Blogular Updates

WHAT DO YOU ALL THINK of my cool new blog banner? Fabulous Robert of BLUE HERON BLAST did this for me, and I have sent copious cyberkisses and hugs his way. IT'S JUST BEE-YOO-TI-FULL! Thank you, thank you, thank you!

I did my last banner over 5 years ago, and couldn't even locate the website where I made it. Without the banner-making-for-dummies software, I had no clue how to proceed in conjuring up an updated banner. The few free banner-maker-sites I managed to find, did not have the crucial KASHMIR font, which I just HAD TO HAVE. (Led Zeppelin fans will undoubtedly recognize the lovely Kashmir font, named for the band who first used it on their album covers.) Also, I wanted outer space, utterly suitably for a flakey hippie like your humble narrator... the two together were nearly impossible for me to combine on the cheesy banner-maker websites. ((sobs)) I sulked for six whole months before wonderful Robert rescued me.

BLUE HERON RULES! Thank you so much, my friend.

Go visit Blue Heron Blast--which always has cool banners, and he changes them all the time, too... not once every five years, like some of us.

~*~

We did the promo for the radio show, today on Another Voice with Jason and Eric... they were kind enough to let us crazy lefties in to promote our new broadcast endeavor. Old-school Gentlemen! Very polite fellas who are all about free speech and everything... obviously, an endangered species in these parts.

Occupy the Microphone will formally debut on WOLT-FM, January 1st (and a happy New Year to you, too!)... WOLT-FM is a pretty snazzy-looking radio station, headquartered in the old McAlister Square mall, which I have written about here before.

~*~

At left: Daisy meets Country Earl, back on the auspicious date of 11-11-11.


WOLT-FM also once regularly featured local legend Country Earl's radio show. I was lucky enough to meet him last year, which was a real thrill for me. It therefore saddens me to announce that Country Earl passed away about a week ago, to the sorrow of upstate South Carolina:

A longtime Upstate radio personality also known for his Simpsonville restaurant has passed away.

“Country Earl” Baughman, 79, died Monday at Greenville Memorial Hospital.

Baughman was a local radio personality/disc jockey for many years, with numerous upstate radio stations including WESC, WCKI, WFIS, WBBR, WAGI and WOLT where he hosted his “Country Earl’s Country Classics Radio Show.” He started his career in the 1950s and continued until 2000s.

He was also known for his restaurant, Country Earl’s Stompin’ and Chompin’. In recent years, the restaurant became less of a restaurant and more of a performance or event venue, becoming known as “Country Earl’s Celebration Place.”

Baughman was native of Greenville County. According to his obituary, he was the son of the late Herbie Theodore and Susie Mae Lackey Baughman.

He was a member of Brookwood Community Church and was an accomplished musician and songwriter and was inducted into the Rockabilly Hall Of Fame.

A “Celebration of Life Service” will be held 2 p.m. Saturday, Dec. 15, 2012 at Brookwood Community Church.

Forest Hills Funeral Home website says visitation will be held at the church following the service. In lieu of flowers, the family requests that donations be made in Earl’s memory to The Muscular Dystrophy Association, 25 Woods Lake Rd., Suite 412, Greenville, SC 29607.

Another real gentleman of the old school, who will be sorely missed. :(

~*~

For those who asked (I am SO flattered yall care about me!)--my lifelong, growing, ugly brown skin-blotch was technically diagnosed as a dermatofibroma.

Nobody knows what causes them, but one theory is that they are caused by infected insect bites. Oh, GROSS!

You see??? I just knew all those horrific flea bites I endured would somehow have some negative repercussions; it just stands to reason.

I am TOTALLY blaming them.

~*~

We talked about the recent school-shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut, on our last podcast, if you'd like to give us a listen. I don't have much to add to what we said, except the song I played here on Saturday.

There is one quite fascinating link currently making the rounds--Mormon Church 'owns unregulated gun sale website':

One of the most active and unregulated gun sale websites in America is owned by the Mormon Church, an investigation by New York's Mayor Michael Bloomberg has revealed.

You just have to wonder... who else is making a killing, if you will pardon the expression.

My apologies for once again boring my dear readers with Tales of The Call Center, but the fact is, I learned a great deal whilst being cussed out every day, and I was toughened up for the long haul besides (which made me well-prepared for the rigors of talk radio)... My call center took calls for a world-wide shipping conglomerate, whose name (and big brown trucks) you would instantly recognize.

At one point on my call center job, I took calls ONLY from South Carolina for about 6-7 months. I became alarmed when I realized how many involved shipping huge amounts of firearms to other parts of the country, where I knew they were illegal. Most involved gun shows (and similar exhibitions), but some had other creative, shifty ways to get around the local laws. And I don't mind telling you, some of the guys on the phone sounded like they were straight out of Lizard Lick Towing. They initially didn't seem too bright, but honey, you shoulda heard them spout those LAWS--they knew them inside and out, backwards and forwards, state by state and county by county. When packages got held up and/or inspected, which happened fairly often, they would cuss a proverbial blue streak. And I used to get seriously creeped out when packages got LOST (and yes, they did), which made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

I still remember one guy chuckling at the news that his enormous shipment of guns (to New York City) had apparently disappeared into the ether, and he would have to file a claim. "Bummer," he announced, "Hope whoever found it enjoys alla that fine weaponry," he chortled, "--and I hope nobody pisses him off tonight!"

I remember hoping nobody pissed him off too, whoever he was.

Imagine, a cache of weapons and ammo simply evaporating off of a loading dock? I hate to tell you, but it happens all the time.

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Greetings from Redneck Nation

Finding politically-correct targets for the trendinistas to hate, is getting more and more difficult.

How can they prove they are the cool trendies unless somebody is the inferior rube? And the usual suspects (the darker peoples, the disabled, the foreigners who dress funny)... well, all of that prejudice is starting to look really BACKWARD and ignorant, even to the trendies. Who'd a thunk it? This seems to have touched off a crisis in confidence. They can't even use a well-seasonsed, drive-by insult like "mouth-breathers" anymore, without somebody getting irate. It's getting harder and harder for them to find people beneath them to safely ridicule. WHERE ARE MY INFERIORS?--howl the trendies, starved to recognize their innate superiority.

Ah, yes. Of course. Their inferiors, as always, are south of the Mason-Dixon line. What Robin Williams once amusingly called the Manson-Nixon line, even though one of those men was born in OHIO (which is ABOVE the Mason-Dixon line, last time I checked) and one was born in California. But that's quibbling... let's not let the facts interfere with good anti-southern insults!

On my show tomorrow (which I taped yesterday in scenic Simpsonville, SC), we have a first-rate, top-notch, Daisy-rant in store! This was occasioned by the newest affront perpetrated against Redneck Nation, an unbelievable Reality TV show on The Learning Channel (!) titled, HERE COMES HONEY BOO-BOO. I didn't watch too much of it. Needed drugs after only five minutes.

This mocking, derisive show manages to combine hatred of southern rednecks (the only form of overt classism now openly celebrated in the USA) with hatred of fat people, exploitation of children and early-sexualization of girls, all in one happy little package. You can almost see the TV-executives, triumphantly tallying up all of these factors on their nasty fingers: heyyyyy, we got KIDS, we got a BABY BEAUTY-QUEEN, we got a FAT FAMILY of DUMB REDNECKS! (high fives all-round) Whoever thought up this show, got himself a raise and probably a promotion.

Already, the trendies are stampeding forth to "defend" the show against... well, against who? Do they understand that they like it because it was MADE FOR THEM? Apparently not. (The irony, it burns.)

I started thinking about the cultural geneaology of Ms Boo Boo and where she came from. Brainstorming with my ever-astute radio co-hosts (Consiglieri Gregg Jocoy and Occupy Greenville Mentor Double A Battery), we came up with a noxious stew of the murdered JonBenét Ramsey, the rise of awful Toddlers and Tiaras (where Ms Boo Boo was "discovered"), Dance Moms and other such shows, as well as Little Miss Sunshine. We then segued into Larry the Cable Guy and Jeff Foxworthy. Nobody is safe, once we start naming names!

To make matters worse, there is also a constantly-replayed show titled World's Dumbest Hillbillies. After thinking really hard, we could not come up with single other group of people that would rate such a TV show named after them, try as we might. (Any takers?)

I invite you to listen. Saturday at 9am, WFIS-AM, 1600 AM/94.9 FM on your local upstate radio dial... or on our radio blog.

~*~

Taking a short break for the neighboring Peach State.

Trivia time: there was once a minor-league baseball team actually known as The Atlanta Crackers. This came from the pejorative term, Georgia Cracker. (staying on topic!) My father-in-law saw the Atlanta Crackers play several times, and the first time I ever heard him comment about that, I was momentarily confused. (You say what?)

There was also a Negro-league team called the Atlanta Black Crackers, which is an even weirder team name.

See you when I get back. Keep the faith, redneck brothers and sisters.

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Merry Christmas from the Family

FOR THE FIFTH YEAR IN A ROW, I hereby present our official Dead Air Christmas tradition of the ages, Robert Earl Keen!

Enjoy, and Feliz Navidad!

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The Real Daisy

... was my grandmother. I have no idea when or where this photo was taken, but it was probably in Pittsburgh.

Her eyes were so black, you couldn't even see the pupils. Her hair was likewise very black, naturally curly and silky.

My grandmother was Melungeon, which I have always intended to blog about, but there is so little known about them, I don't know exactly what to write. Suffice to say, they were very WEIRD backwoods people with all kinds of BIZARRE traditions you never heard of. (I later understood this is why my family was so odd and never fit in with the other nice, Midwestern families on the block.) Her youngest brother (who never left the backwoods) had an indescribable, hard-to-place accent that was nearly indecipherable, as did both of her parents. It went beyond mere Appalachian accents, and it was nice to finally learn the reason why.

When the Melungeons were asked questions by census takers, they told them all kinds of creative stories, claiming to be Portuguese, Arabs, Jews, and whatever else they thought the census-taker wanted to hear. That's why nobody knew for sure what race/ethnicity they were, and historians are still arguing over it. Much has finally been sorted out through DNA: Melungeons were "tri-racial isolates" -- Native American indigenous people (and refugees from colonial encroachment) and free African-Americans, intermarried with white colonists who decided to go off and live in the wilderness for whatever reasons. This accounts for their deep secrecy and suspicion of strangers (and especially the government).

When white colonists eventually migrated to the Cumberland Gap and the New River (where my grandmother was born), they found these strange folks already living there.

I am interested in learning more, as it becomes known. In studying the Melungeons, it is fascinating to note how some people don't mind being one of the first Americans, but twist themselves in knots to deny the African ancestors. My grandmother told me that as a child, she always knew there were Africans in her family tree... but that is not the rude terminology she used, which I will not repeat here. (What is interesting is that she found this amusing and never denied it. In all honesty, she seemed to find the idea of being related to Cherokee more disturbing.) When people snootily remarked that she looked like Lena Horne, she was obviously too thrilled to get mad about the racial thing.

Second photo is of my grandmother and my mother, Betty, on the right. I estimate their ages to be 37 and 21, respectively. (1955 - Parkersburg, WV)

















Third photo is my mother and me, ages 38 and 15. (1973 - Columbus, OH)
Yes, before you ask, I think that IS real fur. She thought fake fur was low class.

I miss them a lot during this time of year.

And now, your turn. Who do you miss?

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Joe Bageant 1946-2011

I'm so behind in my reading, I didn't know Joe Bageant, patron saint of rednecks, had passed. (on March 26)

I can't improve on what others have already written about the amazing author of Deer Hunting with Jesus and Rainbow Pie: A Redneck Memoir, so I will quote from them.

From Michael Loughnane:

"Poet", "prophet", "hillbilly revolutionary", "progressive redneck with a conscience" — these are some of the descriptive terms that have been conferred on Joe Bageant who died on March 26. Steve Austin of the Australian Broadcasting Company called him "The Woody Guthrie of the typewriter" for he championed the cause of the "redneck", a social group he saw as being one of the most marginalized and disenfranchised in America.

From Gary Coseri:

Deer Hunting is an excellent book. Rainbow Pie is even better. Rainbow Pie is about now; Deer Hunting laid the groundwork, sowed seeds of memory for this West Virginia-born sui generis intellectual. Rainbow Pie brings those seeds to fruition amidst our present devastation — the “financialization” of the “transactional economy.” Translation: outsourced jobs; debt and desperation in the homeland.

Before he died last month at age 64, Bageant’s witnessing was astute and acute; he had been there.

And now, I quote directly and at length from Joe's own introduction to Rainbow Pie, A Redneck Memoir:

The United States has always maintained a white underclass — citizens whose role in the greater scheme of things has been to cushion national economic shocks through the disposability of their labor, with occasional time off to serve as bullet magnets in defense of the Empire. Until the post-World War II era, the existence of such an underclass was widely acknowledged. During the Civil War, for instance, many northern abolitionists also called for the liberation of “four million miserable white southerners held in bondage by the wealthy planter class”. Planter elites, who often held several large plantations which, together, constituted much or most of a county’s economy, saw to it that poor whites got no schooling, money, or political power. Poll taxes and literacy requirements kept white subsistence farmers and poor laborers from entering voting booths. Often accounting for up to 70 percent of many deep-Southern counties, they could not vote, and thus could never challenge the status quo.

Today, almost nobody in the social sciences seems willing to touch the subject of America’s large white underclass; or, being firmly placed in the true middle class themselves, can even agree that such a thing exists. Apparently, you can’t smell the rabble from the putting green.

Public discussion of this class remains off limits, deemed hyperbole and the stuff of dangerous radical leftists. And besides, as everyone agrees, white people cannot be an underclass. We’re the majority, dammit. You must be at least one shade darker than a paper bag to officially qualify as a member of any underclass. The middle and upper classes generally agree, openly or tacitly, that white Americans have always had an advantage (which has certainly been the middle- and upper-class experience). Thus, in politically correct circles, either liberal or conservative, the term “white underclass” is an oxymoron. Sure, there are working-poor whites, but not that many, and definitely not enough to be called a white underclass, much less an American peasantry.

Economic, political, and social culture in America is staggering under the sheer weight of its white underclass, which now numbers some sixty million. Generally unable to read at a functional level, they are easily manipulated by corporate-political interests to vote against advances in health and education, and even more easily mustered in support of any proposed military conflict, aggressive or otherwise. One-third of their children are born out of wedlock, and are unemployable by any contemporary industrialized-world standard. Even if we were to bring back their jobs from China and elsewhere — a damned unlikely scenario — they would be competing at a wage scale that would not meet even their basic needs. Low skilled, and with little understanding of the world beyond either what is presented to them by kitschy and simplistic television, movie, and other media entertainments, or their experience as armed grunts in foreign combat, the future of the white underclass not only looks grim, but permanent.

Meanwhile, the underclass, “America’s flexible labor force” (one must be pretty flexible to get screwed in some of the positions we are asked to), or whatever you choose to call the unwashed throngs mucking around down here at the bottom of the national labor tier, are nevertheless politically potent, if sufficiently taunted and fed enough bullshit. Just look at the way we showed up in force during the 2000 elections, hyped up on inchoate anger and ready to be deployed as liberal-ripping pit bulls by America’s ultra-conservative political machinery. Snug middle-class liberals were stunned. Could that many people actually be supporting Anne Coulter’s call for the jailing of liberals, or Rush Limbaugh’s demand for the massive, forced psychiatric detention of Democrats? Or, more recently, could they honestly believe President Obama’s proposed public healthcare plan would employ “death panels” to decide who lives and who dies? Conservatives cackled with glee, and dubbed them the only real Americans.

But back in 2000, before the American economic implosion, middle-class people of both stripes could still have confidence in their 401(k)s and retirement stock portfolios, with no small thanks to the cheap labor costs provided by the rabble out there. And they could take comfort in the knowledge that millions of other middle-class folks just like themselves were keeping the gears of American finance well oiled and humming. Our economy had become fat through financialization. Who needed manufacturing? We were now a post-industrial nation of investors, a “transactional economy”. Dirty work was for ... well ... Asians. In this much-ballyhooed “sweat-free economy”, the white underclass swelled with every injection mould and drill press shipped across the Pacific.

Ten years later, with the US economy as skinny as the running gears of a praying mantis, the middle class — what’s left of it now — is having doubts about its traditional class security. Every day it gets a bit harder not to notice some fifty or sixty million people scratching around for any kind of a job, or working more hours than ever in a sweating, white-knuckled effort to hang onto the jobs they do have. With credit cards melting down and middle-class jobs evaporating, there is the distinct possibility of them slipping into the classes below them. And who are they anyway — those people wiping out the ramen noodle shelf at the supermarket, and looking rather surly as they are moved out of their repossessed houses?

True, with the right selection of lefty internet bookmarks, you can find discussions of the white underclass, and occasionally even a brief article in the New York Times about some scholarly book that asks, “Does a white underclass exist in America?” But most of the shrinking middle class pulls its blinds shut, hoping that if they don’t see bad fortune, perhaps bad fortune can’t see them and will not find their doors. Behind those doors, however, some privately wonder how the ranks of desperate and near-desperate American whites ever became so numerous. Where did all those crass people with their bad grammar and worse luck suddenly come from?

Seldom are such developments sudden, of course. It’s only the realization of them that happens overnight. The foundation of today’s white underclass was laid down in the years following World War II. I was there, I grew up during its construction, and spent half my life trapped in it.

When World War II began, 44 percent of Americans were rural, and over half of them farmed for a living. By 1970, only 5 percent were on farms. Altogether, more than twenty-two million migrated to urban areas during the postwar period. If that migration were to happen in reverse today, it would be the equivalent of the present populations of New York City, Chicago, Miami, Philadelphia, Boston, and Saint Louis moving out into the countryside at a time when the US population was half of its present size.

In the great swim upstream toward what was being heralded as a new American prosperity, most of these twenty-two million never made it to the first fish ladder. Stuck socially, economically, and educationally at or near the bottom of the dam, they raised children and grandchildren who added another forty million to the swarm.

These uneducated rural whites became the foundation of our permanent white underclass. Their children and grandchildren have added to the numbers of this underclass, probably in the neighborhood of 50 or 60 million people now. They outnumber all other poor and working-poor groups — black, Hispanics, immigrants.

Even as the white underclass was accumulating, it was being hidden, buried under a narrative proclaiming otherwise. The popular imagination was swamped with images that remain today as the national memory of that era. Nearly all of these images were products of advertising. In the standard depiction, our warriors returned to the land kept free by their valor, exhilarated by victory, and ready to raise families. They purchased little white cottages and Buick Roadmaster sedans, and then drove off into the unlimited horizons of the “land of happy motoring”. A government brochure of the time assured everyone that “An onrushing new age of opportunity, prosperity, convenience and comfort has arrived for all Americans.” I quoted this to an old World War II veteran named Ernie over an egg sandwich at the Twilight Zone Grill near my home in town. Ernie answered, “I wish somebody had told me; I would have waved at the prosperity as it went by.”

According to this officially sanctioned story of the great postwar migration, these people abandoned farm life in such droves because the money, excitement, and allure of America’s cities and large towns was just too great to resist. Why would anyone stay down on the farm when he or she could be “wearing ten-dollar shoes and eating rainbow pie”? One catches a whiff of urban-biased perception here; but then, the official version of all life and culture in America is written by city people. Our dominant history, analysis, and images of America are generated in the urban centers. Social-research institutions, major universities, and the media — such as ABC, HBO, PBS, and the Harvard University sociology department — are not located in Keokuk, Iowa; Fisher, Illinois; Winchester, Virginia; or Lubbock, Texas.

I grew up hard by the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia and West Virginia, and am a product of that out-migration; and, as I said, grew up watching it happen around me. I’m here to tell you, dear hearts, that while all those university professors may have their sociological data and industrial statistics verified and well indexed, they’re way off-base; they’ve entirely overshot the on-the-ground experience. In fact, they don’t even deal with it. You won’t be surprised to hear that the media representation of the postwar era — and, let’s face it, more people watch The History Channel than read social history texts — it is as full of crap as an overfed Christmas goose.

My contemporaries of that rural out-migration, now in their late fifties and mid sixties, are still marked by the journey. Their children and grandchildren have inherited the same pathway. The class competition along that road is more brutal than ever. But the sell job goes on that we are a classless society with roughly equal opportunity for all. Given the terrible polarization of wealth and power in this country (the top 1 percent hold more wealth than the bottom 45 percent combined, and their take is still rising), we can no longer even claim equal opportunity for a majority. Opportunity for the majority to do what? Pluck chickens, and telemarket to the ever-dwindling middle class?

Ohhh my. When he pauses to say "dear hearts"--it takes my breath away. My mother's family, also from West Virginia, used that term in conversation in just that fashion. Thus, it's like a member of my family passing.

Who will say these things now? Who will write about us? (sobs) We have lost one of our precious scribes.

Goodbye Joe, and rest in peace.

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Choctaw Bingo and other Saturday earworms

Lots of people prefer the original by John Prine, who wrote it... but I am partial to the version by the Man in Black.

Paradise - Johnny Cash



~*~

A great song about a drug dealer, although some have posited that it's actually about capitalism and bosses (Joe Strummer was red to the end). How fascinating that they are interchangeable!

Quite simply, some of the tightest rock music ever recorded.

Hateful - The Clash



~*~

Mimi Farina wrote this song about Janis Joplin, upon hearing of her passing in 1970... it was recorded by her sister, Joan Baez, in 1972.

Great photos of Janis in the video.

In the Quiet Morning - Joan Baez



~*~

You knew it was time for Steely Dan again, right? I tried to stay on topic about the economy and the budget and everything. ;)

Great graphics!

Black Friday - Steely Dan



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As Charlie Daniels used to say, Time to Get Loud, Children. Starting at about 2:25, this boogies so hard, it will knock the mud right off your boots.

And check out Mary Huff's outfit, I MUST get one. (My late mama had that exact hairdo, exact color.)

Southern Culture on the Skids - White Trash/Greenback Fly



~*~

James McMurtry played Asheville recently, and I am told the entire audience knew all the words. (Well, of course they did.) I was fortunate enough to hear this performed live a few years ago, in a venue fulla rednecks jumping up and down. At the time, I realized, this was a quintessential southern moment, so it isn't surprising that "Choctaw Bingo" has turned into a southern anthem, of sorts.

Ann and Lynn come down from Baxter Springs
That's one hell raisin town way up in Southeastern Kansas
Got a biker bar next to the lingerie store
That's got them Rolling Stones lips up there in bright pink neon
And they're right downtown where everyone can see em
And they burn all night
you know they burn all night
you know they burn all night

And yes, you really should listen to all 8+ minutes, if you want the whole Choctaw Bingo experience. It's actually far better live, with raucous yelling and jumping-redneck accompaniment, but I could not locate a good live version, so going with the studio rendition for now.

Choctaw Bingo - James McMurtry



Have a great weekend everyone.

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Chronicles of the redneck underground

After I saw this poster at Horizon, I seriously considered changing the name of my blog. And then I realized, I am just not up for that. I don't know what the entirety of the redneck underground is up to, just my little corner of it.

~*~

My senator, Lindsay Graham, claims to be against earmarks, and yet is currently agitating for the particular earmark that guarantees deepening of The Port of Charleston. Earmarks for me, but not for thee! Funny how that works.

Two South Carolina politicians are screwing the pooch on this one, notably Senator Jim DeMint (well duh) and Congressman Joe Wilson, rude screamer of epithets. If there are significant layoffs at the coast, let's hope the journalists get it right this time, and properly blame these two:

The S.C. congressional delegation, made up of U.S. House and Senate members from South Carolina, decided to make a push for the money in Obama’s budget by writing a unified letter, he said.

“We all got together, the delegation, we said we were all going to do a letter, the whole delegation was going to do a letter to the president, asking the president to put it in his budget,” [Congressman Jim] Clyburn said. “Now, there are eight members in the delegation. Two members in the delegation, I understand, refused to sign the letter.”

Clyburn said those two members were Rep. Joe Wilson, R-S.C., and Sen. Jim DeMint, R-S.C.

Wilson, a Charleston Republican, did not specifically address the delegation’s letter when asked for a comment. He said that being from the Lowcountry, he fully understands the economic role of the Port of Charleston.

He understands, he just doesn't give a shit about any of the people actually WORKING there.

~*~

Things that make you go WTF: Republicans will provide state-sponsored birth control for horses, but not for women!

Gals, the trick is to figure out how to turn yourselves into horses.

~*~

If the situation in the Middle East is too volatile for you to easily keep up with, here is a great clickable map from the BBC. I've bookmarked it for easy access.

"Sit down and read. Educate yourself for the coming conflicts."--Mother Jones.

~*~

Greatest blog-name ever! And I totally flipped when I saw the banner, and knew I had to reproduce it here: FANBOY WIFE! :D

I love her comic-book tears and yes, I totally relate.

Question: Is there something odd about endless print-outs of back-issues of extinct comics? I seem to remember that once, I thought there was. But now? I have comics reproducing themselves in my guest room. The unexpected upside is that various young men I have worked with think I am cool for knowing the names of obscure superheroes.

Their future girlfriends/wives will cry comic book tears too!

~*~

Somebody made my day by posting the studio version of BOX OF RAIN. (happy, happy)

Box of Rain - Grateful Dead

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