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"All the News About Hal that Hal Deems Fit to Print"
=====================================================================
AUG/SEPT. 1994 ~ Ite in Orcum Directe ~ Volume 3, Issue 5
_____________________________________________________________________
Publisher: Harold Gardner Phillips, III
Editor-in-Chief: Hal Phillips
Virtual Editor: Dr. David M. Rose, Ph.D.
Managing Editor: Formletter McKinley
Production Manager: Quinn Martin
Lifestyles Editor: Decedrick Gainous, Esq.
Living/Arts Editor: Alex Beam
Dead/Government Editor: Vincent Foster
Circulation Manager: Ronald Goldman
Weapons Consultant: Carlos "The Jackal"
Sports Editor: Orenthal James Simpson
Latter Day Editor: Orrin Hatch
Spiritual Consultant: Cardinal Mannix
Editorial Offices: The Harold Herald
30 Deering St.
Portland, ME 04101
Satellite Office: c/o Golf Course News
38 Lafayette St.
P.O. Box 997
Yarmouth, ME 04096
Letters to the editor are welcome and
encouraged. The Herald reserves the right to edit them to fit, or to
completely change their meaning to suit our ends.
ARCHIVE SITES:
world.std.com (obi/Zines/Harold.Herald)
fir.cic.net (pub/Zines/Harold.Herald)
etext.archive.umich.edu (pub/Zines/Harold.Herald)
Subscription requests to drose@husc.harvard.edu
Submissions welcome
THIS ISSUE: FAME AND FORTUNE (WELL, FAME ANYWAY) GRACE THE HERALD
HAL INTERVIEWS A REAL COLUMNIST
AN ENTIRE GENERATION IS CASUALLY REVILED
WE ACKNOWLEDGE THE EXISTENCE OF OTHER PUBLICATIONS
HOLLYWOOD TREMBLES AS THE HERALD GOES TO THE MOVIES
SULLIVAN OFFERS PERSONAL GLIMPSES OF A DRUNKEN MADMAN
NUPTIALS AND NAUSEA WITH TIM DIBBLE
AND, OF COURSE, YOUR LETTERS, ALTHOUGH THEY AREN'T
ACTUALLY YOUR LETTERS BECAUSE YOU HAVEN'T SENT ANY
LETTERS, HAVE YOU, YOU UNGRATEFUL BASTARDS
WE'RE FAMOUS!
By HAL PHILLIPS
The people have spoken and, by Jove, they clearly want more!
If, by chance, you've spent the previous six weeks strapped to the
underside of a Winnebago, you might not realize The Harold Herald and
its staff have become stupendously famous following a brief mention in
The Boston Globe, which prompted a call from WCVB-TV in Boston and a
front-page feature in the Portland Press Herald.
Carpenters are here this week widening the top halves of doorways.
Subscription and reprint requests are now being handled via our new
toll-free number 1-800-BOW-TO-ME.
An elderly, often drunk colleague of mine at The Marlboro Enterprise
used to bristle when awards - garnered by the newspaper or myself -
were announced in the publication. I would invariably bury the short
stories somewhere inconspicuous (usually an inside page) so as to
avoid the appearance of tasteless self-promotion - a practice that
drove my pickled colleague to distraction.
"You can't be afraid of self-promotion!" he would bellow, the smell of
vodka and Marlboro's enveloping anyone within spitting distance. "No
one's going to do it for you!"
My colleague (see related story) had a keen eye for the obvious - but
he also had a point.
It was his sound advice that compelled me to send a copy of the Herald
to the Globe's Alex Beam, who saw fit to mention the newsletter in his
column of July 20 - apparently a very slow news day. St. Alex gave the
Herald three lines, naming it the second best self-published
newsletter in New England behind "Owens: A Newsletter about Gardening
and Cooking."
This makes our Herald the most esteemed self-published, non-cooking &
gardening publication in New England!
It's amazing what a little self-promotion and a few lines in the Globe
can do for circulation. We've been swamped with subscription requests
and Chronicle - a news magazine show produced by Ch. 5 in Boston - has
shown some interest in doing a "piece."
The Press Herald then published a front-page feature (and picture!) on
Tuesday, Aug. 2, another slow news day. For the record, my story
appeared higher on the page than news of Michael Jackson's marriage to
Lisa Marie Presley.
"Until two years ago," reporter Ray Routhier wrote, "not a single
publication could give readers comprehensive, up-to-date information
about Harold Phillips. But one man came forward to fill this crucial
void - Harold Phillips."
My old Enterprise editor James O'Reilly got some pretty good ink in
the Press-Herald story ("Who else could write a newsletter about
himself and not have everyone throw it away immediately?"), as did the
lovely Sharon Vandermay (for her timely Limbaugh-bashing) and my mom,
whose memories of my "unspeakable acts" with vacuum cleaners were
reprinted and have surely ruined my political career.
With all this attention, there has been some fear the staff's ego -
already substantial and nearly unmanageable in size - may now grow out
of control. Hey, you can count on it!
I'm here to assure you the Herald will continue to provide "All the
news about Hal that Hal deems fit print" with all the bombast and
pretension you've come to expect.
Garcon! Caviar, for EVERYONE!
AN INTERVIEW WITH OUR BENEFACTOR
BY HAL PHILLIPS
The Boston Globe doesn't quite know what to do with columnist Alex
Beam. He sort of discovered The Herald with a brief mention in his
column, which now appears in the Living/Arts section. However, his
column has appeared as part of the business section and on the
editorial page, where the Globe tried to pass him off as a
conservative. Ha! In any case, his mention of the Herald touched off
the flood of media attention so, hereafter, he will be known as St.
Alex. The fortyish Beam chatted with us from the Big House on
Morrissey Boulevard.
HH: How has reading The Harold Herald changed your life?
AB: Um... It's made me realize what one person with a computer can do
to make the world of publishing a better place.
HH: That's touching.
AB: Why, thank you.
HH: What is your favorite color?
AB: I know it's not brown because I'm married to a Norwegian and they
have a predilection for brown... Actually, it's blue.
HH: That's interesting. I've heard you mention your wife before in
print. I was actually engaged to a Norwegian, but it blew up in my
face.
AB: Well that was your mistake: Getting engaged to an explosive,
inanimate object.
HH: When they make the movie of your life, who will play you?
AB: In my published-but-never-read-by-the-public novel, I note that I
bear an incredible resemblance to George Segal, or a young Richard
Dreyfus - the American Graffiti Richard Dreyfus. Either could be
recruited to play the mature Alex Beam.
HH: Name your least favorite cartoon character?
AB: I don't like Ren and Stimpy.
HH: Why?!?
AB: Because they're really bad, really violent and they should be done
away with. And their creator should be shot in the head. But I love
Beavis and Butthead.
HH: I won't even touch that incongruity.
AB: Thank you.
HH: Complete the following sentence: "Dip me in honey and
throw me to the ...
AB: Bees.
HH: Boring.
AB: Yeah, that is boring.
HH: If you were a head of lettuce, what variety would you be?
AB: Iceberg.
HH: Complete the following sentences: The Boston Globe would be a
better paper if...
AB: Um, if my column ran in 20-point type on the front page every day.
HH: The Boston Herald would be a better paper if...
AB: If my column ran in 20-point type on the front page every day.
HH: If The Harold Herald weren't flawless, what might improve it?
AB: I think the occasional serendipitous error would be seen as such
an incredible anomaly, it would be viewed as pleasurable by readers
accustomed to such excellence.
HH: What was the first album you ever purchased with your own money?
AB: Rubber Soul.
HH: What type of car do you drive?
AB: A little Jap job. Cheapo Honda Civic.
HH: Regular unleaded or premium unleaded?
AB: For the Honda, regular. For the Dodge van, premium. When you get
to be my age, you worry about engine wear.
HH: Where were you when Apollo landed on the lunar surface?
AB: Well, that's a trick question. I was in Leningrad reading it on
the back page of Pravda.
HH: Honestly?
AB: It's true.
HH: Did you ever contact the KGB whilst in Leningrad.
AB: Every day.
HH: Do you consider yourself a Baby Boomer?
AB: I've researched the topic and yes, I am.
HH: What went wrong with you people anyway?
AB: Baby Boomers have ruined everything. They have destroyed the
world. They're self-obsessed. Their obsession with the past is very
dangerous. I saw the other day that nostalgia is a very minor emotion.
If ants had emotion, they would have nostalgia. It's the elixir, the
balm of the small mind.
Retrospection gone awry: Baby Boomers
mark moon landing with trademark cant
BY HAL PHILLIPS
Okay, I admit it. I haven't the faintest clue as to what I was doing
or where I was that July evening when messrs. Armstrong & Aldrin set
the standard for political one-upsmanship by setting foot on the lunar
surface. I'm sorry, but I was not yet five years old during the summer
of '69 when Americans huddled before black & white Philcos and
listened to Walter Cronkite verbalize their own sense of wonder... As
best I can surmise, I was either digging my way underneath the
backyard fence or blissfully sacked out atop my rubber sheet.
However, having endured the avalanche of news coverage marking the
event's 25th anniversary, I could surely conjure a false memory and
join in the mass catharsis, contrived rot that it is.
"Where were you when Apollo landed?"
"Oh, I was still at Antioch. I remember stocking the microbus, about
to leave for Woodstock, when Mara called me inside. We sat in front of
the TV, ate some mushrooms and complained about Nixon... and the army.
Then we played some Donovan and tried to agree on our mantra for the
weekend."
"Wow, that's great... Hey, how are things at Morgan Stanley?"
Where were you when Bobby Kennedy was shot? You were at Monterey,
weren't you? Remember when we got brained outside the convention in
Chicago?
These are questions Baby Boomers still ask each other, over and over
again, usually at cocktail parties thrown by investment houses
somewhere in mid-town Manhattan. The moon landing is especially good
fodder because its foundation was laid by the oft-recalled President
Kennedy, the single greatest beneficiary of this intense need for
Boomers to explore their collective memory.
The lunar expedition, or rather the 25th anniversary thereof, is
merely the latest example the Boomers' superannuated nostalgia - made
all the more ironic by the generation's complete disinterest in
further space exploration. These are the people who castigated
American capitalism, then bought Saabs and now summer in Bar Harbor;
the people who remember the Apollo landing as a timeless example of
American will and know-how, then pointedly ask what purpose the
Shuttle serves.
Despite their vast capacity for contradiction and hypocrisy, Boomers
cling to these memories - and the ideals they once represented -
because they can't bear to look forward.
Boomers are obsessed with nostalgia because they're afraid to imagine
where in hell they'll take the country next. Responsible as they are
for the 1970s and '80s, Boomers are content - nay, obsessed with
idealization of the '60s, that period before they fucked up the
country and compromised everything for which they had presumably
stood.
The 25th anniversary of the lunar landing is just the latest in what
has been a nauseating string of '60s pop culture memorials,
orchestrated by Boomers now in control of the nation's media outlets.
And they're not done yet!
Did you enjoy Dan Rather's live report from Woodstock II? Well, get
ready for Katie Couric on location at the Cambodian border, marking
Nixon's clandestine bombings; Joan Lunden, a tear in her eye, wishing
you "Good Morning" from Paris beside Jim Morrison's grave; Peter
Jennings standing in the Rose Garden, pointing to the spot where Nixon
waved goodbye (With all due respect to the recently aired BBC
documentary, the U.S. retrospective will take place in 1999, the 25th
anniversary of Watergate's unsavory resolution when Boomers finally
ascended and their parents grudgingly stepped aside).
Mercifully, the deluge will likely stop there because, as we've
discussed, Boomers would sooner trade in their Dockers than relive
post-1974 America. Too painful. Too revealing of their own hypocrisy.
There will be no anniversary celebrations of Reagan America because
all the ex-hippies would rather not discuss why they voted for him,
why they worked on Wall Street, why they started acting like their
parents had.
Yes, by 1999, the 25-year retrospectives will give way to 30- and 35-
year retrospectives - and to a potentially larger obsession: The
institutional worry over their sullen, slacking children, those of us
in Generation X.
It's possible the Boomers are right about us. Can a generation whose
only communal memory is the Challenger Disaster possibly carry on the
American Dream?
A valid question, but here's a better one: Will the Baby Boomers ever
realize what Generation X has already grasped - namely, that Boomers
boned and gutted the Dream long ago?
Doubtful. Retrospection is one thing; introspection quite another.
BOB PRYOR: SOME GUY YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW
By MARK SULLIVAN
It could be said that white-haired sports scribe Bob Pryor played Yoda
to Hal Phillips during Hal's early days as sports editor at the
Marlboro Enterprise, in the same way it could be said Dennis the
Menace played Yoda to Mr. Wilson.
The son of a former Ziegfield Follies Girl who was herself once
publisher of the paper, Bob Pryor - schoolboy sports maven, golf guru
and devotee of Marlboro tavern society - spent decades at the
Enterprise, publishing it, editing it, then carrying on as a sports
reporter and columnist when it passed from his family's hands to chain
ownership.
By the time Hal inherited him, Bob, in his early <20>60s, was a golf-
panted, quirkily opinionated, oft-pixilated institution at the
Enterprise: He was a fount of information about Marlboro, about the
actual number of Hills on which the so-called Highland City was built,
about the Marlboro mayor in the 1940s who drowned himself in Lake
Williams, about former Red Sox player Steve Lyons' father, Itchy, from
neighboring Hudson.
Of convivial bent, Bob, to Hal's chagrin, would go missing one or two
times a night, typically to Kennedy's pub across the street where, Bob
explained, they knew how to prepare the special fish on his diet. He
was a reigning fixture at the news staff's after-work haunt, Sully's
First Edition Pub, where a drink was named after him - the Pryor
Special, a zombie-size glass of straight vodka beside a tumbler of ice
water.
Bob favored colorful polyester pants from the links and wore his white
hair in a spit curl that made him look, in the photo above his
newspaper column, like a sexagenarian Kewpie doll. Extended periods of
silence in Bob's corner of the newsroom would inevitably be broken out
of nowhere by a Tourette-like "Yawwwp!," or a whimsical "HHmmmm!"
As a Braintree, Mass. schoolboy playing basketball in the old Tech
Tourney at the Boston Garden in the early 1940s, Bob recalls, he was
described in the Globe sports-page account as "sagacious." Bob's
sagacity extends to other areas, as well. In a recent phone interview,
he held forth on a variety of subjects, among them:
Woodstock II: "My opinion of Woodstock: It's a naked drunk in the
woods. If that's what today's young people like for fun and
recreation, I'm glad I brought my three up differently."
The Baseball Strike: "I can say it in one word: Greed. How can you
collect $1.2 million whether you're on the field or on the bench? On
the road you have your meals paid for you. You get your transportation
paid for you, your insurance paid for you, your accommodations paid
for you. These guys are looking for more, more more... If they want to
be self-employed, they should take up the game of golf, where if you
don't win, you eat hot dogs."
On the Caning of Teen Vandal Michael Fay in Singapore: "He doesn't
need a smack on the bum - he needs psychological therapy. I don't
think a smack on the bum is going to help this kid."
On Worthy Candidates for Caning here in the States: "I know a lot of
politicians who deserve it. Ted Kennedy, for one. I'd like to cane
[House Speaker Tom] Foley. Hilary ought to get two of them: one
tonight, another tomorrow night."
On AIDS: "I found out today from a doctor that bleach can kill AIDS. I
was amazed! How do you take bleach. That would clean you out!"
On the Late Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis: "Jackie was not what everyone
thinks she was. It was not Camelot behind the scenes.... Way back when
Jack was running for Senator, he stopped by the old Enterprise office
on Liberty Street. In he came with her. This was an old building, but
we got the paper out every day. She walked in, looked around and said,
'This is a newspaper?'
"Jack said: 'Back in the car!'
"That doesn't mean she was a bad lady. I think she was a spoiled
person... When she married the Greek, was that love? That was a
business arrangement. Her whole life was a business arrangement. She
ran down the beach in the nude. Hey, that was her thing. I didn't
glorify her."
NOTES FROM THE UNDERGROUND
BY HAL PHILLIPS
Several sister publications have come in from the cold, that is say
they have emerged from the murky self-publishing landscape and somehow
landed in The Herald letter bin. Most found their way to Portland as
result of our recent press, though one seems to suffer from a pre-
existing condition.
... You'll notice the good-hearted Herald staff, to this point, has
avoided mention of imitation and its relation to flattery - to say
nothing of plagiarism, copyright law and respect for the intrinsic
value of intellectual property. Suffice to say, these interloping
editors are shameless in their use of 8.5- by 11-inch paper and the
English language, both of which are Herald trademarks... One of these
shameless knockoffs actually had the nerve to use italics as vehicles
for emphasis! Why, The Herald practically invented the practice!
In any case, let us take a quick, objective look at each of these,
these... HIJACKERS!
<EFBFBD> "Owens: A Newsletter about Gardening and Cooking" is just that.
Originating from Newton, Mass., Owens is published as an adjunct to a
gardening establishment there. At eight pages, the newsletter contains
expected features like recipes, gardening advice and listings of local
services & catalogs. Owens is well written, informative and pretty
clever: To sit and look at your garden with a glass of beer or iced
tea in your hand might seem like idleness. This practice can be
dignified by calling it "on-site planning." Unexpected and less-
inspired are the newsletter<65>s offbeat stories. One Owen<65>s contributor
spent four pages in painstaking character study of three women he sees
socially. Sorta boring. Readers may remember that Owen<65>s took first
place in the Globe<62>s ranking of self-published newsletters (The Herald
finished second). Staff members here at The Herald have been outwardly
gracious about the snub. Privately, the five words most frequently
used to describe the voting process have been "fucking travesty of
justice man..."
<EFBFBD> "Epiphanies in P Major" is published out of Portland, Maine, by
Roger Dutton, who either took too many philosophy courses at school,
or not nearly enough. Lots of esoteric discussion here, under
recurring headlines like "The Self Absorptions of Salesmanship,"
"Therapy and the Pendulum," "A Reaction to Antonin Artaud" and "The
Existential i." Whoa. Heroic archetypes meticulously explored through
the writing of Campbell, Sartre and Morrison (that<61>s right, Jim)
interspersed with healthy portions of my all-time fave, poetry. It
seems as though Roger did his best to include all the things I hate
most. Not his fault really. Mine alone.
<EFBFBD> Adrian Praeter, one of my college roommates in London, recently
weighed in with "Adrian<61>s Oracle," published (rather crudely, I might
add) with financial assistance from fictional sponsor Jiffy Condoms,
whose motto is "Get it on in a Jiffy" - an ironic advertising
relationship considering Adrian<61>s sexual tag line, "Finished in a
Jiffy." In any case, Adrian is an actor so when he isn<73>t doing odd
jobs, he has a good deal of time on his hands. A large portion of the
publication (a.k.a. The Orifice) is dedicated to deftly taking the
piss out of me, the world of self-publishing in general, and The
Harold Herald in particular. As an Englishman - embittered by his
country<EFBFBD>s tragic plunge into oblivion - Praeter<65>s anti-American
carping is to be expected and, well, pitied. Sad really. He is,
nonetheless, quite a clever boy. For example:
An actual letter from Adrian<61>s bank manager (and the Ginger Nob<6F>s
reply - not, incidentally, "Dear Fascist Bullyboy, Give me some money
you bastard...) are set against lively faux letters, like this one:
Dear (No madame, it<69>s not a third leg) Praeter: Thought I<>d just touch
base and fill you in on the details. Well, what about old Henry huh?
You know, our old alumni... alumnut... aluunni... tit... arsehole,
arrium - sure we all know him, so everybody<64>s interested right?
Horoscopes: Virgo - Stop! Read no further. Go to your room, get back
into bed and stay there! Go now! ... Has he gone? Good.
Capricorn - Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha... no honestly, you<6F>ll be
fine.
Advice: Dear Auntie Ada, I have recently been dumped by my boyfriend
A****N. What he doesn<73>t know is that I have a very infectious form of
genital herpes. I was going to tell him but I couldn<64>t be bothered. Do
you think I am being selfish? Yours slyly, X, London.
Ada Expostulates: Selfish? You? Nooo... You bitch! You sodding tart!
How the hell could you do such a thing to such a genuinely nice,
sincere, loving bloke?
Personal ads: Marlies and Agnetta, 21 & 22 respectively, seek slightly
older man for lessons and fun. Name must begin with "A". 071 443 5899.
International News in Brief: "Shock result in USA presidential
election. Young English actor elected on a very liberal ticket. Stand
by for further details."
<EFBFBD> The Highly Esteemed Howl is published by a pair of 14-year-olds who
live right here in Portland. So let me say, before I teach the little
fucks a journalism lesson they<65>ll never forget, that I am truly moved
by their literary pluck and plain ol<6F> enterprising spirit. Actually,
without the aid of desktop publishing, Eli & Eli have put together an
interesting book with good stunts, like the recently concluded "I<>m an
Infringer" contest that allowed readers to transgress copyright laws
by sending in a good newspaper comic and printing it in the Howl. Of
course, the winner chose Garfield, which is part of the problem
here... Hey! They<65>re 14! Cut <20>em some slack!
Some heavy Beatle worship on Elise<73>s Page spun off into this bit:
Woodstock <20>94: Of course, it isn<73>t going to be half as cool as the
original Woodstock, and there will probably be a lot more drugs, and
it will be violent, and, uh, well, 1994 just is not the summer of
love!" How<6F>s that for Boomer envy...Wonder where they picked that up?
"They don<6F>t learn these things on the streets..."
WHY NOT TAKE IN A MOVIE? GLAD YOU ASKED...
By DAVID M. ROSE, Ph.D.
Cinema Critic Pro Tem
I<EFBFBD>m not a big movie person; in the past year I<>ve seen two: Mrs.
Doubtfire (fluff) and David Lean<61>s Lawrence of Arabia (four-odd hours
of absolute bliss). With a record like this, I would not presume to
tell anyone which movies they should see. However, after careful
consideration of this summer<65>s offerings, I believe I am uniquely
qualified to tell you which movies NOT to see.
The Flintstones: Say what you like about Hollywood, this movie proves
its creative minds are not afraid to try new things. Imagine taking an
old television show, and making it into a movie! The casting here is
particularly impressive: the lead role of Fred Flintstone, a fat
simpleton, is played by John Goodman, who is undeniably fat and
simple. Before you go see this one, ask yourself two questions: First,
how likely is it the movie will be better than the TV show? Second,
how good was the TV show? Case closed.
The Mask: Why is Jim Carrey famous? He started out as The White guy on
In Living Color, and he was about as funny as Garrett Morris playing
The Black Guy on the first couple seasons of Saturday Night Live.
Carrey<EFBFBD>s only other credit of note: title role in Ace Ventura, Pet
Detective. No, I haven<65>t seen it, but how can a movie with this title
be good? With this resume, suddenly he<68>s a superstar, hailed as "the
new Jerry Lewis." With the exception of a few demented Frenchmen, has
anyone been clamoring for the old Jerry Lewis? Another problem with
this movie is the emphasis that has been placed on its special
effects. Lookit: Jurassic Park proved the kids at Industrial Light and
Magic, given enough cash, can do anything they want to do as far as
special effects are concerned. Now that this fact has been
established, there is no reason to be impressed by special effects.
Finally, there is already a movie called Mask, and it stars Cher and a
sort of malformed Danny Bonaduce*. I do not want to relive that
experience.
The Little Rascals: Help me, lord.
Forrest Gump: First, this movie has already been made twice before.
The first time it was called Being There, and the second time is was
called Zelig. Of course, the special effects are much more
sophisticated that those used in Zelig but, again, special effects are
just a matter of how much money you have to spend. The biggest reason
I will never see this movie is that I have seen the commercials on TV
and I cannot sit for two hours listening to Tom Hanks talk like Deputy
Dawg on Quaaludes. And I like Deputy Dawg.
The Lion King: Walt Disney is the purest manifestation of evil on this
Earth, and all Disney productions are pure shit. The most inane Warner
Bros. cartoon (probably one of the 15 billion baby kangaroo ones) is
so intellectually and artistically superior to the best Disney cartoon
it makes me positively woozy. If you have children, and if they beg
you to see this movie, give them heroin instead.
(* Eric Stoltz played this role. Cher was a biker babe who, with her
physically deformed yet incredibly well-adjusted son, traveled from
West Coast campsite to West Coast campsite with her various multiple-
tattoo boyfriends. And ya<79> know, those bikers accepted Cher<65>s bulbous-
faced son without prejudice. It was touching - Ed.)
LETTERS TO THE EDITOR
Well, thanks to the recent media firestorm, the mailbag is full
this month as never before. Interesting, though; nary a letter from
our electronic audience. Lets hear some chatter out there, people.
Letters, submissions, queries, potshots, etc. can be directed to
drose@fas.harvard.edu.
d.
To the Editor:
Well, now that The Herald has been blazoned across the front page of
the
Portland Press-Herald, featured in the Boston Globe, and open to
anyone with Internet access, I suppose all that is left is to go the
way of Kurt Cobain, who eschewed the fame he attained. (If he hated
success so much, why did he keep performing in public? Asshole.)
Please, for the sake of your readers, assign the story of your suicide
in advance so that it will be captured in print. Should you decide to
issue press passes to the event itself, count me out. I won<6F>t be party
to these publicity stunts.
Regretfully,
Alison Harris
Cumberland, Maine
Ed. I assure you, madame, there will be no eschewing of fame from
these offices. But while I'm contemplating my own mortality, despite
your protestations, the story is yours.
Dear Mr. Phillips,
I read about you in the paper the other day, but since you obviously
have a better press agent than I do, you probably did not read about
me in the paper.
My name is Elise (not Elsie) Adams, and I am the founder of a lovely
little publication called the Highly Esteemed Howl. I have been doing
the paper for a little over a year, and have 100 less subscribers (or
whatever you wish to call them) than you do, but hey, I try.
I enclosed the latest issue of the Howl (August issue) . I hope you
enjoy it. Made by a couple of 14-year-olds, its the best issue in a
while (doing a magazine during an attack of mood swings is not
advisable). I admit that two entire pages for Eli & Eli is a bit much
for them, but Sage backed out of his astrology forecast at the last
minute.
I was hoping, if you readily agree of course, that perhaps we could
trade - one year of the Howl for you and six months of the Harold
Herald for me? (The HH is two pages longer than the average Howl).
Don<EFBFBD>t worry about paying for the Howl. Since the Herald is free, The
Howl will be, too. After all this is a trade. The reason that the Howl
needs to be paid for by everyone except those named Harold, is the
fact that I<>m 14, do not have a job, and somebody has to pay for the
stamps.
Elise Adams
Howl founder, editor,
writer, distributor, publisher
Portland, Maine
Ed. Kid, you got yourself a deal. Actually, the Howl is well ahead of
the Herald in some aspects of the printing process, namely, using both
sides of the paper.
Dear Mr. Phillips,
While in Maine last month on a three-week New England vacation, I was
fortunate enough to read the news story in the daily newspaper
[Portland Press-Herald] about your individual newspaper. I was
captivated because it was very nearly the same thing I had done last
year after a two-week writing workshop at Bennington College. There
were a dozen of us at Bennington studying non-fiction writing under
Sven Birkerts, a published essayist and English professor. We
established such a bond that we attempted to keep together through a
newsletter, which I undertook to edit. The idea was they would write
me and I, in turn, would edit their news for the whole group. To prime
the pump, I started putting out a weekly newsletter about what I was
doing. Sven commented that I had the best documented life since Samuel
Johnson.
Letters from the others dwindled, and although it was tremendous fun
writing it, I finally reached the realization that nobody out there
was listening to what I was saying. I<>m afraid the paid subscription
does more than pay for postage and printing; it is a vote of
confidence and interest. I suspended publication.
I would greatly appreciate receiving a copy of The Harold Herald. If
you have discovered the secret of writing non-fiction that sustains
interest week after week or month after month, I need to learn from
you.
Wayne Boyce, editor
The Stream of History
Newport, Ark.
Ed. I don't yet charge for subscriptions, so what you can learn from
me remains to be seen. The secret to sustaining interest with non-
fiction, it seems to me, is the secret of newspaper column writing.
And the secret to column writing, as I see it, is not giving a
tinker<EFBFBD>s cuss what people do with their votes of confidence. Not
giving a shit makes it easier to grab a reader by the throat. Until
that happens, send it to them whether they want it or not. There -
take that to your writer<65>s workshop and discuss it.
Dear Harold,
Could you enroll me as a subscriber? My qualifications: I am a
Wesleyan grad (<28>63); I have one foot in Maine (Wiscasset home); I am
opinionated in weird ways - for example, I am a strong proponent of
television violence. Hard to beat that.
Further qualification: I will pay money. How much?
Jib Fowles, Ph.D
professor, media studies
University of Houston
Ed. Whoa, media studies. They don't teach that at Wesleyan, my fine
friend. Good thing you're employed by an institution unhindered by the
principles of liberal arts education. But Dr. Fowles is okay. He sent
me a buck. On our scale, that<61>s worth a lifetime membership.
By HAL PHILLIPS
NANTUCKET, Mass. - The splendid Messinger residence here in sparsely
populated Madaket, wedged in the island's southeast corner, features a
stupendous porch that nearly encircles the shingled, two story
structure.
Just beyond an open field teaming with stands of love grass, the ocean
can be seen - and heard. With nothing to quell its momentum between
here and Bermuda, the heaving Atlantic slaps the sandy shoreline,
providing porchsitters a continuous, briny overture of cacophonous but
nevertheless soothing tones.
Hidden from the revelers - around one corner of the porch - lay would-
be groom Tim Dibble, his soft groans drowned out by the crashing surf.
For two days he gamely indulged himself and friends by downing
repeated libations and deflecting other drinking schemes with
customary <20>lan.
Dibble had escaped Night I of this bachelor weekend (July 22-23), but
his luck ran out at 11:34 p.m. on Night II.
After much prodding from yours truly, Dibble finally listened to the
better angels of his nature before spewing them over porch's edge.
Three feet from his preferred spot of expectoration, Dibble gracefully
laid himself down, his nose and forehead there to break the fall.
Catatonic, his now-fetal form lay half on the porch, half inside.
As Dibble would have wished, guests resumed the business of partying,
periodically checking on their fallen hero to make sure he was
breathing. "Trap-her" John McIntyre, M.D. returned from one visit and
assured those gathered that Dibble's listless demeanor was nothing to
worry about.
"His rectal tone is normal," said the good doctor.
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
The end, for Dibble, was swift if not painless. He was in fine spirits
at 11 p.m. that Saturday night, despite having absorbed numerous shots
of tequila, several bong hits and a lobster/clam dinner. He appeared
capable of riding out the evening sur porch, yukking it up with his
substantial coterie of friends.
But fate and friendship intervened. Ringleader Allan Jones soon
proposed a pair of cement mixers (shots of different liquors, poured
independently and held in one's mouth, shaken about, then swallowed)
for Tim Dibble and Ben Taylor. Herr Dibble responded well, as did the
Mount Desert Islander Taylor.
But just then, fellow MDI native and Wesleyan grad David MacDonald
took the opportunity to make a touching, albeit devastating gesture:
Single-malt scotch whiskey and tacky Maine crafts!
By Jupiter, a truly devilish combination!
Mac first presented the fast-fading groom-to-be a hologram picture of
a clipper ship in choppy seas, explaining how it symbolized the young
Dibble before he agreed to marry. Mesmerized by the ever-shifting
waves, Dibble hunched ever so slightly and began to breath heavily.
"Bad timing," Dibble muttered under his breath.
Next MacDonald presented Dibble a picture of two cuddly kittens
painted on a piece of wood, symbolizing the serene union of Tim and
his betrothed, Maureen Holland. Despite the manly nature of those in
attendance many a tear was shed, so cute were the wood-bound kittens.
Unfortunately, Dibble's head was now in his hands and would remain
there for the duration of his waking evening, which is to say, about
10 minutes.
MacDonald repeatedly offered the would-be groom a shot of single-malt.
Rudely, I thought, Dibble refused. The bride's brother then invited
Dibble to perform with him three-way cement mixer consisting of
scotch, tequila and clam juice left over from dinner. Wisely, I
thought (considering the clam juice), Dibble refused.
Besides, the end was only moments away.
MORE DIBBLE
By HAL PHILLIPS
NANTUCKET, Mass. - An event on the order of Tim Dibble's bachelor
party should be accorded what we in the trade call a "sidebar," a
piddling little complementary story that runs alongside a story of
great magnitude. If Dibble blows chow, it's automatically a story of
great magnitude. Hence, the need for a piddling story like the one
printed below, which runs through the moments of hilarity that
couldn't be addressed in the bigger, more important Dibble story that
appears elsewhere in this month's Herald.
In any case:
<EFBFBD> This was a first-class bachelor party all the way. No fat strippers
jumping out of cakes; no raunchy films; no greasing the groom-to-be
with gobs of vegetable shortening and mounting him from... Like I
said, real classy.
Beautiful seaside location. Catered meals. Even a chartered boat for
the ride from Hyannis to Nantucket. Having flown from Portland, I did
not experience the excursion. But it was reported that Dibble only
bared his buttocks to passing boats on two occasions. And Joe Novicki
only once!
<EFBFBD> Pretty much everyone arrived at the Messinger household Friday
night, and drinking began immediately. At about 1 a.m., a crowd of 10-
15 walked three minutes to the beach where we played some beach soccer
under an incredibly bright, full moon. Sometime during the game,
Dibble and Ben Taylor rankled each other - in a nice way, of course.
The groom-to-be responded by clubbing an unsuspecting Ben over the
head with an enormous beach toy resembling a Hippity-Hop - only
bigger. While surf rolled his limp body back and forth in the surf,
Ben somehow lost his shoes. When he regained consciousness, Ben
rejoined the game and laid on Dibble one of the nastiest tackles in
the long history of MBSWNG (Moonlit Beach Soccer With No Goals). The
next day, Ben remembered nothing of either incident. His shoes were
never recovered.
<EFBFBD> For a brief five-minute period on Friday night, ringleader Allan
Jones dubbed Paul Buckovitch the "Faux Dibble," and convinced poor
Paul - with the aid of 30 excitable boys singing the "Ole" song - to
consume three consecutive tequila shots when everyone, in fact,
expected Dibble to do the shots. Brilliant! Jones should be commended
at this time for... oh, why bother.
<EFBFBD> Jammin' Jim Jackson picked me up at the airport and shared a few
libations with me at the Rose & Crown, a bar where Jammin' used to
work during college. After their chartered boat had docked, Dibble or
Jones were scheduled to stop by the Rose & Crown, pick me up and take
me to Madaket. After considerable delay, Jones shows up with Dibble,
who was sporting a bowling ball chained to his ankle (no kidding) and
a T-shirt that read: "Dip me in honey and feed me to the lesbians"
[Ed. At this time, the staff would like to apologize to all Herald
readers who happen to be lesbians or bowling enthusiasts. We also
apologize to people who might know lesbians personally and consider
them friends. However, apologies to lesbians who bowl - especially
candlepin - are withheld. That just isn't natural!]
<EFBFBD> All weekend, Jones, Novicki, John Cullinane and Dibble took turns
crapping on each other's girlfriends. Dibble carried the day with
ease, however, slamming Jones and his significant other, Maria, who is
actually beyond reproach. While discussing why the Knicks had lost the
NBA title to the Rockets, Dibble explained: "The Knicks would have won
if Maria hadn't kept Oakley up all night before Game 7."
<EFBFBD> In a quiet moment, Marc Brown and I agreed that, when it came to
figures from popular culture, Dibble most resembled Sherman from the
"Sherman and Peabody" cartoons on Bullwinkle. As it happened, I had a
Sherman and Peabody T-shirt with me for the weekend... Trippy.
OBITUARIES
Lily Vandermay, 1993-1994
Portland, ME - Lily Vandermay, a border collie/spaniel mix who
liked to chew things up and play on the beach, was hit by a car the
first week in August.
While walking through Deering Oaks Park here, Ms. Lilly bolted after a
squirrel and into the busy road. The end was quick and, the
veterinarian insisted, Ms. Lilly did not suffer.
She was one and a half.
It is with great sadness that we report to Herald readers the untimely
death of Lilly the Dog, who was first spotted by Sharon Vandermay at a
Brunswick animal shelter in May 1993. Legend tells us that Ms. Lilly
licked Vandermay's hands and promptly rolled over, looking for a rub
on the stomach. This would become her trademark.
Like most dogs, Ms. Lilly was not the brightest bulb in the box.
Indeed, one of Vandermay's gentlemen callers affectionately called her
"Posty" (as in "dumb as a post") and "Flea bag" (for no particular
reason). Yet, even this cat lover was eventually won over by Ms.
Lilly's good nature and obvious affection for Ms. Vandermay.
Ms. Lilly leaves her mom, Ms. Vandermay; her aunt, Cathy Vlietstra;
and hundreds of colleagues in Portland's dog subculture who continue
to roam East End Beach, the West End Cemetery, and Deering Oaks. In
lieu of flowers, memorial contributions can be made to the animal
shelter of your choice.
(copyright 1994 the harold herald all rights
reserved for what it's worth)
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