are everywhere. There will come a day when the rock looms too large, when the desire to continue wanes, when this column is no more. But today is not that day. Today, we continue to wade into the battle, toting that barge, lifting that bale, if not getting a little drunk and landing in jail. Once more, we grease up the shoulders and gird the loins for the assault on the Great Boulder. Time marches on and The Flying Pie marches along with it.
Three-Quarters Of A Century Of Rockin’ And Rollin’
An Alternate Reality
We got a call the other day from the little-known planet of Neocon in the far-flung Misanthrope galaxy. It was Eddie again. Eddie is the Prime Minister of the Perplexus race, the rulers of the planet. Although we are diametrically opposed to most of the politics of the ruling class, we still have a sympathetic ear and each conversation with Eddie gives us an additional opportunity to proszelytize and try to turn Eddie toward The Light. Anyway, it went something like this:
“Hi Guys, Eddie here.”
“’S’up Eddie?”
“Well, I’ve got a helluva problem up here and I need some help. Maybe you could round up the Titanic Three and get up here to see for yourself. I’m not kidding, it’s a doozy. We’ll pay you, of course, in the usual Great Rhubarb and Superior Strawberries, the better to construct your famous pies.”
“Will Tuesday be alright?”
“The sooner the better.”
The Perplexus race was obviously on the horns of a significant dilemma to page us during the height of their growing season, when all Neocon is aflutter with agricultural activities. I called Moishe Groger and Mike Kantz and we met over at Mike’s place where he has constructed a giant space transporter out in his vineyard. To the uncultured eye, this fantastic machine looks like nothing so much as a sophisticated outhouse, a rare three-seater, useless to the average itinerant nincompoop who might accidentally stumble upon it. But in the hands of Mike and his Magic Twanger, a conduit to the remotest outposts in the universe.
I think I should mention at this time that some of the space transporters you may have seen in the movies or on television are frightfully misrepresentative. Why, I have seen machines which not only will transport you but also all your clothes, a couple heavy suitcases and even your dog, Ben. It just doesn’t work that way. You get to go but you carry nothing, no lunch, no sunglasses, no Oil of Olay. It’s like Arnold and those guys in The Terminator, you arrive naked. This is okay with Moishe and I but Mike absolutely insists that a comfortable robe be provided on arrival and that it be in a particular shade resembling robin’s egg blue. Mike can be very huffy sometimes.
Anyway, we made it in short order and there was no mistaking the problem. An enormous boulder, nay, a spectacularly COLOSSAL boulder had detached itself from Neocon’s greatest mountain and plunged into the valley below, the valley where, sad to say, all of the crops were grown to feed this small planet. This mammoth rock, as great in size as our Empire State Building (rounded off, of course) was huge enough to blot out the Neocon Sun, no great shakes in the first place.
“If we can’t move this rock,” moaned Eddie, “the crops will not grow and our planet will die!” Gee, Eddie, talk about putting the pressure on.
“Okay,” I said, “I have an idea. Why not free all the Troglodytes from the Tar Pits and get them over here to help you. The Trogs are by far the strongest race on the planet. They could mass an army of bodies beneath that thing and roll it out of the way.”
“We can’t do THAT!'” squealed Eddie. “That would be perilous for our society. We’d never get them back into the tar pits and they’d be over here bonking us on the heads and making off with our triffin (cashola, in Perplexese).”
“Well, then,” offered Mike, “how about you bring the Philistines back from the Outlands? The Philistines are great thinkers and engineers. They could erect a system of pulleys and gears and get rid of that boulder in no time.”
“What’s the matter with you people?!?” screamed Eddie. “Those Philistines are the enemies of the gods! Before you know it, they’d be raiding our temples and, worse yet, picketing the Happy Uterus Centers. It’s inconceivable!”
“I have an idea,” spoke up Moishe. “A lot of the GLANDTs have experience with explosives from their old protest days. If you let them out of the jails, they could blast that sucker to smithereens and your worries would be over.”
“But then we’d have NEW worries,” protested Eddie. “Those GLANDTs would be running around, men marrying men, women marrying women, trannies marrying everybody! What would our youth think? Our planet would be irretrievably corrupted! It’s an impossible idea!”
“Well, gee, Eddie,” I shrugged, “that’s all we got for you. We’ve given you three ways to save yourselves but you can’t see the forest for the trees. Time for us to hit the trail.”
“Okay,” said Eddie. “I do appreciate the effort.” With that, Mike neatly folded his robe and handed it back to Eddie. The three of us took to our stools. Mike plunked his Magic Twanger and we were back in Ocala, wondering what would happen next on the woebegone planet of Neocon.
Two weeks later, Eddie called back with the answer.
“Well, we implemented your plan and it pretty much worked,” he said. “First, the GLANDTs blew the boulder in half. Then the Philistines rigged up a pulley system to get it near the top of the hill. And then the Trogs pushed it over the top into the abyss. We thank you for your foresight.”
“And what about the chaos to your society?”
“Well, it’s not as bad as I thought,” he admitted. “A couple of the Trogs got liquored up and robbed a few convenience stores, but we nailed them early on. The others have been okay although they have a penchant for standing around with their underwear hanging out, pants on the ground. Some of the Philistines went into the newspaper business and are trying to rile everybody up about societal reform. The GLANDTs are, as I suspected running around, men marrying men, women marrying women, but nobody really seems to care. So I guess we’ll survive.”
“Glad to hear it,” I exulted. “I’ll let the boys know. They’ll be thrilled with your success.”
“Okay then, Bill, till next time….”
“Um, hold on a second, Eddie….”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. We had a slight holdup. But your strawberries and rhubarb are in the mail….”
A Brief History Of Bill, Chapter II
September, 1958—Emigrates via train to Stillwater, Oklahoma to begin college. Discovers new panaceas in boredom. Detrains in Chicago to take in a Cubs game at Wrigley vs. the St. Louis Cardinals and Hall of Famer Stan Musial. Stan is sick, alas, and doesn’t show up. Bill gets lost on the El and misses his train to Ponca City.
1958—Sits next to the lovely Betty Jane Kendrick, native Oklahoman, in Biological Science Lab. Eventually asks Betty Jane out. Betty Jane looks askance. “You’re a Yankee, arentcha?” she says. Never mind.
1959—Meets first college girlfriend, Rita Payton, part Indian and just up from the reservation. Rita discusses her background, Indian traditions and her experience with various weapons. Bill decides to stay on the better side of Rita.
1959—Publishes the first Charlatan magazine, which is immediately banned from campus. Enlists a horde of rebels to invade the dorms and sell his product, to great success. Oklahoma State relents and lets him sell the magazine in the Student Union.
1960—Publishes a “University Is Going To Hell” issue of Charlatan. OSU is unamused, tosses Bill off campus and threatens to expel him if shenanigans continue. Bill publishes one more issue and moves to New York.
1960—Moves into the beautiful Hotel Lindy on Lexington Avenue, near Grand Central Station. Hookers abound. Fights with johns occur daily in the stairways. To shave, Bill has to carry his mirror down to the second floor bathrooms where there is actual hot water. Very good daily rates, though.
1961—Moves to Champaign-Urbana, Illinois, to edit Bruce Johnson’s humor magazine, Chaff. Meets nice Jewish girl, Karen Meckler. Gets tossed in jail for one whole week while parents spirit Karen out of town. Makes mental note to give serious consideration to sticking with gentiles.
1962—Moves to Austin, Texas, where the real fun begins.
Last Minute Bulletin
Cosmic Flight is running in the 4th race at Calder today, his first start since breaking his maiden October 25th. On Saturday, Cosmic Crown goes, also in the fourth. Keep your fingers crossed. Results are available about half an hour after the races from Equibase.
And that’s all, folks. Yes, we will show up again next week, giving you yet another reason for Thanksgiving….
