AM PLUTO WATERLY YOURS.

Louis ... Live ... at the Smith Corona!

Think that one kind of genius is 'trapped' within its own genius? Think again. Louis Armstrong reportedly purchased his first typewriter in Chicago, in the 1920s, and banged out letters on it, as a means of keeping time with loved ones back home in New Orleans. He crafted memoir, over the years, and articles, too -- rendered, at times, in jive, and through a unique system of punctuation which, according to Thomas Brothers, gives the reader clues as to how the musician would apply emphasis. Brothers is editor of Louis Armstrong in His Own Words: Selected Writings (Oxford UP, 2001) and author of a companion book, on W. W. Norton (2007): Louis Armstrong's New Orleans, said by one critic to be the finest book about Armstrong not written by the man himself. Consider the following excerpt from Selected Writings, the first sentence of a letter that Satchmo sent in 1967 to a marine serving in Vietnam: I'd like to 'step in here for a 'Minute or 'so' to "tell you how much--I 'feel to know that 'you are a 'Jazz fan, and 'Dig' 'that 'Jive--the same as 'we 'do, "yeah." Note the appearance of quotation marks (") outside their traditional function as well as the appearance of apostrophes (') at the front of words. Louis also underlines, capitalizes, and employs long dashes at surprising moments. How to pronounce the word "we" as Louis types it: 'we. Emphasis upon / within / to clarify / to reinvent Emphasis. Armstrong's writings instruct us to scan language for variations of stress -- in reverse of traditional English scansion, or on a separate axis entirely. There may be a 'new scansion' that the man himself invented, thus meriting close study by writer-folk and other creationists. If that's not enough, then read the Dipper's letters for his closing phrases. The man was, indeed, fond of his laxatives, and in closing "Swiss Krissly", for example, he endorsed the cleansing of things in the herbal way.

THE DISASTER ECONOMY.

It's no longer a 'Bump' after all.

If there is such a thing as The Disaster Economy, then there's hope for America yet. For the Disaster means Jobs. What better way to unite our Blown Wells and our Ne'er Do Wells? "Christmas come early" to some is "oily" to others: "Christmas come oily!" indeed. The Bump has become a Dip and the Dip threatens to Outright Mire. A very yellow bird flies by, a Goldfinch. But the old timer -- you know: fanny pack, green-striped tubesocks pulled to the knees -- calls it a "Dickcissel." How you gonna react to that? Tell him he can't say "Dickcissel"? That's ALL he wants to say, is "Dickcissel" -- he says it about every bird, and every academic theory, and every dip in Gross Domestic Product. "Dickcissel!" he shouts. "DICKCISSEL!" The storm brews and the storm's bruise and work's cruise and work crews: there's hope for America yet.

WORST CASE SCENARIO.

Hope for us all?

If it sleeps two Swedish it can sleep assorted Chosen ou huit chevaux. Which is, basically, Disparities, if not boxcars, but not cuisine. It's a Dug-out if you've Dug, and if you've Dug, you've probably saved your own ass, but either way, it's probably not the Dig-dug pen beside the EconoLodge American Dream, where you may or may not be able to Ambulate, any longer. You may have lost your chance -- to Ambulate. And now for Sport. It is always time for Sport. This has been Sport. And now for Sport. Cuisine should not be confused with Orientalism and it should not be confused with To Do List. There will be Cuisine, in all likelihood, irregardless of procrastination, and at that, please don't elevate your lethargy to some kind of Level. You're just a bum, is all. Anymore have you ever groomed yourself -- combings & pomades, I mean, but not toe jam -- in a way that would obstruct throwback Dissidence? Don't never, not once, don't never obstruct throwback Dissidence. If they don't throw it back, we'll never see our Dissidence ever again, and then we'll be left with wild, improbable scenarios that involve Mustard and Seduction -- dig?

BE MERRY. GO ROUND. BEWARE.

Somebody smelt a gas!

If a man says, "Am I wrong?" -- he's wrong. If a man says, "Am I right?" -- he's bullying. As a result, nobody is ever correct, and the economy can be found out back, under a few mossy rocks, where slugs suffer their blind, miserable lives. Religion says, "Stand up." Religion says, "Sit down." Sit down. And you're out :: of work. Did the Crooner becroon the crony? Did the Crooner becroon the crone? "Be merry," he sang, "go round. Go round," he sang, "beware." "Warfare," says the Commander, "is all about imposing Your will on the Other." Or is that love-making? Either way, it's becoming a world of spinning around and going, "HAH!", only nothing -- nobody -- is ever there: Am I Right?

LIVING AND LOINING.

A no porking violation.

We live on one big, humping planet. It is therefore surprising that a detachment of soldiers would be assigned to investigate a little bovine friendliness on the lea. The army has to plan for everything, I suppose, and a good soldier must be able to identify a field pork in a pinch. A pig in a poke, as it were. Will our predator drones also go to 7-11? It's that, folks, or every 'Ambulance' must be converted to 'Ambulate', and circulate, like busses, so everyday citizens can attend psychotherapies. As for EMTs -- they'll be stowed aboard UPS trucks, delivering packages and patients as profit margins allow. Isn't that the future of health care? As if we were healthy. As if we cared. Most Americans are 'pro choice' if 'choice' means 'kuts' and 'kuts' means 'loin'. Think about it -- there must be 10 billion loins in motion (and countermotion) at any given time, and I hear that one factory in China manufactures 40 percent of the world's loincloths. An investigation took place with scores of loinclothed policemen, even as the findings hardly hampered the humping. I do not know which of the following currencies will triumph -- 'administration', 'blame', or 'hump distribution' -- but we are running some serious deficits; it is some lean loin out there.

AVANT MOI . . . LE PRELUDE.

Le Chat Qui Peep!

Funny how we know just where to assemble, each morning, for the goodbye kiss. People, people, and dessicated animals. The domestic, meanwhile, must toil in the antechambers where the victuals rhyme with vittles. The antechambers, by the by, are where you must call after the flop, and by call, I mean, drop your breeches that rhyme with britches. If it were "Complete the Sentence" then you'd get on this whole Bridges, Ridges, Riches, [Complete the Sentence] thing, which isn't fair, in any stretch of the pagination. Fess Up, Fess Up, and Lie Down. Lie Around, Lie Around. Fess Up, Fess Up, and Lie Down. (Fess! Fess! Fess! etc.) Which brings me to, what I'll call, The Problem of the Summit. I mean, aside from the buzzing spotlamps, the seesaw sirens, the jackbooted regiments of confused irregulars, the fishyssoise, and all that French kookete down by the riverside. The Summit, after all, is just that: The Top, The Heights, and yet, there is nothing, afterwards, to best The Summit, even as The Summit banks on the principle that it will, indeed, be bested. Like a wedding [will be bested] or a weeding [will be bested] by the fertility to follow. This new radical philosophy, folks: I just got weed of it today.

APRES MOI . . . LE DELUDE.

The lesser-known Trojan Elk

After Me, there will be a flood -- of delusion. The Trojan Elk will empty out at 3:20 p.m. in the past, underneath the Flor de Baltimore sign, straddling the tracks, in the Border Town. Out will pour Ionians and Dorics, of course, rounding up all the Helens and Hellenes that they can sway with their Oratory, with their Rhetoric, with their Rubrics of Avant Modern Shizzle. John Coltrane will chant "Delude Supreme, Delude Supreme" while a woman nicknamed Hot Cups will bring the coffee, two sugars, two creams. O, Apres Moi, O, Apres Moi. Because, you know, the flood is taken for granted, by now. It is -- the Whitewashing -- at issue. We are Spectacle, and everything, these days, is a Close Shave. To own your own mind is to be the loaner of an only heart. If there remained only one Heart or one Casket or one Rump of Beef, in which would you invest, as a money-making venture? If you chose the latter, and it got out of hand, you'd be stuck with a Rumpus of Beef, so choose wisely. And roast enough Rumpus to feed those rampaging Ionians. Apres Moi, I would hope that one could tell a Heart from a Casket, a Delude from a Deluge.