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All the News About Hal that Hal Deems Fit to Print
=====================================================================
JAN/FEB 1995 ~ Ite in Orcum Directe ~ Volume 4, Issue 1
_____________________________________________________________________
Now The Best Self-Published Newsletter
in New England - Some Guy at the Boston Globe
(Owens went belly-up)
Publisher: Harold Gardner Phillips, III
Editor-in-Chief: Hal Phillips
Lifestyles Editor: Bill McCartney
Bile Editor: Trevor Ledger
Virtual Editor: Dr. David M. Rose, Ph.D.
Eyebrow Editor: Rep. Richard Gephardt
Production Manager: Quinn Martin
Weapons Consultant: Bill Cotter
Spiritual Consultant: John C. Salvi III
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
ARCHIVE SITES:
fir.cic.net (pub/Zines/Harold.Herald)
etext.archive.umich.edu (pub/Zines/Harold.Herald)
Subscription requests to drose@fas.harvard.edu
+-------------------------------------------------+
| TECHNOLOGY BREAKTHROUGH |
| Direct electronic access to our Editor-in-Chief |
| is now possible: HPHILLIP@BIDDEFORD.COM |
+-------------------------------------------------+
Funding for The Harold Herald is provided by our contributing
readers including:
GOLD SCEPTER CLUB
Allan Jones
DAMNED GENEROUS CLUB
Patricia Carillo
Sally & Lou Cooper
SOLID CITIZEN CLUB
Thrya Porter
Lora Alley
RISEN ABOVE PETTY TALK OF PERVERSION CLUB
Elise Adams
WARM SPIT CLUB
Hillary Nangle
Submissions welcome
SPECIAL NUPTIAL EDITION
/-/ \-\
HARD LUCK, LADIES...HE'S TAKEN
By JOHN ROBINSON
PORTLAND, Maine - Nunneries up and down the Eastern Seaboard have been
overwhelmed with frantic applicants as word continues to spread of Hal
Phillips' stunning engagement to the lovely Sharon Vandermay. "She was
stunned," Phillips explained, "whereas I had grown quite used to the
idea. Forking over all that cash for a ring tends to sober you up
pretty quick."
Public reaction to the impending nuptials has been nothing less than
staggering. Religious retreats from Maine to Florida report the single
largest influx of potential female reclusives since revelations of
Rock Hudson's long-concealed homosexuality. A goodly portion of theses
nuns-to-be wore T-shirts which read, It's Hal or Abstinence.
"Our heavenly father has truly blessed us," said Sister Mary Theresa
Fishbein, mother superior at Our Lady of Untold Misery in Scarborough
where 20 young women signed up the morning of Dec. 11, one day after
Phillips slipped the rock on the fair Ms. Vandermay's elegant finger.
"A lifelong commitment to the Lord's work here on Earth is perhaps the
greatest sacrifice a woman can make, short of a eyebrow or clitoral
piercing. I must say, however, that never in all my years of servitude
have so many women given themselves to God in such a short period of
time - and in such a state!
Sister Fishbein explained the resident linguist at Untold Misery,
Sister Unquestioned Faith Sledge, has been called to the admissions
office full time because many of these young women arrived at the
nunnery quite distressed and speaking in tongues. "Clearly, the Word
has penetrated their very souls," said Sister Fishbein. "Apparently,
this young man, Mr. Phillips, is quite a stud."
Greater Portland has been particularly hard hit by news of the Dec. 10
engagement, performed in the groom-to-be's apartment following a
holiday cocktail party at the home of Susan Hall, a fellow resident of
30 Deering Street. Tavern owners in the city's Old Port area report a
65 percent drop off in female attendance, while Portland's retail
lingerie sales have also plummeted.
"Most of the women I've contacted believe there isn't much point in
making themselves available or desirable - at least, not anymore,"
said Trixie Momberger, lascivious affairs coordinator at the Portland
Chamber of Commerce. "The drinking establishments have really
suffered. Gritty McDuff's and Brian Boru are veritable morgues. The
women are staying home, which means the men follow suit.
"Those women who do venture outside their homes claim they have little
reason to socialize. The few I've seen in bars and taverns just mope
around, fighting back tears. "I'm happy for Hal and Sharon. But it's
sad."
/-/ \-\
THE DATE IS SET; MOST OF YOU CAN'T COME
By HAL PHILLIPS
GREAT DIAMOND, Maine - Thank heaven for base closings!
This, of course, is damn near heresy in Maine, where Loring Air Force
Base and the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard are about to go the way of the
dodo. However, because the lovely Sharon Vandermay has accepted my
wristless hand in marriage, we've decided to get hitched here on an
island surrounded by Portland Harbor, in the shadow of Fort McKinley.
This 19th century military installation was considered - then rendered
- obsolete by Congressional types from an era gone by. It's a good
thing, too. If they hadn't shut the place down in the 1950s, we
couldn't have our wedding there on Saturday, Oct. 7, 1995.
Though myriad details remain, some have been settled. The entire
affair will be held here on Great Diamond, a 20-minute ferry ride from
downtown Portland. The reception will take place in and around Diamond
Cove restaurant, which sports a big porch, a lazy lawn rolling down to
Cocktail Cove (where the ferry docks), a fresh-water pond, a beach bar
across the way, and lots of room to roam, drink in hand. If all goes
well, the sun will shine and shimmer through the leaves, which should
be turning that time of year. On the high ground sits Fort McKinley
with its brick, Victorian quarters situated around a parade ground.
Though they were built as barracks and officers quarters, they've
since been tastefully remodeled inside. We're hoping guests will
choose to rent these townhouses (which sleep six to 10) and stay the
long Columbus Day weekend. The wedding will be small in stature, so
don't be offended if we can't accommodate you. We seriously considered
running off to a justice of the peace, so you'll understand if this
affair comes off on the diminutive and relatively informal side. The
party will also be small - four people in all. Brother Matthew will
serve as my best man and the fetching Cheri Carpenter, Sharon's good
friend from Chicago, is the maid of honor. The ceremony, probably
Unitarian, will be held on the island.
Stay tuned to this station. Sharon and I will interrupt your lives
with marriage updates as the situation warrants.
/-/ \-\
PHILLIPS DIPS INTO SOCK DRAWER, POPS QUESTION
PORTLAND, Maine - This much we know:
Hal Phillips and the lovely Sharon Vandermay, who've dated since June
1993, attended a Dec. 10 holiday cocktail party downstairs at 30
Deering Street, in the apartment of one Susan Hall. After retreating
upstairs, the well-oiled Phillips generated the requisite nerve and
popped the question.
"I asked her to marry me; she asked me if I was serious; I said I was;
and then she said yes," explained Phillips, who reportedly did not go
down on one knee. "Then I laid the rock on her. It was hidden in my
sock drawer, but was figuratively burning a hole in my pocket.
"That's the long and short of it. As to how we got onto the subject of
marriage, what exactly was said afterward, or where Venus stood in
relation to Jupiter, I can't say.
"And it's none of your business."
The groom-to-be indicated, rather less curtly, he could not have
purchased such a suitable ring (the fair Ms. Vandermay maintains she
truly likes it) without the help of upstairs neighbor Mary Fowler, who
accompanied Phillips on the last of three jewelry store junkets. In
addition to modeling every ring within reach and repeatedly contorting
her face with glee, Fowler provided the perfect amount of guidance and
affirmation.
"Mary was my official taster," Phillips explained. "I went out and
narrowed it down to three or four candidates, then she came along to
help close the deal. She actually picked the one I had already chosen
in my mind.
"Armed, as I am, with this knowledge of Mary's taste in rings, I plan
to accompany her future husband on a similar excursion."
For her troubles, Fowler was summoned down to Phillips' apartment
following the proposal. She joined the happy couple in a champagne
toast - champagne from the lingering revelers in Hall's flat.
Relatives and friends were then subject to a series of late-night
phone calls.
/-/ \-\
LETTERS TO THE EDITOR
Mega Dittos Hal,
I loved it!!! Personally, I find the Harold Herald very witty - wrong,
but witty nevertheless. Why does this fine rag endeavor to distance
itself from the mainstream media? Many of the opinions expressed in
the Herald are little more than the "unbiased, insightful journalism"
represented by the dominant media cult of depravity. Incidentally, I
was pleased to see the Herald was the only major news/opinion outlet
to correctly note that no incumbent Republicans lost their seats in
the U.S. Senate or House. Congrats. I hope that at some time I will be
able to contribute to your fine publication. Perhaps I could be your
sports page editor (title: Dominant Big Man Under the Ice of the
Garden, or The Big Stick). On second thought, the Herald really needs
a society page editor before it needs a sports guru.
"Frampton Comes Alive," Peter Frampton... and I am still proud of that
purchase. In fact, I have, from time to time, owned this album on
vinyl, 8-track, cassette and currently on CD.
Well, I've given this subject far too much time from my day. Hey, that
might have been a good thing. Please give my best to the staff at Golf
Course News. Until the GCSAA in San Francisco... Happy Newt Year!
P.S. The following quote is correct in context and meaning. Don't
choke on it, you bleeding heart Trotskyite: "It [golf] would help
enormously in increasing the health, the vitality, and the prosperity
of the nation, and would do much to counteract discontent and
Bolshevism." - Dr. Alistair Mackenzie, Golf Architecture (1920)
Skip Lynch
Corvallis, Ore.
Ed. - Readers will have to forgive Mr. Lynch who, following November's
GOP landslide, finally resummoned the nerve to wear his extensive
collection of "Nixon was right" buttons. Indeed, he hasn't taken them
off in three months. Mr. Lynch works for Seed Research of Oregon
(SRO), a loyal Golf Course News advertiser, and so he will not be
taken to task for his crypto-Nazi political views. It should be noted,
however, that Lynch was behind SRO's recent hire of Albert Speer as a
consulting agronomist... For the enlightenment of you non-golfers, Dr.
Mackenzie is one of the great golf course architects of all time,
having designed Augusta National, Cypress Point and Baltusrol, among
others. Unfortunately, historical accuracy requires me to relate that
Dr. Mackenzie was a British aristocrat cut from the same mold as
Anthony Hopkins' lord in Remains of the Day. He also preferred
aeration machines to women.
~~~
As a rule, the Herald staff does not tolerate poetry. But Fred Owens
sent us this odd bit of verse and an exception was made. I mean, the
guy's newsletter just went in the tank (See Notebook). It's the least
we could do.
"Love Sandwiches"
Tall buildings.
It's never like it seems.
And it's different in Europe. Tidier.
People have a way of talking over there.
The books lie on the floor.
This elbow, that elbow, what does it matter?
I need new socks. I finally finished the letter to Rosana.
A highway full of trucks, Western Wyoming Interstate 80.
Truck stops at night. Driving. Driving.
Through Utah, a long way to the beach.
Is this work or what?
Songs help me remember.
Young girls, younger than my daughter.
Eighth grade girls with school bags.
It does matter. Everything matters a great deal.
Chuck says he loves Christmas. I do too.
I never eat here at the Au Bon Pain.
I still miss Louise. I see her house on the hill everyday.
At night I see the light from her kitchen.
A strategy for personal finance.
A date with the beautiful Egyptian woman,
if I can get ever get her phone number.
The people next to me speak German.
This coal,
This dragon,
This field of wheat
Fred Owens
Newton, Mass.
Dec. 15, 1994
~~~
Dear Hal,
Your last newsletter made us feel like crap. Little did we know that
you are suffering financial hardship as a result of publishing The
Harold Herald. We just never figured that spreading Hal Phillips'
gospel throughout the country (nay, world!) could be something that we
could personally facilitate.
It is so rare these days to feel that we are really doing something.
We are delighted to send you a small contribution, even though we
don't have jobs and you do. We want to feel like contributors. I bet
everyone else will, too.
What a great feeling!
Felicitations on the news of your engagement! We were delighted to
meet the fair Sharon last summer, and feel you are doing the right
thing. Urge her to keep her job.
Happy new year and love,
Sally & Lou Cooper
Sargentville, Maine
Ed. Thanks, guys, for your generous donation to our Circulation
Endowment. For readers in the dark, the Coopers are old friends of my
family. They live upstate, near Blue Hill and Deer Isle, in a rambling
farmhouse where the Phillips brood once spent a memorable week circa
1972. Upon revisiting the place this past summer, I was struck by two
things: the smell, which my brain had stored in tact; and the glorious
barn where, as kids, we played day-long games of freeze tag. Solid
liberals that they are, the Coopers recently held in the barn a fund-
raiser for a local Democratic state senate candidate. George Mitchell
flew in from D.C. to speak... Hang in there, Sally... and Lou: Lose
the ponytail.
~~~
Hal,
Happy to send a bit to help you out, especially since The Clubhouse
Newsletter has been on hiatus since my foray into graduate school. I
hope to have a special Christmas Collector's edition out soon, which
we'll of course send to you, as well as this small token of
appreciation for your monthly sarcasm.
Next time you're on Mt. Desert Island or Ellsworth visiting relatives,
come by and see me & Dave. Thanks again.
Lori Alley, editor
The Clubhouse Newsletter
Bar Harbor, Maine
Ed. - No, thank you! Enjoy your lifetime subscription. Devoted Herald
readers might remember past mention of our sister publication, The
Clubhouse Newsletter, which deftly details the lives and times of
several longtime Mt. Desert Islanders, among them the abovementioned
Dave MacDonald, noted loose-lipper and Wesleyan graduate. Readers may
also have noticed the discreet way that Lori described her donation to
the Herald's newly created Circulation Endowment. She's got class,
something we don't bother with here. It was $5. And she's a
struggling student! Those of you with jobs should be ashamed of
yourselves...
~~~
Dear Hal,
Fresh from reviewing another stellar issue of the Harold Herald, I was
touched by your delicate plea for funds. Knowing several of your
readers personally and, therefore, knowing your call will not be
answered, I wanted to respond quickly and generously.
I've enclosed a check for $30. In return, I would ask that you add the
following people to your mailing list. They are business
associates/friends of mine who read one of your issues one day on a
trip to Hartford. They were howling the whole way. They are: Rob
Griffin and Ed Maher.
I trust all is well with you. Best wishes for the new year.
Sincerely,
Allan Jones
Cambridge, Mass.
Ed. - Allan Jones will henceforth be known as Sir Allan Jones, the
knighthood earned through his marked generosity and recruiting skills.
I take back everything I've every said or written about Sir Jones -
and the fair Maria, for that matter. And, uh... sorry for misspelling
your first name all these years.
~~~
Dear Hal,
I cannot tell you how disappointed I am to not have received a return
to my latest fax. I put it down to the fact that you were intoxicated
when you sent it and just haven't regained consciousness. All those
exciting events in Maine in the winter, no doubt. Either that or you
collapsed into a snowbank and froze something off.
The only advice I can offer on the wedding details - and I know you
don't want advice on wedding details - is to get the invitations out
early, even if it means compromising a bit on the design. But you
almost certainly won't have to do that in the U.S., even in backwoods
Maine there.
That and whatever you do, no matter how much she wants you to, no
matter what promises are made, no matter for how many days following
the ceremony she swears to continue indulging* you, have absolutely
nothing to do with a) dresses, b) make-up, c) hairstyling, d) shoes,
or e) anything else related to bride or bridesmaid preparation on the
day. This means the peripheral (making phone calls, picking things up
or dropping things off, asking friends for recommendations) in
addition to the obvious: shopping, choosing, etc.
It's the one and only thing that has allowed me to remain sane.
I look forward to your reply.
Robert E. Glucksman
Bangkok, Thailand
Ed. - The above letter of congratulation was penned by a contributing
editor to Golf Course New Asia Pacific and, I assure you, the
abovementioned fax was returned in kind. Mr. Glucksman was married to
the charming Sandy on Jan. 16 in Bangkok (though delighted to have
received an invitation, I was forced to send my regrets). Considering
some of the war stories I've heard, Rob should be forgiven his hands-
off approach to wedding preparation. The real test will come when he
attempts to take the same tack with his post-marital sex life. As for
his assertion relating to my intoxication, for the record: I make it a
point never to drink when operating office equipment.
* Exact phrase altered for purposes of refinement.
~~~
Dear Harold,
Let me tell you, hmm... maybe I should bring out my suthin' drawl...
I am from Charleston, S.C. Yes, the city and culture you slammed in
your sham of a zine. Sorry we are not as "to do" as you Northern folk
or, shall I say, you New Englanders (I am a "post," remember). The
reason the water sucks in Charleston is because Charleston is a
peninsula, that means island (whoa, am I genius or inbred?). Islands
on the East Coast are surrounded by this big, salty ocean thing -
imagine it . The water is treated by water treatment facilities and
pumped through the city.
Hmm... Now, if the water is salty before it is treated, should it be
salty after it is treated? We's ain't rocket scientists. We ain't be
knowin' that kind of answer.
Maybe you should stick to Evian and wheres you be from, pretentious
boy. We's ain't knows whats kind of watuh we be drinkin. Thank yuh
for clearin' it up. We ain't be knowin' how stupid we alls is,
neithuh. You should be president or sumthin.
Not to (is it t-o-o, or two?) sincerely,
Jennifer Dougherty
College of Science and Mathematics
University of South Carolina
Columbia, S.C.
Ed. Hmm... Can't think of much to add. Seems you've done my job for
me. I might point out, however, that Charlestonians surely don't stock
their reservoirs with desalinated ocean water. And for the record,
there's a big difference between peninsulas and islands... I guess I
vote inbred.
~~~
Dear Hal,
Thank you so much for the ongoing information and stories you have
sent me over the last few years in the crude form of the Harold
Herald. I have enjoyed reading the articles but do miss the crossword
puzzles I usually get in an ordinary publication. I hope you will
address this in future issues.
On a more serious note, Hal, I have been entirely remiss in getting up
to see you in Portland to hang out and play some golf. I really do
intend to come bother you this spring/summer.
Life has been treating me well. I've led a busy and full life lately
that I will share with you in more detail in the near future. Alas, I
must go write some college recommendations at this moment and so have
only have time to tap out this short note.
I am now on America on Line and you can reach me on e-mail via the
following address: Remenator@AOL.com. I would love to be put on the
e-mail version of the Harold Herald. And I'm a Mac user, if you want
to attach it.
I'll drop you a few dollars in the mail to support my habit, and
perhaps throw an article your way in the near future. Be well, Hal.
Sincerely,
Stu Remensnyder
The Loomis-Chaffee School
Windsor, Conn.
Ed. - Readers could learn a great deal from Mr. Remensnyder who,
despite playing on the Wesleyan golf team with yours truly, has gone
on to become a reasonably productive member of society . First of all,
it's important to really need the Herald, like a drug. And drugs, as
most of us know,
cost money. Enough said. Second, readers who would like to receive the
publication via the Internet need only supply me with their e-mail
addresses. The Herald's e-mail information is listed on the masthead
(page 2). Good to hear from you, Stuart. A WesGolf reunion/grudge
match is definitely in order. And continue to set a good example for
other Herald readers: Send money. Now.
~~~
The train stamp is a sign,
This stuff by Mark [Sullivan] and John [Lamontagne] is good. But I
ain't heard from Luke, Peter or Paul. Nothing but nothing from Thomas
the
Doubter? So, what gives, Hal? Ya want a Herald that "Hark the Angels
Sing," but ya gots to include all the disciples; all the references to
Buddha "pointing to the moon"; and all the needs of Muslims who must
pray 800 times a day because they don't know that human beings are
praying all the time... Godammum.
So, you get the drift, Hal.
Tell John he can live in Portland and commute to Boston in a year. And
tell Mark that, if he's inside the law, his real work and play will
become more obvious to him if he sends stamps and money to keep your
Herald harking.
Anonymous
Portland, Maine
Ed. - What are you afraid of, Gospel Boy? Loopy, mystery letter here.
Might be the Unibomber... The clues: The envelope did bear a train
stamp, posted from somewhere here in Portland. The writing (a man's,
in all likelihood) was scrawled on the back of a Herald page from the
December '94 issue (page 3, which featured articles from Mark Sullivan
and John Lamontagne). So, logically, the author must be a reader - or
a reader's acquaintance. Now, we provide correspondents a pretty wide
berth around here. We don't mind when letters aren't signed (though
we'd prefer it). We don't even mind the callous stereotyping of
Muslims (Allah, I trust, will sort this out himself). But we will NOT
tolerate the defacement of Herald pages! So watch your caboose,
Defacer.
~~~
Dear Hal,
Enjoyed the Harold Herald, particularly some of the misspellings. You
have obviously mastered the art of the intentional typo, an artful
tack which, as you know, gives proportion to otherwise flawless self-
promotion. You play your readers perfectly, like the way Armand
seduced you into buying those Fez caps with his cute-but-broken
English. Honestly, I really like your publication and I'm honored to
be on the list. The consensus around here is the Herald is witty and
the editor good looking - but I cleared up the second part. If you'd
prefer that I ante up for the subscription, I'll be glad to
contribute. At least I will reciprocate with sub to Metro Golf. We,
too, welcome any suggestions or letters.
I haven't yet written my piece on Morocco. Can't quite find the words
f or an all-expense-paid, poorly planned trip to an exotic-yet-third-
world, quasi-golf destination. Just after our return, Joan Short [the
trip organizer] called to probe my appraisal of the trip and line me
up for next year. If you go, I hope you can find another side-trip
cohort. I'll be happily situated here, far from Elvis adulators and
close to women who appreciate slurred English.
Two final notes: You'll be either inspired or offended to hear that
breathing nothing but cigarette during our trans-Atlantic flights were
cathartic for me. I have quit altogether - no preaching implied. Also,
I played 18 with Curtis Strange a week ago - he's good.
It was great to hear from you. Keep the Harold Herald coming and call
or write when you can.
Best Regards,
Learwood Malcovich Alexandria, Va.
Ed. - Thanks, Learjet. It's gratifying to hear that someone
appreciates the time and effort that go into my intentional typos.
Keep your eyes peeled for my next obscure literary device: the
seemingly inadvertant run-on sentence. As readers may have deduced, I
met Linseed on my trip to Morocco. Lawford's from the South but
nevertheless comported himself admirably during our stay in North
Africa. Tour organizers had a helluva time getting Lubovitcher's name
right. For the record, it's Linwood Mallard... I'm not making this up.
/-/ \-\
PETER COOK, 1938-1995; GREAT BEYOND THE FRINGE
By LUCY D. PHILLIPS
WELLESLEY, Mass. - Hal asked me to write about Peter Cook, a British
comedian who died this month. Few Americans knew him, but he was
important to the Phillips family. He was one of four hilarious English
guys who did Beyond the Fringe, a satiric revue of the early '60s. In
1962, when Hal's father and I were dating, somebody played us the
record. We bought it (still have it) and saw the show in 1963.
We were on our honeymoon, in New York City, on our way to the
Berkshires (where we eventually heard Joan Baez sing "Don't Think
Twice" with somebody named Dylan...) My in-laws had offered us tickets
to a Broadway show but were baffled by our choice. Like most older
people, they had never heard of Beyond the Fringe, whose fans were
mostly young and/or the same people who would later love Monty Python.
We were 24 and 26 at the time, the age of Peter Cook and friends, who
had all done theatrics at Oxford or Cambridge.
Only Cook had worked in show business. His colleagues were Dudley
Moore, Alan Bennett and Jonathan Miller. Most Americans know Moore,
who later surfaced in "10" and "Arthur." Some know Bennett, who taught
history and now writes plays like "The Madness of George III." Only a
few are familiar with Miller, my favorite genius, who has directed
films and plays, and wrote a public TV series on the human body.
Anyway, our kids grew up on bits of Beyond the Fringe. They were
borrowed into the family lexicon, especially from our favorite sketch:
Peter Cook as a minor who "could 'ave been a judge, but never 'ad the
Latin." Other catch phrases include "the very thing we're looking for"
(coal) and "not enough to keep the mind alive" (repartee among miners)
and "running at the coal face with your 'ead and scrabblin' at it with
you bare 'ands" (our metaphor for too-zealous effort).
Cook became a comic actor and writer whose films include two Python
projects, even a recent golf video (Hal, check it out!). He and Dudley
Moore did more revues and records, and played Holmes and Watson in
"Hound of the Baskervilles." They were "the long and short of British
comedy," according to The New York Times.
In Beyond the Fringe, Cook was tall and thin. Dudley Moore was short,
thin and hyperactive. Alas, both grew wider and I fear Cook drank too
much - it's a bad sign that he died at 57 from gastrointestinal
bleeding. If so, I am sorry because such a funny man should have been
happier. In a PBS obit, someone said he amused friends for hours with
his improvised monologues. He amused us for 33 years, and we can still
play the record.
Ed. Considering his weakness for drink, Peter Cook may have been at
his genuine best when he and Dudley Moore performed their extremely
profane "Derek and Clive" routines: Two pathetically drunken pubbers
discussing the finer points of masturbation ("going for a wank") and
arguing over whose cancer is nastier ("I've got cancer of the
asshole!", "Well I've got cancer of the cosmos!"). I also remember
fondly a routine where Cook is casting a production of Tarzan and
Moore hops in on one leg, hoping to land the lead. Says Cook, "Your
right leg, I like."
THE MINER'S SKETCH
The following bit was performed by the late Peter Cook as part of
Beyond the Fringe, a satirical British revue from the early '60s. Mr.
Cook often performed this monologue sitting on a small stool. He
always delivered it deadpan, staring blankly into the crowd:
I could've been a judge, but I never 'ad the Latin... I never 'ad the
Latin to get through the rigorous judging exams. They're very
rigorous, the judging exams, very rigorous indeed. They're noted for
their rigor. People come out of them saying, "My God, what a rigorous
exam!" And so I become a miner instead. I managed to get through the
mining exams. They're not very rigorous. They're no rigor involved
really. There's a complete lack of rigor involved in the mining exams.
They only ask you one question. They say, "Who are you?" And I got 75
percent on that. Of course it's quite interesting, gettin' out lumps
of coal all day. It's quite interesting. You're given complete freedom
to do what you like, an absolute free 'and, provided you get out a
two-ton of coal every day. But the method you do it, you can use any
method open to you. Hackin' and hewin' is the normal one. Some people
prefer the hackin', others the hewin'. Some people do the combination.
I'm a combination man myself. I do the hack an' hew both. Then there's
running at the coal face with your 'ead - one of the worst methods,
know as the Bad Method of getting out coal. There there's scrabblin'
at it with you bare 'ands, the Almost as Bad Method of getting out
coal. And there's myriad others.
It's quite a varied life you 'ave down there. The trouble with it is,
the people! They're extremely boring conversationalists, extremely
boring. All they talk about is what goes on in the mine. Extremely
boring! If you're searching for a word to describe what goes on, down
the mine, "boring" would spring to your lips. They go on and on! If
ever you want to hear a boring conversation, just pop down the mine,
there it'll be. Things like:
"Hello, I've found a bit of coal."
"Have you really?"
"Yes, no doubt about it. This black substance is coal all right."
"Jolly good, the very thing we're looking for."
It's just not enough to keep the mind alive, is it? I sought solace in
the printed page, quite frankly. I'm quite interested in the world of
literature... But the trouble is, all this knowledge I've got out of,
is useless - useless as regards to judging. They require Latin for it.
I wish I'd 'ad it because it's safer work, judging, than mining.
You're not troubled by falling coal, for one thing... You get judges
remarking on it. They say, "Hello, no much coal falling these days!"
And what's more, being a miner, as soon as you're too old and tired
and ill and sick and stupid to do your job properly, you 'ave to go.
But the very opposite applies to judges - so all in all, I'd rather
have been a judge than a miner.
/-/ \-\
OBLIVIOUS LIKE ME
By DAVID M. ROSE
BOSTON - It was Tuesday, Nov. 8, 1994, and the American political
landscape was about to be radically altered. The transition to a one-
party state was not yet complete; the executive branch retained some
constitutional powers, Bob Dole was considered conservative, and Newt
Gingrich was less well-known than Elvis and less admired than God.
I sat in my living room and listened as election results from across
the country arrived via the radio. There were a few high points: Pen
and I high-fived at the news of Ollie North's defeat; and it was clear
early on that Ted Kennedy, his avoirdupois and bad back
notwithstanding, had staved off a spirited attack from a beaming,
overgrown Eagle Scout inexplicably named "Mitt." For the most part,
though, the news was disastrous. Democrats great and small were going
down to defeat, while Republicans across the country were giving
victory speeches that summoned up images straight out of Triumph of
the Will.
At around 10:30, National Public Radio (a quaint relic of our nation's
past) predicted the Republicans would gain control of both the House
and Senate. With the same calm that befalls a doomed man as he climbs
the gallows, I stood, crossed the room, and switched off the radio. I
had heard enough. The News Blackout had begun.
The idea for the Blackout came to me a week or so before the election.
I had been following every nuance of the electoral process for months,
and I was exhausted. I simply needed a rest. A solid month of complete
isolation from the weighty issues of the day, I reasoned, would be
just the ticket. If the Blackout meant that I would miss the GOP
gloatfest that was sure to follow the election, so much the better! I
resolved that, following the Tuesday night returns, I would be news-
free for the entire month of November.
Logistically, the Blackout was tricky. No more NPR, obviously. That
was easy enough at home, but at work (where I normally listen to six
or seven hours a day) I had to avoid radios that I didn't control.
The result was that I spent a lot of time trying to work while
discreetly humming and covering my ears and generally behaving like
Jerry Lewis. Newspapers, too, were easy to avoid at home, but I had to
be ever-vigilant while walking the streets, lest I glance at a vending
box or a discarded paper and read a headline. Finally, I had to avoid
any conversation that had to do with current events. This was tough
for the first couple of days, since people were abuzz about the
election. However, for the rest of the month I was amazed to see how
little people cared for public affairs.
Such isolation was difficult for me, but it was perhaps hardest on my
wife, Penny. She was forbidden to discuss anything that might give me
insights into anything that had happened after Nov. 8. This
prohibition included real news, of course, but also such things as
weather forecasts and celebrity gossip. As you might imagine, this
made conversation difficult. Not only was subject matter limited but,
if she strayed into a dangerous area, I had an unfortunate tendency to
cover my ears and scream "HEY! HEY! THE BLACKOUT!" To say that she
found this infuriating would be an understatement. But she held up
admirably under the strain.
The effects of knowing nothing about the world around me were curious.
Initially, I thought constantly about the news and wondered about what
I was missing. But as time passed I settled into the cozy oblivion
that most people apparently enjoy. Things were happening out there.
But as long as I didn't know about them, they didn't seem to matter.
The nation's problems were no longer my problems. In the absence of
news about other people, I was free to focus exclusively on myself; I
had become quintessentially American.
This period of blissful indifference came to an end on Dec. 2, when
Hal and his friend Mike Levans joined Pen and myself for a lengthy
briefing session. The self-imposed scales fell from my eyes as wave
after wave of information poured forth. Cab Calloway was dead, as were
Jerry Rubin and Jeffrey Dahmer. Jesse Helms had obliquely threatened
Bill Clinton's life and was soon to be chairman of the Senate Foreign
Relations Committee. Dan Quayle had a blood clot, and Boston radio
personality David Brudnoy had AIDS. In about an hour, I was
substantially up-to-date; it only remained to fill in the details by
reading the stack of newspapers Pen had saved for me during my
ordeal.
What had I learned? Apparently very little. Within days I was back on
a steady diet of NPR and the Boston Globe. I take each attack on Bill
Clinton like a knife in the ribs, and I rant nonsensically and foam at
the mouth at each mention of Gingrich, Dole, or Helms. Apathy, it
seems, is something you are born to; not something you can learn in a
month. Perhaps a longer isolation - a year or five years, would do the
trick. I'll never know. I prefer to stay married.
/-/ \-\
FEEDING MAYONNAISE TO THE TUNA
BY HAL PHILLIPS
I'm an idea man! So hear me out:
* Sammy Hagar for Democratic National Committee chairman. Think about
it... The GOP had Richard Bond. Why not?
* Rep. Dick Armey (R-Leipzig_, the new Majority Whip, likes to
demonstrate his humble, outsider political status by repeatedly
telling us he often slept on the couch in his Spartan congressional
office. Sounds to me like a guy trying to solidify an alibi. Maybe
Armey was cheating on his wife. It was, after all, Washington, C.C. -
home to all that's depraved, selfish, and venal (I wonder whether
Gomorrah had a Beltway...). When his soon-to-be-limited House tenure
was in its infancy, what's to prevent a young, good-looking, fidgeting
right wing ideologue from playing the field? Dick, drop the couch
thing! Thou doth protest a bit too much.
* Dick's brother, Charlie Armey, is director of scouting for the New
England Patriots. Hmmmmm...
* Who is Linda Bloodworth-Thomasson anyway? (I probably misspelled her
last name, but I don't care to dignify the woman with even the most
rudimentary fact-checking.) Two inane sitcoms, followed by a
cheezeball promo piece on the Hope Man - shown at a political
convention where they're obligated to love it - and Bloodworth-
Thompson is elevated to the status of media-savvy, politically
connected, pop-culture guru. With all due respect to my sister,
Janet, who enjoys and defends Designing Women, the show sucks. In her
wisdom, Bloodworth-Thomson brings back the strongest character,
Suzanne Sugerbaker (played by the fabulously talented and versatile
Delta Burke), to star in - are you ready? - "Woman of the House," a
new sitcom about Congresswoman Sugarbaker, apparently swept into
office along with all the other contractors for America, after the
mid-term elections. Quite unfairly, I hated the idea immediately
after hearing it panned by David Bianculi (unchecked) on "Fresh Air."
But then I watched the first show and felt vindicated. Stupid,
predictable and poorly written. But that seems to be the magic
Bloodworth-Thamaston formula, doesn't it? Hey, why didn't she make
Sugerbaker a libertarian or a socialist; now that would be funny.
Sort of a Bernie Sanders in chiffon and pearls...That's a joke, son!
Don't you get it?
* Does Penn Gillette own a piece of Comedy Central or is he simply
paid for his effective promotional voice? Maybe he makes Comedy
Central programming sound interesting because it is; or maybe it's
because he has a stake in making it sound like good viewing. I happen
to like Comedy Central. Kids in the Hall is funny. I've heard Lorne
Michaels is bringing in two of the five Kids (I don't know which) to
salvage Saturday Night Live. Michael's is Canadian. So are the kids.
Penn and Teller are from Western Massachusetts. Hmmm...
/-/ \-\
LETTER FROM BRITAIN
By TREVOR LEDGER
MARKET DRAYTON, Shropshire, England - It has been a long time since I
put fingertip to keyboard, but one thing the observant will notice is
that I've moved house. "Letter from Britain" now hails from Salop and
not Sussex; and therein lies a quantum leap in lifestyles. Salop is
slow. Salop is almost Wales. Salop is an unemployment blackspot
(unless you happen to be a sheep rustler, which I am not).
That bastard Phillips has still managed to track me down, though, and
his shitty little rag continues to soil my doormat. To get him off my
back, here is a further letter from England... I've nothing really to
say and so will just pick up on a couple of points from a recent
Herald.
* Why would anybody send him money in order to continue receiving said
arsewipe of a tabloid? Consider this:
The Herald is published 'cos Hal wants to continue in his pre-concrete
little world of egocentricity. It proves to himself that he's the most
important person in the cosmos. Sad. V.V. Sad. Yet, if it pleases him,
then okay. Us more rational and balanced folk can allow him this
pathetic crutch.
But here, in his own indomitable style, Hal has taken it one step
further, reasoning: "Dammit! Why should I give all my news to these
bastards for nothing? Hell, it costs me money to produce this self-
serving pile of shit and the ungrateful masses should be prepared to
pay." The Dead Sea pedestrian in him has really come to the fore. More
disturbing is the fact that some dickheads are coughing up. STOP IT
RIGHT NOW!
Never mind his carefully worded plea that did its best to sound like
anything other than begging. Ignore his well presented argument - it
is only well presented because thousands were spent on his education.
Don't send him money, he doesn't need it. He earns shitloads every
month and deserves to lose it all.
Do you hear Coca-Cola asking for voluntary contributions because their
advertising budget has gone through the roof? No, of course you don't.
They just charge you for the product in the first place because they
know you will buy it; because it is a quality product. Why does Hal
not charge for the Herald? Because he knows people will not buy it.
Because it is not a quality product. Fuck, even I get published in
it... Hmm, what else?
* I'm having to work from memory here because, after a cursory glance,
the last issue of the Herald (why I bother to capitalize it I don't
know - especially as I left "The Cosmos" in lower case) went in the
bin like all the others. Oh yes, that's it - the TV series "Hazel."
Interesting facts about Hazel. It was written by a man who looks a lot
like fatboy Phillips himself. Five sterling to the first correct
answer out of the hat. CLUE: He is not a scriptwriter by trade but IS
one of the most popular men in Britain and comes from the sporting
fraternity.
* Next: Just who, pray, is New Gingrich? And why? I can just about put
up with all your Chads and Buds and Chets, even the odd Boomer is
allowable. But a Newt? Oh do leave off. It is very silly and I'll say
no more on the matter. Fucking Newt, huh, I ask you.
* Very impressed with CNN. Lead sport story last week? The Ashes Test
series in Australia. At long last some prioritizing in American
newsrooms. Top of the class Yank minor. See me afterwards for a merit.
Well, I'm very bored with this now. I have remembered why I didn't
bother to write for so long: I have nothing to say to you sycophantic
bunch of Hal-gobblers. So there it is.
Keep you eyes peeled for a really good newsletter called Adrian's
Orifice. It's total fiction and issue two is out soon. It beats the
shit out of this heap of cack. Call Hal collect and ask him to fax you
his copy. Go on, he can afford it.
Pip pip.
/-/ \-\
HAROLD NOTEBOOK...
Careful readers will notice the Herald has taken a great leap forward
in the technology department. First the Internet, then CD Rom, and
now... Copying on both sides of the paper! Yes, we're saving trees and
making the publication even more professional, if you can imagine such
thing. The staff would like to thank management here at United
Publications for shelling out the cash, and to second-floor United
employees who complained loud and hard enough. Of course, those of us
on the third floor - hand-me-down saps that we are - have been
rewarded with the old copier, deemed too ineffectual for use on the
second floor. Typical.
*** Readers might notice the absence of Pejorative Corner this month.
This is so because cousin Ben Sontheimer - who visited with his
brother Matthew in late December - crapped out on his promise to
provide one on Maine.
***
I found my old passport! Though it expired in July 1994, I was
saddened to have lost this reminder of more innocent days spent
meandering about the European countryside. The whole episode displayed
a subconscious practicality on my part. For 10 years, I toted it
around the globe, never misplacing it. Then it expires, and I lose it.
I looked everywhere, hoping to find it and place the dog-eared thang
in my scrapbook. Finally, I gave up; telling myself it would turn up
eventually. Well, earlier this month I was groping through my glove
box, searching for my checkbook (the inside light in my car has burned
out). Lo and behold, my fingers came upon something that felt very
much like my checkbook, only wider. As Marv Albert would say: "Yes!"
***
Thanks again to those who've found it in their hearts and wallets to
provide the Herald a little something for postman. In appreciation,
the staff here has created several donation echelons to recognize the
more generous among you. There will be no mugs or T-shirts, I'm
afraid. We do plan to offer donors special, limited-edition clumps of
cat hair, courtesy of Scott and Zelda. But I have to vacuum first.
Word has been received here that "Owens," a newsletter about cooking
and gardening, has gone under. Always sad to see a compatriot fall by
the wayside, but when we decide to drive our competition into the
ground, we drive it into the ground.
/-/ \-\
THE HAROLD HERALD BOOK REVIEW
Ambition as a Historical Catalyst:
Burr, Lincoln, 1876, Empire, Hollywood, and Washington DC
by Gore Vidal.
Ballantine Press, $5.95 ea.
By HAL PHILLIPS
By all rights, Aaron Burr should have been the third president of the
United States. If not the third, then certainly the fourth. When he
and Thomas Jefferson secured the identical number of electoral votes
in 1800, Burr stood aside and accepted the vice presidency, biding
his time. The presidency would certainly be his in due course. Hadn't
Adams set the executive precedent? Hadn't Jefferson promised his
support when the time came? But Jefferson was unfailingly vague when
it came to political commitments. He was wary of Burr and isolated the
vice president within the Cabinet. Jefferson wouldn't allow Burr to
resign with honor - until , that is, Burr hadn't the time to organize
a credible campaign. Jefferson then framed Burr for treason, tried him
and couldn't prove the trumped-up charges. However, Jefferson had
effectively obliterated Burr's political viability, thus securing his
own and, by naming James Madison vice president, ensuring a Virginian
ascension.
At least, that's Burr's version of events.
Or rather, that's the version laid down by Gore Vidal's title
character in "Burr," the first of six historical novels comprising
the author's American Chronicle, which I started in August and have
finally finished. By tracking Aaron Burr and his descendants through
the nation's first 150 years, Vidal illustrates how ambition and
decidedly unenlightened political scheming shaped and sustained the
world's first modern democracy. At the same time Vidal weaves an
enormously intricate, believable tapestry where historic figures full
of life mingle with the fascinating Burr and his equally engaging but
fictional offspring. Vidal has clearly done a vast amount of homework.
Yet while his narrative has an authority born of journals, letters
and historical canon, Vidal's real characters - like William Seward,
Lincoln's ambitious secretary of state - can be extremely funny,
sullen, outrageous, paranoid and sometimes insane. In a word, human.
Indeed, they take on the qualities of fictional characters because
they're depicted with such depth, wit and humanity. On scholarly
grounds, historians wouldn't dare recreate dialogue as Vidal does.
Besides, most historians couldn't do it; they don't have his skills as
a novelist. Vidal can convincingly mimic Henry Adams and Mrs. John
Jacob Astor, with equal parts style and integrity, because he has
supreme command of the subject matter.
When Vidal intersperses these historical figures with fictional
characters, believably placed in the maelstrom of events, it's hard to
remember who's real and who's not. The author does his level best to
remove any distinction.
The story of "Burr" is told by Charles Schuyler, a fictional law clerk
and budding journalist. Schuyler works for Burr and convinces the old
man to dictate his fascinating memoir. This Burr does, in part. But
the bits and pieces of his amazing life - the raid on Quebec with
Benedict Arnold, candid Burr-centric portrayals of all the founding
fathers, his aborted conquest of Mexico, his many wives, his
mysterious relationship with Martin van Buren, rumored to be Burr's
bastard son - were never published. Schuyler is mesmerized. However,
he is knocked to the floor when, upon the old man's death, Schuyler
learns that he, too, is Burr's illegitimate son.
In "Lincoln," volume II in the series, Schuyler disappears and Vidal
centers the novel around two historic figures: the president and his
young secretary, John Hay. Schuyler reappears very late in "Lincoln"
before resuming his narrative in the third volume, "1876." Here
Schuyle r and his daughter attach their political stars to the shoo-in
presidential candidate Samuel Tilden and their social fortunes to New
York's budding Astor-based society. At the beginning of "Empire," Hay,
now President McKinley's secretary of state, returns as one of
Vidal's central characters, which include Schuyler's two
grandchildren, Caroline and Blaise Sanford. Secretary Hay becomes
Teddy Roosevelt's vice president upon McKinley's assassination. Blaise
becomes William Randolph Hearst's dilettante protg, while sister
Caroline - the former schoolmate of Eleanor Roosevelt in England -
buys the fictional Washington Tribune, where she out-tabloids Hearst
and her jealous brother. "Hollywood" follows Caroline to California,
where she helps pioneer the movie industry (with Hearst). Blaise buys
the Tribune and remains in D.C. to savage President Wilson and back
the serenely dim, Republican hopeful, Warren Harding. In the closing
novel, "Washington, D.C.," Blaise is an aging, would-be kingmaker
frustrated by FDR's stranglehold on the body politic. The nation's
capital in 1945 - a malaria-ravaged swampland in "Burr"; a provincial
seat of government in "1876"; now the nerve ce nter of the world's
first superpower - has changed, but it still provides a fascinating
backdrop for Vidal's horde of schemers and climbers; all the folks
who have made this country what it is today.
Imbued, as I am, with the arrogant notion that scholarly history is
interesting enough (blame the Wesleyan history department), I've never
been a fan of historical novels. Though I've always liked Mary Renault
("The Persian Boy", "Mask of Apollo"), the genre allows too many
liberties. Basically, it's cheating.
But Vidal changed my mind. Well, he didn't change it... Vidal proves
it can be done well, even raised to high art. But good luck finding
another author so capable.
copyright 1995 the harold herald all rights reserved for what it's
worth