Eddie Dean and Emily Yoffe
Emily,
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StumbleUponGlad to hear that Edgar has everything under control. As an Edward, it's nice to have the visionary Edgars--the Cayces and the Poes, et al.--communing on high with the Muses, while us Eddies run the tire stores and the bookie joints. (But maybe Virginia Clemm called her man "Eddie"; no way was Cayce an Eddie.) Dead cowboy singer Eddie "I Dreamed of Hillbilly Heaven" Dean was an Edgar, and his horse was named Flash, but people are always asking me if I'm related to sausage king Jimmy Dean, especially after he moved to Richmond a while back. That's an insult, and fortunately I'm not related to the Texas Wildcat and jackass entrepreneur: I never could stand his songs or his frozen sausage. (Plus, people say he was rude as hell to Patsy Cline.) I tell 'em the only "famous" Dean I'm related to is the narrator-maid Nellie Dean of that chapter in Wuthering Heights. We're descended from English horse thieves who came to America as indentured servants and finally earned their freedom moonlighting as pioneer drywallers. (True.) I figured we might as well get to know each other a little better, this being our last day at the "Table."
Fun as it's been, for me it's been hard work as well. I'm not used to reading the papers in the morning. I usually wait till afternoon rush hour at the Metro, dig into the recycling bins, and peruse the periodicals as "found art": a Starbucks-spackled Wall Street Journal, a badly stained "Apartment Finder." Then it's always a downer cause you can never find the comics, the last section most people will part with. So then I end up having to pay a quarter for the Washington Post just to get my daily dose of Zen-advice from Zippy the Pinhead.
OK, enough stalling, on to today's news. One story that grabbed me in the Post was about a pair of Catholic nuns ministering to the spiritual needs of carnies. This is the sort of thing the Post does well: a do-gooder story with a slight twist, a semi-rosy-colored snapshot of people helping people that doesn't get too treacly and in fact makes you want to go hang out with the nuns and the carnies and see how everybody is doing.
As much as I support the nuns in their work, I once met a carnie who was far, far beyond their reach, one of Blake's Mental Travelers who had found his own way in a cruel world. His name was Bobo, one of the last of the old Dunk Tank Clowns. (Now you often see Bobos out on the circuit, just a guy in greasepaint hurling insults, but the real Bobos learned a craft of endlessly inventive invective that is no more.) For a four-day run, I saw Bobo work his sullen craft at a carnival outside Washington. He had creeping pneumonia and his rasp weakened as the fair went on, chilled to the bone during his evening dunks, still chain-smoking in between his immersions. The last night, it was pouring rain, and some boys from the local high school baseball team came by and really gave it to him: He was literally shivering on his perch, his insults hurled ever more hoarsely. After the carnival closed for the night, he was a soaked rag of dunk-tank-clown, but not defeated: Some time past 3 a.m., we sat drinking beer behind the dunk-tank stand along with his ball-boy helper (some kid from Ohio who was training to be a Bobo but you could tell he was too kind, too soft. He wasn't heart-wounded enough). They were too tired to pack up the stand, even though they had to head for another place in a few hours. I asked Bobo why he stayed on the stand on such a wretched night and in his terrible physical condition: "This is a professional act," he said. "I'm talking fucking professional--someone who's gonna get in there and insult you no matter who the fuck you are." (There were more "fucks" in there, I think.)
He told me a story about how then-Vice President George Bush had once stepped up to the booth with all his Secret Service men, and he was such a poor thrower that Bobo had to pull the latch himself to get rid of him (his agents had supplied Bush with a limitless supply of balls).
I asked Bobo if there was any person he wouldn't insult. Without hesitation, he said, "My mom."
As far as I know, Bobo is retired and poolside somewhere in Panama City, Fla. A great professional who earned his day of rest. Hell, I'll go even further and call Bobo a great American. I'd love to see Bobo get into politics and debate Gore. He'd cut that cardboard patrician into pieces ...
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Reader Response from The Fray--to be read after the final entry:
Not only should Bobo the Clown be drafted to moderate the Presidential debates [Thursday's entry], but he should chair every Congressional Committee, be given Joe Lockhart's job, and he should anchor the news on all networks.
--Will Allen
(To reply, click here.)
I know it's all the rage now to demonstrate your liberal bona fides by trashing the Confederate flag in South Carolina or Confederate History Month in Virginia, but Eddie's little diatribe against Governor Gilmore and Richmond, Virginia takes the cake [Tuesday]. I see that he has joined some of those he criticizes in hijacking history, ascribing his beliefs to be in the great tradition of Robert E. Lee.
The natural progression of not honoring Confederate History Month is to begin to impede or discourage tourists who want to visit Civil War sites or Confederate museums and cemeteries, as these people must be misguided at best or racist yahoos at worst. I'm sure that Virginians of all ethnicities who work in tourism-related businesses appreciate all the controversy and would rather not have Civil War tourists staying in hotels, eating at restaurants, or buying souvenirs. And, correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't Virginia elect the one and only black governor ever to serve in the 50 states?
If you could find 50 people in Virginia who knew about the Confederate History Month proclamation before this contretemps, I would be shocked.
--Will
(To reply, click here.)
(5/4)
Slate should call this "Whenever You Can Make It To The Table" instead of the "Breakfast Table".
--NT
[See timing of Monday's posts. Matters seemed to improve during the week.]
(To reply, click here.)
So there could be genetically-engineered giant animals [Monday's entry]--but what about when politicians start splicing their genes? Imagine the havoc a 50-foot George Bush would do to the environment--dangerous. Or the monotone bellow of a 100-foot-tall Gore. O the horror.
--Chris
(To reply, click here.)
I have engineered four-legged chickens because my family likes fried chicken legs. We are as of this date unsure of the palatability of these fowl because now we can't catch them.
--eieio
(To reply, click here.)
Today Pharm Animals--Tomorrow Your Mom!
--Seeking Justice
(To reply, click here.)
[This was the title of the post. There was quite a lot more, but this seemed to hit the spot.]
Actually, if the knife that George Harrison was stabbed with had been about a half-inch to the left, he would have died instantly [Monday]. Only those with no knowledge or understanding of violence (which in this post-draft era means basically all of the chattering classes) think that knives are inherently less lethal than guns.
--Tench Coxe
(To reply, click here.)
Re: the possible break-up of Microsoft:
Oh Emily,
Some of us relate:
Poor Bill's the guy everyone loves to hate.
But fear not for your beloved Slate
Just follow His lead,
simply innovate.
--Ann
(To reply, click here.)
(5/2)