The KNOXVILLE ITEMS or The HAND RAVEN: Making the Choice on “Wending Day” -by Rick Weaver
I stood transfixed at the newsstand. The racks were filled with TWO choices. I could not make up my mind today. Sometimes abundance is a curse. Today, I had been cursed with an abundance of choices. Today, would I read the KNOXVILLE ITEMS, or would I skim through the HAND RAVEN? Today was not my day. Each newspaper was critical in its own right, critical to the success or failure of my “wending day.” I had to choose the right news or I would lose. One wrong move on my part, and my whole “wending day” would turn sour - tart as the pith of a sour patch kid. Being no stranger to either “scandal sheet,” I mulled over the merits and demerits, hoping my evaluation would lead to the smart choice. I started with that newsy weekly known as the KNOXVILLE ITEMS.
a) the KNOXVILLE ITEMS
Now, I have to admit. The KNOXVILLE ITEMS is really something. I mean, they have it all. Up to the minute news like:
i) Forecasts by Artemus the Outcast:
That’s outcast, not oucast, folks. It’s me, Artemus, predicting the weather for you. As always, this little weather-vain has punched the clock and is on the dot and on the level. Dialed in and dotting the “I”s of the storm. We are tiny-toed deep in dipping into April here, and it looks like a hard rain’s a-gonna fall after all, whether you like it or not. So get your wetbags out and keep your noses clean because when you smile the whole world smiles with you, rain or shine. My name’s not Frank, but you readers know I always play it right down the line. And today, I’ve got something to get off my chest. So what if that little tawdry punk-ass Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow? When Querencia quizzed the querent, do you think “Shadow” Morton even bothered to listen? I doubt it. More likely, Mr. Morton hit the record button and went out for a bite to eat. And what, might you ask, did Morton eat? Brace yourselves, ‘cause this “outsider” has a hunch what our Shadow had for lunch. It was benedictine, and I’m not talking about those loungeabout monks. Slugger, I’m talking Louisville benedictine, that cool as a cucumber spread whipped up by none other than Jennie “Get Carter” Benedict. And Jennie ain’t no traitor to the condiment cause. She’s a real seamstress of spreads. A real dressmaker of dressings. A real tailor of tastes. That’s right. Jennie the Genius was onto something that you could put onto something. That something being white bread. You get your cream cheese, your cucumber, your onion, and you paint the town green. Algernon Moncrieff didn’t know what he was missing. And Miss Bracknell sure didn’t either, ‘cause hungry Flowers for Algernon never let her have a teatime taste in the first place. However, if you don’t get to it and start spreading benedictine like it was Johnny’s appleseeds, you will know what you’re missing, now that you are hip to this dip. You’re up to bat, so batten down the hatches, because this is the way I, Artemus the Outcast of Alabama, recommend you take shelter from the storm. Don’t believe me? Well, take it on trust.
ii) Knock-your-socks-off headlines:
Murals in the Park
Strong Sean’s Teaser
Jock-a-mo Chokehold
Stave Stevia, a Bad Mint Once Said
A Mixture of Morning Milk and Evening Milk Divided by the Sloper
Once People Believe They’re in the Photo Booth
Vet Sounds
Life with the Worm
Punch à la Punch
The Good Old Days of Helical Lamination
Err on the Side of the Tracks
Man on the Wash is Tailed by Bliss
Howie Melts Off the Face
Raise Your Babe a Different Way this Diffident Day
Gin Cat’s Out of the Bag
iii) Traffic reports: Residents of DENMARK, TENNESSEE, take heed:
State Route 5(US-45) both directions in Madison County - Between I-40 RT. & LT. and SR-43 (CHARLES R. FITE MEM. HWY.) RT. & RAMPS TO & FROM SR-43 LT. / {CENTER OF UNDERPASS} / (BEGIN HWY-45W) / {US-45W}, bridge repair will result in a lane shift every day. This work is expected to be completed by 11/30/2014.
State Route 1(US-70) both directions in Madison County - Between LEAVE SR-20 (US/HWY-412) RT. / BEGIN US/HWY-70 and LEAVE SR-152 (SPRING CREEK RD.) RT., bridge repair will cause a reduction in lanes from two to one lane every day. This work is expected to be completed by 11/30/2014.
State Route 1(US-70) both directions in Madison County - Between LEAVE SR-152 (SPRING CREEK RD.) RT. and LEAVE SR-152 (SPRING CREEK RD.) RT., bridge repair will result in lane closures every day. This work is expected to be completed by 11/30/2014.
Interstate 40 eastbound in Madison County - Between MILE MARKER 94 (Mile Marker: 94.0) and MILE MARKER 95 (Mile Marker: 95.0), construction work will result in lane closures every day. This work is expected to be completed by 03/31/2014.
Not to mention, KNOXVILLE ITEMS has special features, like
The SHAVING SPOT with Fantasy Flounder
It was her first time at the Shaving Spot. Her first time and mine. Unlike me, though, she was “cool as a camembert.” Me? I was shaking inside with fears of cardiac alteration gone awry and entscheidungsproblematic platitudes of pamplemousse platypuses. Her name was Penny Pfennig. I never knew her until I met her. After a few sprigs of convivial carousing, I knew she was the one. I had wanted to go to the Shaving Spot for quite some time, but had never had the guts. Now that I knew a gal like Pfennig, I knew I had the guts, just as long as she took the front seat and I held down the fort. In the middle of noodling, I asked her poorly, “How about that Shaving Spot?” She hadn’t heard me. Fine, I’ll play ball, I thought to myself out loud. So I pitched it again: “What do you think about that Shaving Spot?” No answer. This is starting to get to me, I thought while grinding my teeth, this whole business of asking about the Shaving Spot to a person I’ve made up in my mind to keep me company while I chicken out on going to the one place in the world I really want to go, but, week after week, I am unable to reach. One day…one day, I swear…
It always has me on the edge of my seat, week after week, if F. Flounder will ever get to the SHAVING SPOT. And guess what, the KNOXVILLE ITEMS even have poetry! Get a load of this dithyrambic “free verse” penned by “Crazy John” Ryan Darling:
GENESIS CENTER shark & underground riptide too far apart from yesterday night vicious slack sunburn rental car sulfuric blue jeans acid at the resort acid at the GENESIS CENTER the tumbling parting act heart racing slang. couldn’t wait til l three green the bumper benders, nail biters twinkle acquisition traction roll-ups, small cancers pool shark & undergarment slack. hansom.
Crazy poem, huh? For good measure, here’s another wild one by “Wild John” Fenton “ripped from the headlines:”
ISLAND POINT
Iisllamic basmati, muñeco islamic gin slaw and tonic inland island point gin and catatonic gin cat nerve cat Murrell’s backwards thumb in the state status of the thumb sla Vereen’s benedictine reci pe p beano du süßes vieh caudal musty cdraft wildcat and gin wildcat lilies heavens above t hornbeams con thimble
thumbing through rhumba.
Yea, it’s easy to see why a smartie wouldn’t hesitate to pick up the latest The KNOXVILLE ITEMS. But wait, before you snag that rag, maybe you ought to consider the perks of the HAND RAVEN. I know I will:
b) the HAND RAVEN Sir Saddle; editor-in-chief Gina Anön; creative director Huff Hand; art director Lucy Wartrace; new research exec Woozy Anni Warden Sarang Rattan Cricket Remy Heaver Houdini Dunnit Paul Haul Kiliki Watch Car Mike; undertakings of aesthetic assistance / coded visual “environments” Joshua J. “The Jester” Levant; brand sales and marketing manager Hops; subscriptions director Bo Gusto; circulation Cinderella Carvel; control Walt Wart; forge
-1-
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FIVE-ALARM Fiction this month:
The WOLE AFRICAN -by Tav Bulee
I am getting used to living with the WOLE AFRICAN. His berkelium robes. His diamante caproate. The strange dioramas of abandoned sitcom sets. His tufts of Arabic hair loss on the counter topaz. Yes, I am getting used to him. His ancient cornpone ways. The way he looks at me with his streak of blue eyes and his blonde cathedral threads. The other night, before he lunged at me and deprived me of oxygen, he bared his teeth and hissed, “The only schizophrenic is the poet. The only American is the schizophrenic.” I cried for help, but nobody is alive except for me and the WOLE AFRICAN. In a way, when I cried out for help, I was asking for help from myself. I was asking to help myself to more cornpone. What ostensibly seems like a cry for help that echoes in the open air, is actually a cry for help internally. My cry reflected off my portal vein. The WOLE AFRICAN laughed aloud as I cried aloud. I do not know to this day whether or not it was something I did that made him laugh. Sometimes I imagine that it was something I did that made him laugh. I’ve always considered myself a funnyman, and even sometimes I go beyond the “call of duty” and transcend to become a real “bundle of joy.” I like to think that the WOLE AFRICAN was loving to laugh at something I did. Laughing at my funnyman jokes and my bumbling ways. My imagination was not true. The WOLE AFRICAN hated my ordonary ways. My modest trappist lifestyle made my brio housemate jumpy. He was all nerves. Some days he paced back and forth, muttering to an invisible floorboard entity, “Nerve cat…nerve cat…nerve cat” over and over again. He made me as jumpy as a jumping bean. He made me jump for joy. I wanted to share my joy with the WOLE AFRICAN. It was a leap of a faith when I shared a joke with him. I don’t remember the joke I shared, but the WOLE AFRICAN’s reaction I do recall. His reaction was unbelievable. I mean, the guy really went nuts. He started whapping me with a tinhorn. Really, I can’t say I was all that surprised. That guy will go off at the drop of a wig. His sensual senna pods poised beyond repose as suppositories. His psychomagical sneers on Shadow Morton. His Tuscan bicuspids of cupidity. His funicular fanny pack. I am getting used to living with the WOLE AFRICAN.
-2- —————————————————————————————— DENTON in the DARK scene report by Rich Bank
“Art is the underground of the world, and we will win in the end.” -Maria Martins, 1946
My tour companions and I arrive in Denton in the late afternoon of some languorous late Summer day. Our band, THE LEG, have been on the road for 180 days. Our travels have brought us to many towns, all of them with internet. As our car idly rumbles in the drive-thru, we are eager to get our dollar deals and get to the venue. We’ve played all sorts of venues: bars, galleries, and houses. It’s crazy to think of the fun and enriching times we’ve had. The thing I love most about travel is meeting new people. Whether it be shooting the shit, moshing in the basement, telling jokes, watching a movie with strangers, or on the internet, I feel that I get a lot out of travel. Travel gives me insight, even wisdom. That wisdom I put into words. Like the words you are reading. I keep a journal on tour. Anyone who knows my zine, STREET SHINER, knows the drill. When somebody has experienced something that has meant so much to them, wouldn’t it be a crime to not share it with the world? So I have STREET SHINER for anybody anywhere in the world to read. It’s about the little things, because I believe we will find the truth in the mundane. I believe that truth will liberate us from a world we didn’t ask to be born into. This world is so cold and unloving, yet all the people I meet in my travels contradict that viewpoint. Sometimes I am floored by the people I meet. A lot of them are train hoppers. I guess being on a train gives you a lot of time to think? Not like in the car, where a CD is being played. Just the rails and the smoke and the breeze and the boxcar. I’d love to ride a train someday. In a way, I feel bad about touring in a car. I am using so many resources (gas, maintenance, electricity, insurance) just in order to get me to different places to perform. But performance is what really makes it worth it. I know I said meeting new people was special, but I think performing is even more special. The part I like best is when I have people’s attention, like where all in this together. It might be my music and my ideas, but it really belongs to everybody in the end, I suppose. In a way, I am socialist. The old leaders did some pretty awful things, but they had some new ideas to. I guess that’s why I put my stickers everywhere. When I put a sticker on stage at a bar I am performing at, it’s like me saying, “Hey, I am you, and you are me. My home is your home.” Home is metaphorical here, cos I don’t really have a home these days. Well, I guess you could say the whole world is my home. Not the whole world, cos Ive never been outside of the USA, but the whole USA is kind of like a big couch for me to crash on. When I planned this tour, my girlfriend was real upset with me. Not to mention I lost my job by hitting the road, and I couldn’t afford to pay my bills, so I lost my room too. I was living in my friend’s closet at the time, in order to save costs. Don’t worry folks, it was a walk-in. I had plenty of space to do my thing. I heard once that the guy from Motley Crue lived in his studio space with just his guitar and a mirror, and he’d practice in front of the mirror. So I decided to do that in my closet. Except I don’t play the guitar. I’m the singer. So it was just me and the mirror in there. Anyway, she broke with me. I told her “Look, this is just what I got to do and I’m going to do it, you’re either with me or against me.” I told her that after she kicked me out. I told her that in the mirror in my closet, and not to my (ex)girlfriend’s face. That was after the boys and I had a jam session. We had started drinking early pretty early into the setlist we were rehearsing, and Tony, our guitarist, knocked over the cymbals and our drummer Leland got pretty sore at him and they got into a big verbal argument, nothing new there, that turned into shoves, and that normally doesn’t happen. Long story short, Tony got a black eye and he might not be in the band anymore. Which sucks, because Tony has been there from the start. But in a way it is cool because Mack Panic, the singer of PANIC KNIFE, has always wanted to play guitar and even more specifically he has expressed an interest in playing guitar in our band. That’d be neat, but Adam is pretty adamant (haha, no pun intended) against the idea. You see, Adam and Mack way back when in 2011 we’re in a band together, called the THE TWIST-OFFS. THE TWIST-OFFS where a trio that consisted of Adam and Mack and a drum machine. They were pretty good. I used to like to get buzzed at the bar and listen to their tunes. I especally liked the tune “Follow the Leader.” I thought it really stuck it to them. Unfortunately though the band called it quits at one unfortunate jam session. They had started drinking pretty early into the setlist they were rehearsing, and Adam knowed over the drum machine that Mack had borrowed from his girlfriend and Mack got prety sore at him and they got into a big verbal argument. Long story short, Adam got a black eye and he and Mack don’t really speak too much. Also, Mack’s girlfriend got really mad at Mack fro breaking the drum machine he borrowed even though Mack didn’t do it she said she didn’t care cos she was entrusting it to him and she broke with him. About three weeks later, Adam and Mack’s ex-girlfried hooked up. Mack got pretty sore at Adam and they got into a big verbal argument. Long story short, Adam got another black eye and that’s when me and the boys started referring to him as “the raccoon.” Long story short, Adam’s been pretty steamed at Mack for punching him a bunch and at us for calling him names. Some of the other names we call him besides “the raccoon” is “sha-no-no” “evan spilliams” and “tahkus.” All of these have long stories which he doesn’t like to be reminded of but we remind him anyway because art is supposed to be confrontational. Anyway, Mack couldn’t join the band after all because he couldn’t find a guitar, so we ha to find somebody quick before our 180 day tour that we were promoting as the 180 Degrees of Seperation world tour. I remember booking the tour on the internet and sometimes thinking about the places we would see and the people we would meet. I guess you could say I was really eager to hit the road and spent a lot of my time thinking about the “Degrees” tour more than my mirror. I would write down a lot of those thoughts, most of those thoughts can be found in STREET SHINER #24 and STREET SHINER #25 and STREET SHINER #26. It’s been harder to publish on the road and not just because I am so busy engaging with new people. One, it’s hard to convice the rest of the band to sit around in the minivan well I make photocopies in Kinko’s. On the other hand, I don’t have any money these days and it’s hard to convince the rest of the band to sit around in the minivan well I give blood for cash. In a way, the tour has been really tough because the shows havent been to well attended. I don’t get why people will drop $14 dollars to see Hollywood movies in 3-D with surround sound and cutting edge special effects and marquee name actors, but they won’t drop $5 to see a real life punk band trying to playing their best in a basement. There’s nothing like the live experience of a basement. The bunch of people’s body heat and energy mixing, the danger of asbestos poisoning, funny dogs in scarves, beer bottles everywhere. I mean, it gets really crazy in a basement. Not so much this tour, but some of our the shows have been pretty decint. The ones that stuck out in my mind are Furnace and Sacerdotal because those people have had a long tradition and history of rocking out and they want to keep the fun rolling. The people danced. And danced. Te people barked. Even the dogs barked. And right when I thought it was over, somebody who lived at the house who I forget there name said that they knew a guy who sold beer out of his house even after all the bars were closed. So for two dollars a brew, we could keep drinking. I got five more beers cause I was feeling really good in the basement and I was feeling free and thinking this is what life is all about. My ex-girlfriend didnt know what she was missing. And Adam didn’t know what he was missing either, because he had quit the band sum days before the Furnace gig because of a problem during one of our sets. Things were going pretty well, but we had started drinking pretty early before the gig when we were in the minivan and Gerber acidentally knocked Adam’s guitar stand over and he got pretty sore about it and long story short it came to punches and Adam took the next bus home. Bloomingsville was also a pretty good gig. Anyway, I included that quote at the beginning because I really do believe the DIY underground will win in the end.
-3- ——————————————————————————————
LETTERS to the EDITOR
Doom is all I can think of these days. Who can blame me? We’ll be lucky to get out alive with the way things are headed. We can all agree that we live on a rock, floating without a purpose in the universe. But what is this rock? Is it purposeless? Is it a tin can? No sir. It is a S.T.O.N.E. You with me? Let me break it down for you:
S is for Sin ————— T is for Termination O is for Over, as in GAME over N is for Nighty-night E is for Entombment
Get the picture? We’re all sinners. We were born sinners and we’re going to die sinners. We’re going to die soon. Sooner than later, sooner than now. It’s as simple as the end is certain. We are sinners. We have no importance beyond that. Beyond our importance, lies our impotence. We walk through the day like half-dazed monsters, but none of it matters. Some of us have tried to resist our important human nature, but it’s too late. Those who have tried to do “good” or to bring “peace” will be the FIRST to go, let me tell you. How do I know all this? Visions of a divine nature from the mechanized skeletal structure of the StarKist tuna-man by the foot of the stream bed of the divine mermaid of the Chicken of the Sea tuna cans. He took his glasses off and gazed off into nowhere. I watched him intently while I splashed around. After several measures of moments, the tuna-man began mumbling. I leaned in closer. He kept on mumbling. I leaned in closer. He kept on mumbling. I leaned in closer, closer, and closer still, until I was so close that my scalp was submerged in the starbucked stream of the mermaid and the tuna-man. Whoopsy daisy, I was all wet. And I still couldn’t make out a thing that that dizzy tuna-man was mumbling. So I leaned in closer. I leaned in until I was all the way under. And when I opened my eyes, I knew I was trapped in the pregnant belly of the mermaid. It was a test; it was a game of chicken of the sea. Then something really unbelievable happened. Tuna-man leaned in closer. That’s when I heard his mumbles. He said, “My name’s not tuna-man, it’s Fantasy Flounder.” And that’s when I woke up from my Undian nightmare to find that we are all trapped in the belly of a tin can; and I am here to share the truth with you today. When are you people going to wake up? -Andy Applebee
-4-
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Having contemplated the nature of the KNOXVILLE ITEMS and the HAND RAVEN, I had not reached a decision on which one to read. No matter. My “wending day” had transpired.
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