Elegy for Manfred Mystery Mann

The underdog has always held a soft spot in my heart. To me, that includes all types of animals but especially felines. Loving special-needs animals further marginalizes my life, I suppose. I am drawn to shelter sweethearts that are typically overlooked. One of those kitties was named Mystery, a shadowy gray Russian Blue/Siamese mix I adopted in 2010. His elegant nose and world-weary eyes drew me in. When I held him, his disposition was utterly mellow as if we had known each other for ages.

The shelter workers informed me that he had previously been adopted out but returned because he was not playful enough. Maybe those people were expecting a puppy instead. That sealed the deal and Mystery was mine. Firstly, his name was changed to Manfred Mann after one of my favorite 60s groups.  Poor Manny had a misshapen spine from some trauma, perhaps hit by a car, and he was suffering from an intestinal parasite that left his body emaciated and twisted. Because of nerve damage, his claws did not retract. Later I determined that he was also deaf.

Onomatopoetic Signage

A sign shaped like itself on North Broadway.

We all admire signs at Cold Dirt Press. "The Art of the Sign" exhibit at Ars Populi Gallery here in St. Louis is right up our alley. Put together by the amazing artist Bill Christman and über-collector Greg Rhomberg, it runs till June 30th. This is worth flying in to see if you're not lucky enough to be stuck here in the sweltering, land-locked Midwest!

"Famous for Quality"

A cubbyhole at Joe's Café.

St. Louis once boasted the best liquor store in the whole universe: 9•0•5. It even carried, in addition to canned rhino and ostrich, its own brand of beer. I drank a lot of it in high school, and can attest that "quality" is not what we bought it for. But "Famous for Cheap Availability" just doesn't sound as classy.

Brewed in Chicago! What???

Une Silhouette Ferme

Just how big is her butt under that cape, is what we want to know.

Upturned Pointed Toes

From the Rubyiat of Omar Khayyam, illustrated by Edmund Dulac.

Persian slippers are a must on magic carpet rides.

Green painted leather uppers and binding. Upturned pointed toes. Low-cut quarters.
Heel rests covered with lacquered white kid with
 painted floral motif on brown background.
 Brown leather soles with extra front piece and steel loops at short heels.
Brown leather insoles and linings.
From the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, MA. 

It's a Sign!

I couldn't find a stage version of Signs, this band's major hit. I wanted it to complement the Booze Doodle®™about sign painter Lonnie Tettaton. But this other song is okay, just from a fashion standpoint. These guys almost rival Phil X. Milstein in the stylish polyester shirt division.

Bald Mountain Gets Stormy

Baldy is a volcano. He has been bullying my landlady, accusing me specifically of calling "the city" on him. "They" are always coming, but never seem to arrive. Meanwhile, the never ending parade of shirtless addicts goes on, culminating in a street fight that my landlady witnessed, window open, to the pair of them going down on each other by the trash cans. "What are you doing?" she related to me later, "Are you giving him head?" I played this scene over in my head, knowing full well she asks Jailbird what goes on with Baldy. ("He told me he gives him foot rubs ... I asked him what they talk about, and he just said, 'Well, mostly we watch TV and I rub his feet.' ")

I was getting a new floor not long ago when it all got really bad. In the garage with Pup, Baldy took it upon himself to walk up my steps onto my patio and have a few words with my landlady and peep into my apartment. "So, this is how she gets rewarded, eh?"  That was it.

When I came back, I saw him on the street. Like all bullies, he avoids me, head down, no eye contact. I took off my sunglasses.

"Excuse me? Do you have something to say to me?"

"What?"

"Are you accusing me of calling the city on you? Because that's what my landlady told me."

"I didn't say that. I said someone did, I didn't say it was you."

"I believe you did, and I'll tell you something. I wasn't here when the inspectors came, and they came for our house. The girls told me they looked in your window, and asked what was going on, and that's why they came back. Who told you I called X? (I dropped the city inspector's name here.) I want to know."

Love Boat Between the Rivers

Love gone dry.

That's Amore! You have to love your boat with cash. The acronym BOAT means "Break Out Another Thousand," because there's always some kind of expensive maintenance work to be done on one. Fortunately, the boating life is not one that suits my nature — it's far too pleasant and mellow. I recently experienced the laid-back concept of "river time" in person: what was meant to be a one hour cruise around Piasa Island in the Mississippi became a seven hour voyage filled with multiple cans of Milwaukee Light. Which I'm not supposed to drink because it has gluten in it. And I forgot to bring my cell, so Buster was about to call the Coast Guard when my already sober and hungover carcass finally crawled into the cab of my truck and phoned home. (Somehow the beer fog obscured the fact that I could have borrowed one of the other passenger's ...) 

These photos are all from a river town called Portage Des Sioux, where a whole bunch of (quickly broken) treaties were signed in 1815. I really need to check out the Land Between the Rivers Historical Society Museum in the bottom photo: it's housed in a senior center and was not open. It had a "submerged once too often and all the folks who used to run it are in nursing homes" air of desolation. Rotting formerly water-logged windowsills, etc. I can guess the premise of the place. Floods and farming.

The BVM blesses the Fleet here every July.

The land between the Mississippi and Missouri Rivers is often completely underwater.

Bunny Ears

Is it a trick of light that's giving Julie those bunny ears, below? God Bless Richard Milhous Nixon and all that cottage cheese with ketchup the Ladies Home Journal says he ate for breakfast every morning. We love Presidents who know how to cuss on tape.

Rusted Gears

This corroded crane at Liberty Harbor in Portage Des Sioux, MO is a good illustration of how I feel right now: like I'll never be able to move again. Grass is growing all over my head and I can't get one damn thing done. I was, however, able to make two pin boards about dragons and radishes on the newest and stupidest social media venue now out there. At least when I was a knitting zombie I got cool and original lace shawls out of the deal ...

Unsafe and Insane

Get your "Rowdy Boys" 500 gram cake of gunpowder here!

Illinois limits celebratory incendiaries to “Safe and Sane” twinkly ornamentals which neither defy gravity nor blow up: snakes, smoke bombs, and sparklers. Is that even American? Shouldn’t a rocket’s red glare be protected by the same constitution which sanctions the retailing of rifles at Wal-Mart? This season, when I launch my illegal fusillade of “Unsafe and Insane” comets, shells, and missiles, I'll be pondering one Red Cross safety tip in particular: “Leave the area immediately where untrained amateurs are using fireworks.” Because even pyromaniacs are flammable, and, like the church sign says, “Stop, Drop, and Roll Doesn’t Work In Hell.” 

Pecan Log Rolls and TNT, our favorite "pairing."

The Carole King County Accident

Here at the Cold Dirt Press offices, we muse on all sorts of topics — including dry cleaning, appliance graveyards, Brill Building songwriters, and country music death songs. Yes, it was brought to our attention by stalwart culture queen Donna Lethal that Carole King was raised in Brooklyn, NY, Kings County contrary to this L.A. Times review of her memoir stating that she was born in Queens. Quelle horreur! Never the two New York City boroughs shall meet. In my free-form mind, I recalled the song Carroll County Accident, a favorite of the staff.

Here is Porter's performance:

And his protégé, Dolly has her turn:

 

It Has Come to Our Attention ...

that you should wear a bib when eating spaghetti, and your huge 'stache spatters drops of Chianti all over these white button-down shirts! 

XXX, 

Your Pissed-Off Dry Cleaner.