Those Subdural Hematomas Are Breaking Up That Old Gang Of Mine
Not a soul down on the corner/That’s a pretty certain sign/That wedding bells are breaking up that old gang of mine.
Well, something is—and it’s a lot worse than wedding bells. Every day, you get up in the morning, look around and damn!—somebody else seems to be missing. It’s a septuagenarian hazard. It’s bad enough when good old Mortie, ill for years, takes a final plunge into the afterlife. What bothers us a lot more is The Sudden Accident. Aunt Gertie is doing just fine, thank you, tending to her begonias, volunteering at the soup kitchen, no particular aches and pains to speak of. Then one day—WHAMMO!—Gertie slips on a tamarind peel, lands on her noggin and they’re calling the preacher. Wha’ hoppen?
The aftermath of bad falls usually follows a familiar pattern. Victim breaks a hip. Victim confined to wheelchair. Victim gets no exercise, withers up and dies. In this scenario, at least, there is time for the proverbial getting one’s affairs in order, for discussing one’s post-life intentions with friends and family, for last goodbyes. And, in some exceptional cases, there is the possibility of recovery. Certainly, a more desirable alternative than that of Aunt Gertie.
Which brings us to our old pal, Newt Simmons. You remember Newt. One of the Fab Four who lived in the old Charlatan house on NW 6th street in Gainesville, circa 1966-67, as reported in our Flying Pie column of July 15, 2010, the secondmost read Pie ever, partly because we published it twice but also because it dealt with the founding of the Subterranean Circus.
The distinguished residents were Dick North, Gerald (Narcolepsy) Jones, Newt and myself. The screened-in front porch served as the Charlatan office. The side yard was big enough for Newt to install croquet wickets and teach everyone the game whether they were interested or not. Eventually, Newt’s future wife, Ann, moved in from Louisiana. Pamme Brewer, who lived around the corner, was there with me all the time. Jones, the Charlatan photographer and ad salesman, entertained a girlfriend named Donna Gillespie. And Dick North caroused with the Flavor Of The Day, much to the chagrin of some of the other flavors, one of whom would occasionally sulk about all this and sleep on our porch in protest. It was the best of times, it was the best of times. No room for worsts. On one occasion, an exceptionally large party, Newt, dressed as Wonder Wart Hog, had an ally quickly shut off all the lights while he stormed into the room wielding a large pie, at which point the lights came on again and Newt heaved his pastry at an intended victim. “EAT PIE, PIG!” roared Newt, shamefacedly missing his target, then fleeing in ignominy. “I had the heart of Wonder Wart Hog,” Newt moaned, “but the aim of Philbert Desenex (the Wart Hog’s alter-ego). I’m going into instant retirement.”
After the Subterranean Circus took off, Newt decided to get in on the action and he found a number of bargain houses which dealt in plastic eyeglasses….Lennon glasses, aviators, reflectors, the works….and began wholesaling them, largely to us. He dubbed his enterprise Out Of Sight Optics and he did well. Though Newt originally disparaged our chances for success with the Circus, he soon recognized the error of his predictions and moved to St. Petersburg Beach, where he rented an old bank building and opened his own shop. He called it, naturally, the Out Of Sight Shop. In addition to the usual hippie-oriented merchandise, Newt capitalized on his location just a couple of blocks from the beach by adding a raft of bathing suits and other beachy items. The place was a big hit and led to the founding of another enterprise, a bar named Dr. Feelgood’s. Newt and Ann raised two children before eventually going their separate ways. He was never the same without her.
In recent years, the phone would ring and a cheerful Newt would dutifully raise questions as to the wellbeing of the horses and heartily discuss past remembrances. He had a particular appreciation for Siobhan’s legs, a healthy reminder that Old is still not Dead. He was curmudgeonly about progress, however, and stuck to his old ways, refusing even to consider installing a computer, despite the constant admonitions of his old friend Tom Sutton in California, who saw in computers a lifeline for the lonely, increasingly withdrawn old compadre. I would occasionally call Newt and he was always there on first ring, ready to discuss the subjects of the day with humor and enthusiasm. At his best, Newt was a very funny guy. For a short time, he edited his own humor magazine while an LSU student in Baton Rouge and wrote articles for the Charlatan.
Then, curiously, I telephoned him a couple of times and the calls went directly to voice mail. Newt never called back. Oh well, just an idiosyncrasy, I surmised. But you wonder. Next thing I knew, here came an email from the aforementioned Tom Sutton advising that Newt had experienced a fall, suffered a subdural hematoma, was in a coma and on life support. The likelihood of recovery was minuscule. How quickly it all comes apart. Here today, gone tomorrow was never so profound. I found myself thinking about Newt a lot the next few days. Hoping—somehow—he would stumble through the clouds of adversity and prevail. Remembering his good humor and often wise advice. And, of course, most of all….most of all….wishing he had smacked that guy with his pie.
Bad (But Only) Picture, Out Of Sight Shop, St. Pete Beach, Early ‘70s
Is Your Religion Boring? Consider The Alternatives….
Last week, before we ran out of Pie, we were discussing some of the more bizarre practices of various religions across the world. Meanwhile, over in Bhumfuk, India, the local Pieman is probably discussing us:
“Talk about your weird religious practices—in Catholic environs, people actually step into little dark boxes and confess their inadequacies—called “sins”—to a man hiding behind a screen. When they are finished, the listener, called a “priest,” dispenses punishment, usually in the form of prayers, which the sinner must then utter to be absolved of his sins. What a bunch of wackos, huh folks?”
Wackiness is in the eye of the beholder. Some people toss babies from a tower, some people go to Confession. I don’t know a lot about the success rate of Babytossing, but I don’t think Confession works too good. You go in there and Father O’Malley opens the sliding door with a sudden jerk. You recite your little “Bless me, Father….” routine and now it’s time to tell this guy you were grousing in the goodie with little Angela Merkenbury. I don’t know about you, but I don’t think I’m telling anybody about that, let alone a guy with perverse attitudes about sex. I bet I’m not the only one, either. So we dredge up some minor (venial) sins, listen to our penance and go execute. All the while thinking we might be going to Hell because we didn’t tell Father O’Malley about Angela. Oh, it seems fine now, but when you’re a little kid those drawings of Hell in the Catechism will scare you to death, take my word for it. Devils with pitchforks. BIG flames! Shudder-inducing stuff. There oughta be a law.
In any case, like the famous postman, we can’t let all this impede us from the Swift Completion Of Our Appointed Rounds. We must go down to the sea again, to the lonely sea and the sky. And when we get there, this is what we find:
1. When You’re Hot, You’re Hot. In some Indian communities (here we go again with the poor Indians), there exists a social funerary practice called Sati, in which a recently widowed woman is permitted to immolate herself on her dead husband’s funeral pyre. Yup, that’s right, you have to actually get permission for this, not just anybody can do it. For instance, if the widow is pregnant, menstruating or not on her regular menstrual cycle—indicating possible pregnancy—no dice. There is a strong Hindu belief that a woman who becomes a Sati is then a deity, to be worshipped and endowed with gifts. The British, real fuddy-duddies, as everyone knows, decided to ban the practice in 1829. But they’re not running the show anymore, are they? And with the Brits away, the Satis will play.
2. Couldn’t We Just Say Ten Our Fathers And Ten Hail Marys? The Matausas tribe of Papua, New Guinea, practices a cleansing rite of passage meant to rid male children’s bodies of female influences left by the mother. Regardless of pain, boys go through the initiation to become warriors and cleanse themselves. First, they slide two thin wooden canes down their throats to induce vomiting several times and empty their stomachs. Afterwards, a collection of reeds are inserted into the initiate’s nose to further expel bad influences. Finally, they endure repeated horrific stabbings to the tongue. Then everybody goes over to Morty’s house for popsicles.
3. I Left My Heart In Tenochtitlan. Human Sacrifice was not only an Aztec tradition, it was an integral part of their religion and a way to please the gods and avoid disaster. The Aztecs, bless their sick little hearts, believed the best way to repay the gods was to offer up blood in regular rituals, so, instead of killing their enemies in battle, they would often capture them and take them back to their villages to be offered up. In one ritual, the prisoners were forced to walk up the many steps of the temple to the top, whereupon a priest (much more unpleasant than good old Father O’Malley) cut them open from throat to stomach, ripped open their hearts and offered them to the gods. The bodies were then pushed down the stairs. At the bottom, what was left of the things would be dismembered and/or carried off. All of this while in the background the Philadelphia Mummers Kazoo Band played Happy Days Are Here Again. Tell me again why we’re supposed to regret the demise of the Aztec Empire? A little louder….I can’t hear you.
4. Oops, I Think My Knee Went Out! Let’s get back to the Catholics, they’re always fun. El Salto del Colacho (The Devil’s Jump) is a traditional Spanish holiday dating back to 1620 which takes place annually to celebrate the Catholic feast of Corpus Christi in the village of Castrillo de Murcia near Burgos. During the act, girls throw rose petals on babies who were born during the past twelve months of the year, then a priest blesses the infants and a man dressed as the Devil (Colacho) jumps over the poor kids, who lie on mattresses in the street. The origins of the tradition are unknown, but it is said to cleanse the babies of Original Sin, ensure them safe passage through life and guard against illness and evil spirits. No FAT jumpers need apply.
The 200th Blog
Our old pal, Court Lewis, emailed us last week about the trials and tribulations of well-intended readers who may wish to submit their favorite editions of The Flying Pie but are inhibited by the difficulty of it all.
“Without an index of some kind,” Court correctly asserts, “the archive is almost impenetrable. To find the one about the loud party in front of Janis Joplin’s house, I’d have to guesstimate what year and month it was, then open it and scroll down, then repeat it until I got it right. It’s a lot of work that most people may not want to undertake.”
We don’t expect anyone to take all day with this. Just describe the column you are endorsing in a little detail, say one paragraph, and we’ll dig up the date and provide more information in case anyone is interested. We’re also extending the deadline to the end of the month. And don’t forget—Warren Buffet is awarding $1,000,000 to the reader who submits the best suggestion.
Fastest Horse Update
Cosmic Flash worked a half-mile in 48 seconds flat at Gulfstream Park last Saturday, galloping out in 1:02. He’ll go another half-mile this weekend with a couple more workouts between then and his first race, which could be around April 10. Keep your fingers crossed. And anything else you have.
Oddity Of The Week
Last Friday, 77 people read our end-of-May column titled May 30, The REAL Memorial Day, which, together with the regular viewers, caused last week to have the highest readership of any week ever. We are not certain how these things happen but we would sure like to know. Is there a blog guru somewhere with hundreds of disciples who follow his every recommendation? The entire 77 were located in the United States and they were spread around the country pretty liberally, so it’s not as if an occult band of Pie devotees met in a Brooklyn subway tunnel and tuned in en masse. I guess we know what their 200th column recommendation will be. I even read it again. It does have a very nice final paragraph.
That’s all, folks….
