A Journal of Humor and Verbal Anarchy

 

harry blogger and the potholes of doom

J.K. Rowling, the author of all those bland Harvey Potter novels , has raked in over $400 million so far, peddling a rehash of C.S. Lewis.

Maybe she'd consider buying Ithaca. A town badly in need of a remake. Some twinkle dust. Slip us all a mickey and let us sleep it off.

Somebody bought a town on E-Bay this year. From all reports, it was one of the few places in the USA that ranked below Ithaca as one of the worst places to live. Even Michael Serino in the Ithaca Journal agrees. Ithaca is a wrong turn in a bad dream.
Did you all read that? Hey, the guy writes a column. He must know what he's talking about. Do you see him picking cans and bottles on the Commons? What's wrong with the guy, anyway? Spouting off like that.

J.K would know how to bring back the ole' magic glimmer to I-town's city streets. Anybody who sold 10 million 2 lb tomes to kids who don't even own a credit card yet would know how to fix up this boomless town. Probably be a better mayor than a guy who ran a restaurant. Didya know that Norman Mailer ran for mayor of New York? Twice?

Now, a lot of people question the literary merit of the Harvey Potter novels. Not the people standing behind the cash register. Not the parents who have bought the lie that Harvey Porter will lead to Victor Hugo; that a frightfully bad novel that weighs 2 lbs and costs $27.95 will open little minds to the joys of reading. Hey, Mein Kampf may have turned a lot of little German minds on to the joys of reading too, but beyond that?

Robert Graves once wrote, "There's not mucb money in poetry nor is their much poetry in money." Actually, that quote is from a speech Graves delivered in 1963. He certainly didn't deliver the commencement speech at Cornell. If you follow Graves' logic, you'd probably guess that J.K won't be trying her hand at poetry any time soon. Another 7 or 8 more Harry Porter novels to tide the little creeps over until they make it to college. One a year. Certainly not poetry.

Why doesn't she just buy a college? Then she can change over the curriculum and write textbooks. Harvey Porter and the Principles of Advanced Calculus. Harvey Porter and the Lessons of History. Harvey Porter and Plant Science. Harvey Porter and Cat Neuroanatomy.

J.K.'s got $400 million. She's filthy rich. Rich people buy colleges, start colleges, whatever. Rockefeller, Carnegie, Stanford, Ezra Cornell.

Why doesn't she just buy Cornell and throw the city of Ithaca in for good luck.Change the name to Warthog University. Hey, would enrollments go up or what? We're talking pure gold now. Instead of yellow bricks on the Commons, we'd have real gold bricks. A Harvey Porter theme park. Everybody would paint their faces and dress up every day. Wear wizard caps. Nobody would have to pick cans or bottles anymore. We could just sell used Harvey Potter books.
Comments invited at: ezrakidder@gmail.com - Peace, Ezra at 9:58 PM

 

new cult on the block

Move over, Twelve Tribes. The new cult on the block, the Thirteen Cabals, have arived in Ithaca to assume the mantle of most bizarre socio-religious amalgam to grace the sublunar landscape. Hey, it's the lake waters, glowing out there in the moonlight like a big gatorade slick that attract these whackos.

We've all read now about how the 12 Tribes, that zany bunch of communards who follow some Arkansas bible thumping con-man named Earl Spriggs (sounds like a character Humphrey Bogart would play) recently plopped down $1.5 million for the Home Dairy building and the Ithaca Fitness Center. What readers probably don't know is that many group members eat at the local soup kitchen. Jesus saves on meals so he can afford to speculate on real estate. Adherents embrace a heady stew of Mormon-like Judeo-Christian mytho-gibberish with some communism thrown in for flavoring. The matriarch of the Ithaca contingent looks like Colleen Dewhurst dressed in KungFu pajamas. This Saturday a bunch of 12 Tribesmen were parked in front of the Home Dairy building on the Commons, dispensing free Mate (their own blend of java) to passerbys, endearing themselves to the public and the hardworking competition at Juna's.

Well, if Jesus saves, Pythagoras hoards. The Thirteen Cabals descended on Ithaca this week like a StarTrek convention, dropping a cool $25 million to buy Center Ithaca, the Short Stop Deli, the old CVS, Simeon's, 3D Light, Autumn Leaves and Talmadge Tire. And, yes, they all dress like Mr. Spock, accept Pythagoras and Lester Maddox as their personal messiahs, advocate having safe sex with robots, go around picking Macintosh computer components from dumpsters, assemble the parts into a time machine that transports them back to 302 BC to participate in Graeco-Roman bowling tournaments. They walk around Ithaca, lugging copies of the Kaballah and Monopoly board games under their arms, dressed in pink jumpsuits. In other words, the Cabalists pretty much blend right in to the I- Zone's human parade.

It's nice to see that people believe in something these days besides shopping.

Ez knows a thing or two about cults. He was once inducted into the Rotary. Yeah, he was living in a place called Pleasant Valley, New York. As you may well imagine, there wasn't much else to do besides join a covert coterie of businessmen and golfers whose mission was to make sure that everyone in the world wore pocket protectors. It took a couple of weeks of deep deprogramming in a Motel 8 before Ez finally went cold turkey on those plastic do-hickeys that almost ruined his life.

Cults come and go. The hills around Ithaca are dotted with hidden encampments, abandoned, dilipidated compounds that had formerly housed Babas and gurus, brainwashed hippies, mantra-mouthing flower children, born again Hindi-Lutherans, free-loving lotus lizards.

It's when they move into town that you start to have a problem.
Comments invited at: ezrakidder@gmail.com - Peace, Ezra at 7:39 AM

 

the curmudgeon's creed

I'd like to believe in God, but am not sure He believes in me,
hasn't called me up in years, is alleged by a lot of otherwise unreliable people to be the creator of heaven and earth but a lot of
scientists think that matter is just a miasmic soup of
random atoms colliding in the dark night before time.
That actually makes a lot of sense if you look at the results; then again, most scientists are unreliable too,
are all waiting around for big grants from corporations
and are known to doctor the facts for a little extra cash.
But I do believe that Carl Sagan
may come back in a space capsule,
that you might see him one day shopping
on the Commons with his dog along with
Marx, John Lennon and Bobbie Kennedy.
It won't be the third day but this is surely hell on earth,
even though it has a lot of gorges.
Whether or not he's come back to judge
the living or the dead depends totally on
whether he can find a parking spot.

I believe that the Almighty Dollar is the
spirit that hovers above everything,
that the corporations rule the earth,
that George Bush will get a second term
and turn the clock back to the 50's
and that they will probably pick places
like Ithaca to build concentration camps
because it resembles Poland, that in a few years
there won't be any clean air or water, a
cup of coffee will cost $10, that the rich will get much richer
and the poor will all be sent to Africa to contract Aids
and watch endless tv reruns with Sally Struthers.

I believe that Martha Stewart is
really the BVM, that she probably had a son
with Richard Nixon, that he's slouching towards
Bethelehem in a humvee to announce the formation of a new, totally streamlined, just for profit,
holy, catholic church,
and we'll have to go into Wal-mart to receive the sacraments.

Furthermore, I believe that the grass is always greener on the other side,
that nothing good can come out of nothing good,
that it does a lot of good to complain, even though no one listens,
or as Ezra Kidder says, I complain, therefore I exist.

Comments invited at: ezrakidder@gmail.com - Peace, Ezra at 6:55 AM

 

crunching the numbers

Ezra is stepping to the plate to solve Ithaca's 2004 budget shortfall. No, he's not running for Mayor. Well, at least, he hasn't decided yet to throw his beanie into the ring. Who knows, however. Anything is possible in the crazy valley.

For starters:

Mayor for a Day - Plop down $100 and you, too, can be Hiz/Her Honor for a Day: 24 fun packed hours, presiding over empty store fronts, potholes, watering holes, lawsuits, granola heads, potheads. Take bribes, go to lunch with a developer, attend a ribbon cutting at the next big box store to come to Ithaca, supervise construction at a parking garage, let the raw power go to your head. Do the math. 365 times $100. Not bad, eh?

Adopt a Pothole Community organizations can adopt their own favorite seephole, erect a little sign, collect hubcaps. $200 a pothole. The Greater Ithaca Rotary Pothole. The Friends of the Library Pothole. The Knights of Columbus Pothole. There's plenty to go around.

Name a Street Imagine that. You, too, can have a city street named after yourself or, even after your pet, for that matter. Horace T. Griswold Street, Tommy Kowalski Ave. Rover Blvd. The ultimate vanity trip. At $2,500 a pop, it won't be cheap, but it will sure confuse the tourists.

Flea Tax - We spent a year quibbling over the dog ordinance. Now it's time to argue over fleas. Why should those tiny hitchhikers go wherever they want, hopping from pooch to pooch without fiscal restraint? Ok. You want to bring your flea bag downtown? Get ready to have his stowaways taxed.

IQ Tax Hey, we've got 40,000 big brains wobbling around up there on the hills, not paying a single penny in taxes. You can't charge them property tax because they squeeze into all those little apartments, you can't charge them income tax because they live off their parents, you can't levy a school tax because they actually go to one, so....
Charge them an IQ tax.

Meeting Tax - Check out the Community Calendar lately? There must be a hundred meetings a week - the Sharks, the Ithaca Tuna Fish, The Brides of Frankenstein Steering Committee, Rotary, VFW, the Greens, Vegans for Jesus, you name it, they meet every week, most of them over Joe Wetmore's Autumn Leaves big box bookstore. Tax the suckers. More than three people get together for more than 5 minutes, it's not a drug deal, it's a meeting.

Bumper Sticker Tax - Hey, you want to wear your cause on your bumper, ante up. Save the Whales, Stop the War, Go Solar, Free the Curdmudgeons, Pay a Tax. They tax books, they should tax bumpers. Most bumpers in Ithaca read like one of Noam Chomsky's bad dreams.

Recycling Tax - Hey, it's income for 30% of the population around Ithaca. Make them fill out a W2 at the Recycling Center.

Loitering Tax - Hey, the taxpayers paid for the spiffy new street lamps on the Commons. So, if you want to hang out under them, empty your pockets, dudes. If you don't park downtown, you don't shop there, you don't dine, you don't drink, you don't work, then you're considered persona non gratis, an economic terrorist. the deputies will start casing you over, the dawgs will start sniffing your pants legs. So take yourself over to the Assessor's Office in City Hall and pay up. Get a tax stamp. Then buy something, will ya? It'll make us all feel better.

Toll booths on Rt. 13 Hey, tolls paid for the NJ Thruway, didn't they?

License Shopping Carts - You may be able to drive a car but it doesn't mean you should be tearing around Wegman's behind one of those metal lemons without a license. Eye test $25.00, Road test $50, License $75.00.

Ez is just getting warmed up. We'll turn this deficit around in no time. Then we can start issuing tax cuts..
Comments invited at: ezrakidder@gmail.com - Peace, Ezra at 11:09 PM

 

un-knowing

Ezra has been testing out one of his pet theories.

Wait a minute. 'Pet theory.' Who came up with that expression? At some point along the winding stretch of evolutionary black top, between the domestication of the first chicken and hatching a sheep in a test tube, humans actually found time to house break theories? That could explain why we invented the newspaper.

Ez has a yellowing stack of Ithaca Journals in a corner too. Unread. Even the cats have little interest in the IJ. They much prefer the granular, bumpy Sahara-like surface of their cat litter to the soggy feel of newsprint. Do they imagine they're little Lawrence of Arabia's when they sit on the john? Who knows?

And that's exactly the point. Who knows. Ezra has decided to cut off the outside world, stop reading newspapers or watching tv news, eradicate talking heads from his diet, go cold turkey on MacNeil Lehrer, end the madness.

The other day Ez was walking down Cascadilla Street. A bunch of anarchist, dumpster -diving, drop outs he knows lives down there. They live on the margins of Ithaca society and are having a ball. Ez lives on the fringe and that's a different story altogether.

Anyway, the closer Ez got to this little nest of ultimate naysayers the more signs of political disenfranchisement he noticed. Chalked messages on the sidewalk. That kind of stuff. Then he spied an Ithaca Journal dispenser with the slogan 'Buy a Lie" grease-pencilled on the front.

Exactly.

Everything that's fit to print is a lie. Ezra would prefer not to know what's happening in Iraq. Who cares if they're remaking Baghdad into another Las Vegas? What ever happened to Tariq Assiz after he gave himself up? Are they working him over with a leather truncheon in some bunker? Where's Saddam, bozo? Tell us where Saddam is or we're make you eat your beret. You wouldn't know what's happening to all those guys even if you did listen to the news. They kept those people in outdoor enclosures for over a year in a prison camp in Cuba and nobody cared.

America is becoming a closed society. You only know what they want you to know. A lot of progressives may spent their time huddled over computers, getting the latest buzz off the newswires, but they're only working on their social tunnel syndrome.
Imagine working as an ace commentator on Counterpunch, having to come im every day to make up a new conspiracy theory. Bush knew about 9/11 in advance? Sure, he did. And Madonna is dating Pat Sajak.

Anyway, Ezra's theory is that it's better not to know than to know. It's better to be clueless than to think that you know what you really can't know. Better to let your imagination wander willy nilly where it will than to be just another duped consumer of the world wide knowledge industry.

Congress is talking about deregulating the media biz. That means that Time Warner can own the Ithaca Journal, the Ihaca Times, Channel 10, Channel 78 and the Pennysaver. What kind of news do you think you'll get then?

It's time to let go and free float above the ocean of information.
Comments invited at: ezrakidder@gmail.com - Peace, Ezra at 8:31 AM

 

un-heroes

It's not easy being a Progressive in an unprogressive, retro-50's, cartoon-patriot world. Not a single day goes by that America doesn't seem to be slipping back into the days of J. Edgar Hoover, the Cold War, the hoola hoop and the quicksand of universal blandness. To most of the world, we represent the bully on the block, thugs with laptops, warmongering hoodlums ready to take over someone else's oil wells without a 'please, beg your pardon' or even a nod from the UN.

Here in liberal Ithaca, folks walk around with signs, 'Not in my Name.' We have French Festivals to celebrate Gallic resistance to the imperial Bush agenda. Ithacans visiting Europe this year will probably walk around with buttons that read 'I Apologize' or 'Wasn't Me.' Or, how about pinning the ticket stubs from the last bus trip to DC to protest against the war on your lapel instead of an American flag?

Progressives feel isolated, alone, cut off. The media establishment has sold out to the other side. It's not worth buying the Sunday New york Times except for the exercise of carrying it home or hauling it out to the curb on recycling day. Thomas Friedman waffles between writing editorials on 'Why They Hate the US' and pushing Israeli war bonds. There's hope, however, today. The Times is reporting that Ariel Sharon criticized Israel's occupation of the West Bank. That's like Goebels coming out against the Holocaust.

So what do you do? what do you read,? What do you teach your children?

Che Guevera didn't write any children's books. At least none that have turned up anyway. Subcommandante Marcos isn't making the round of talk shows. He seems content sucking his pipe, itching under his ski mask and wearing the wrong kind of ammunition around his shoulders for the gun he's lugging. You can buy Zapatista gear for your kids down to the ski masks and bandoliers with fake bullets but they'll still be mistaken for right wing Colombian paramilitary.

Kids need heroes. If you don't supply them with examples, the little suckers will start aping Arnold Schwatzennager, or playing with Tom Clancy video games filled with images of techno-mayhem and laser-guided murder. All the left wing heroes are in the past. Today's heroes, whether they be in the jungles of Chiapas or the streets of Seattle wear face masks. Let's face it, kids aren't impressed with the likes of Leon Trotsky, Emma Goldman. Joe Hill, Malcolm X and Huey Newton. They're looking for real life, action heroes with whom they can identify.

That's why Ez has started to write a children's book in his spare time. He's only got the rough draft of the story line down so far. As usual, he's eager to share.

The hero of Ezra's story is named Don QuicksOat. As you may have already guessed, the story is based on Cervantes' Don Quixote. Hey, everything is a rehash today. All the great stuff was already written between 1400 and 1960. If Disney can rip off the classics, why can't Ezra?

Don is an unlikely hero. If he wasn't an unlikely hero, would he really be a hero? The Marine Corps stamps out likely heroes, makes them run around in the hot sun with 80 pounds of gear, spend hours practicing bayonet techniques, combat killer flies in places like Georgia or North Carolina. Those guys are either going to turn out to be true heroes or they get shipped off to the Pentagon to walk around in a maze trying to figure out where the men's room is.

He was an organic farmer who lived in a tiny, home-made cabin on the outskirts of EcoVillage. His neighbors could all afford $150k condos with solar panels and built-in cappuccino bars but Don lived in relatively obscure poverty, scraping out an existence growing organic rhubarb and cucumbers. He dreamed of combating the spreading evil of genetically modified foods, super-pesticides that cause birth defects in bunny rabbits, and big argribusiness. In other words, he wanted to be a Green Knight.

One day, Don woke up from a fitful night's sleep spent on his lumpy futon rescued from the Salvation Army. He had dreamed all night of building windmills to harness natural energy. Suddenly he knew for certain that he was the chosen one; he was being called to a mission. He had to go out and stop WalMart from building a 75,000 sq. ft. megastore next to the Sacred Gorge, a giant monstrosity that would block out the scenic splendor and leach contaminants like motor oil into the water table. Many other eco-knights had tried but failed. Big boxes had slowly crept over the landscape of Ithacaland. There were big box bookstores, big box drugstores, big box grocery stores, big box laundromats, big box liquor stores, big box one hour photomats. Big boxes everywhere. Little hippie boutiques were languishing on the vine from competition with nationally franchised businesses. It made Don sad.

The source of Ithacaland's distress was the evil Mayor, Alan Cohen, also known as the developer's friend. Al Cohen lived where ever some big Syracuse construction mogul or Ithacaland real estate baron paid the rent. The slippery politician hadn't filed a financial disclosure form in years. Unlike Don, he looked like a knight of the round table, possibly Sir Lancelot with his scrubbed, altar boy looks. Don, on the other hand, looked like he had slept in a dumpster or fallen in a pothole. Alan Cohen never met a developer he didn't like. Whether it meant dishing out 25 year tax abatements, surrendering 250 parking spots, or forcing small business owners out using the City's right of eminent domain, Al was ready to do whatever was required to feather his own nest and turn Ithacaland into a facsimile of Los Angeles.

Don raced out of his cabin, collected some redeemable cans and bottles to buy breakfast at Collegetown Bagels. Don always had the same thing for breakfast. Organic tofu spread on an organic sesame seed bagel with a sprout of organic lettuce thrown in for color. He liked to wash it down with a cup of Gimme Coffee Sumatra blend with Swiss-processed water.

Outside the bagelry, Don met Sancho Lopez. Sancho was pulling Red Bull cans out of a recycling bin. He looked like your average upstate NY MesoAmerican wearing a seedy Army jacket, a cross between the Noble Savage and a Bowery bum but, next to Don, Sancho looked pretty well groomed. A knight needed a groom. So, after exchanging pleasantries like 'Got any extra change, man', Don talked Sancho into following him into battle for the Holy Cause. It didn't hurt that Don knew the location of a fraternity dumpster filled with Corona empties.

Don needed a trusty steed to complete his knightly equipage. So the two of them, knight and groom, trekked out to the salvage yard on the Danby Road. They spent the entire day searching among the rusted hulks of VW's, Suburus, and bombed out Hondas. Finally, Don spotted the filly of his dreams. The sun refused to gleam on the rust-encased chassis. It was a '68 Volvo with a murky gray finish, if you could call it that. The poor thing was covered with bumper stickers that went back to the Bay of Pigs and the nuclear disarmament movement of the 60's. A Black Panther strike fist covered the entire trunk. But, even with 375,000 miles on the engine, the thing was still running. Don slapped down his $150 and drove out of the yard with Sancho behind the vehicle supplying some motive power.

It's time now to say a little about Don's girl friend. In Don's eyes, she was the fairest of the land. A maiden of the purest order. Her name was Kali after some fierce ancient Indo-European blood-sacrifice demanding goddess and she was a Lieutenant-Colonel and Defense Minister in the Wymen's Underground Army. Kali generally wore a sexy camouflage outfit with hobnailed boots, a bandolier, a tee-shirt with the ferocious image of Lorena Bobbitt carrying a butcher knife on the front. The criss-crossed tribal scars on her face accentuated the luster of her skin and highlighted her close to the scalp crew cut.

There wasn't anything that Don wouldn't do for Kali. He dreamt of winning great battles against Monsato and DuPont to prove his worthiness for her love. In more mundane moments, he fantasized that one day they would live together in an eco-palace in the woods and raise free ranging chickens.

Anyway, back to our un-heroes. Ezra, in his rough draft, leaves them trying to get their rusted out Volvo up Buffalo St. to do battle with the Big Red Dragon that lives in a cave on top of the hill, and spews out foul plutonium contaminated breath on the hapless citizens below.

Actually, that's as far as Ezra has gotten in the plot. He's sure the whole thing will make a great movie too. And a sequel. People need inspiring, progressive, politically correct, nonsexist, non-eurocentric stories to tell their kids.
Comments invited at: ezrakidder@gmail.com - Peace, Ezra at 1:48 PM