Wednesday, September 26, 2007


Recently I read in the newspaper that the Red Skull had returned, and that Captain America again would take up the challenge. Those were actually almost Captain America's exact words. He said, "So–the Red Skull returns! Then Captain America again takes up his challenge." He said it to his sidekick, Bucky, who replied, "And don't forget me, Cap–I'm in on this!" This is a nice thought, sure. It's good to have someone who helps you to take up challenges. Friends are great to have–they can really help. Still, the problem, as I see it, is that Bucky, when standing straight with his spine erect, just barely reaches Captain America's breastbone. His head is just a little bit larger than the white star on his shield. The green comfy chair in the living room could probably fit two Buckies if Bucky were twins, even fraternal twins, unless his sister had very large breasts. His muscles don't look particularly big, and he smiles a lot and his shoulders seem a tad soft. His hair is a little orangey. And his yellow collar doesn't go well with his red, white and blue outfit. I will get right to the point: if you are large and menacing and evil and your skull is red and your best friend is Adolf Hitler and one of those lugers, you are not going to be frightened by anyone who could easily rest in one half or less of a green comfy chair next to his medium-breasted twin sister before he rose out of the chair to fight you to the death, which would probably be his own death, and frankly there is nothing more hideous than evil laughter reverberating from a red skull in a newspaper from 1942 even if it the newspaper is in a moldy trunk in an attic immediately following the death of an enthustiastic boy who is a little short with tiny shoulders. It's bad enough out in the open, but in a trunk in an attic with no one around for miles? In New England? On a rainy day with lots of fog? Just more reverberation and evil that way.

all artwork, including monsters but not old timey photographs,
® mr. crispy flotilla, 2007



this is another recipe that I used, much to the pleasure of my friends and in some fashion I think this might be chronicled throughout the ages, much like Ramses ll or a variety of the conquests of Alexander the Great:

cherry*gooseberry chutney: a modicum
red wine: make sure it’s the best!
black pepper: some black pepper
rosemary: a little bit in your hand

mix them all up and do not use too much red wine because that will make this sauce moribund. use this sauce on finely julienned carrots or perhaps a springtime pasta, you know, with parsley and pine nuts within. when confronted by this recipe, andre, having recently spent three years in spain, queried: ‘what is a gooseberry?’ I laughed and laughed. And then I told andre: ‘you mean, you’ve never heard of a gooseberry?’

the things that andre then told me about spain:

there are octopuses
they are extremely tasty
galicia is mountainous and savage
as for running water: forget it! (¡Olvidalo!)
txakoli is a slightly spritzy white aperitif wine from navarra
pais pasco (‘basque country’) is also an after dinner drink made with juniper berries
spanish women are very latin
idiazabal is a sheep milk cheese that you can buy at dean and deluca
you can buy cherry*gooseberry chutney at dean and deluca (see above recipe)
membrio is a layer of quince tree that is served with idiazabal
I’ve never heard of gooseberries
that’s a nice shirt you’re wearing
eventually you get used to octopuses

all artwork, including monsters but not old timey photographs,
® mr. crispy flotilla, 2007



I try to imagine you
and I in the bathtub.

Your back is against
the front. My back
is against the back.

Suddenly, I remove
a broadsword and point
it at your golden eyeballs.

Why golden?

Because somehow, when
you weren’t looking, some
joker, probably from ancient
Rome, painted us gold–
from head to toe. Cabeza a
pie. Think Cellini. Or

You almost cover your breast.
I practically hold a fig leaf.
That’s how much in love we
are. From bow to stern.

I can hear the ocean. It is an ocean
of love. Quite unusually, here in
the bathtub, it is quivering like a

all artwork, including monsters but not old timey photographs,
® mr. crispy flotilla, 2007


What are you?

A cookie? A candy?

Gooey, decadent and addictive,

I celebrate you in song.

It involves pastry and vanilla.

It’s a sticky song.

Yep, it's one of those songs.

I don’t mind.

I wash my hands religiously.

But not in an organized way.

all artwork, including monsters but not old timey photographs,
® mr. crispy flotilla, 2007

Sunday, September 23, 2007


I always thought that the idea of making a sequel of anything must be about the most terrifying thing in the world. Will it be better? Will it be worse? Are you going to dash expectations with something of a lesser meddle? Of course, then, also, there is the fear that one has writing the volume prior to the sequel. Will it meet expectations? Will it exceed them? Are there expectations? If there are, what happens if they are met, or exceeded, and then, well, we are back to the problem of sequels.

And then of course, once the sequel is said and done, you have to do something else. I am not even sure what that's called. It's that once-removed thing for which grandmothers show such an aptitude. I won't trouble you with all the machinations that occur at that point, because I am straying from the solution to the problem that I haven't really fully articulated yet.

So, rather than articulate the problem, here is the solution: why not bring out three books all at once and then stop and go snorkeling? I read a wonderful article today about Curaçao–it sounds breathtaking. Really, it seems to be the jewel of the Caribbean and I think we should all pay it a visit quickly before, well, the sequel comes out.

The following three books will soon be available to my nice friends:

MAKE IT WAVY (the original)

MAKE IT WAVIER (everything that didn't fit in MAKE IT WAVY)

MAKE IT LONG AND WAVY (everything that didn't fit in either MAKE IT WAVY or MAKE IT WAVIER because these pieces are really Chatty Cathies if you know what I mean.)


The Author of Wavies

all artwork, including monsters but not old timey photographs,
® mr. crispy flotilla, 2007

Saturday, September 15, 2007



Thanks for thinking of Yankee Pot Roast, but we must unfortunately pass on these pieces, as they don't contain a single reference to monkeys, and as you know, Y.P.R. is first and foremost a journal of simian fiction. Best of luck elsewhere, and we do hope you'll submit some primate-centric humor to Y.P.R. in the future.


artwork, including monsters but not old timey photographs,
® mr. crispy flotilla, 2007

Friday, September 14, 2007


Young girl with golf club.

Young, and crushed, but not really.

Young girl picks up golf club, and carries on.


Angela Park was born in Brazil. As a young girl, she moved to southern California, where she grew up. She took up golf and became one of the top young amateur golfers in the country, finishing in the top 10 in 24 of the 29 AJGA events she played. Perhaps her biggest achievement as an amateur was beating In Kyung Kim at the 2005 US Women's Amateur before losing to Morgan Pressel in the semifinals.

After Song Hee Kim petitioned the Futures Tour to lower its minimum age to 17, Angela decided to join the tour for 2006. First, though, she played in one final event as an amateur, finishing tied for 15th at the Kraft Nabisco Championship. She then turned pro and joined the Futures Tour, where she had good success. By the final tournament of the year, she had risen to fifth on the money list; if she could maintain that position, she would earn her exempt status for 2007. But she did not play that well in the final event, and someone else got that last card.

If Angela was crushed, she moved past it. At LPGA Q-School a few months later, she easily earned her exempt card by finishing fifth. Indeed, she even led the tournament for a while. So she will have her chance in 2007 to test herself against the game's best as one of the youngest rookies on tour.

Later that same night...

all artwork, including monsters but not old timey photographs,
® mr. crispy flotilla, 2007


all artwork, including monsters but not old timey photographs,
® mr. crispy flotilla, 2007



But I don’t do
a thing about it.

I just write about
other things I don’t
feel anything about.

Like the bug
in the air vent,
and it’s dead.

Probably starved
to death.

But if it hadn’t,
I bet it wouldn’t
be writing about

someone writing
about bugs with
a black leaky pen
pondering death
in a bathtub
looking at a bug
that’s probably
dead already.
I bet it would be
wiring about its
soon to be famous
escape from the
air vent.

I mean, once it was
all done, and he had
scampered away,
and was safe and warm,
at home, with his books,
writing materials,
and his loving wife,
cooking something that’s
tasty not to you or me,
but to bugs.

all artwork, including monsters but not old timey photographs,
® mr. crispy flotilla, 2007

Sunday, September 09, 2007


Dear Mr. President,

With this notice I am formally announcing my intention to rule the road in flashing style. That’s right! I am about to purchase a Dodge Lancer, or, if you prefer, " Dodge” a modern automobile noted for its ability to appear like a streak of light across the Bonneville Salt Flats, blazing a trail of world records. I know what you are thinking: I don’t live in the Bonneville Salt Flats: that’s true–who does? I don’t think anybody does–it is very hot and salty there. Nevertheless, I intend to drive my Dodge to the Bonneville Salt Flats in order to execute a streak of light across them, “swiftness,” as Mr. Dodge used to say, “sculptured in steel.” I know what you are thinking: shouldn’t it be ‘sculpted’ in steel? I don’t care! Mr. Dodge said ‘sculptured’ and that’s good enough for me, and good enough for my pregnant wife who cries all the time. But just wait til we get to the Bonneville Salt Flats! She and my child, or whatever, will thrill to the magic touch of push button driving, the matchless ease of handling, and the solid feel of big car weight and brawn. Kind of hard to cry in the desert, too–I read an article about it in POPULAR MECHANICS. Has something to do with the barometric pressure and the rotational position of the earth. And besides, when you are blazing a trail of swiftness, sculptured in steel in flashing style–you can forget it. There will be no crying. No sir. There will only be a Lancer and the solid feel of the value leader of the forward look. That’s it. Me, my wife, a baby or two, that solid feel, and the sky.

Sincerely yours,

Anuncio del Torres Huevos
Puerto de Puertos, Florida

all artwork, including monsters but not old timey photographs,
® mr. crispy flotilla, 2007


I don’t need to look
at a painting to feel
anything but look
at this painting!

That’s what I said
to Jerri. She looked
at the painting. She
saw the poor woman
with her baby near

The window. Was
she there because
she need a little
sunlight? Did the
baby need a little
sunlight? Did

She want to make
sure by the light
of the window that
the baby was alive?

And look
I told Jerri

Those three men
by the fireplace

Near the spinning
wheel. They don’t
seem to care. They
don’t care about
the baby

Jerri laughed.
The crib is hanging
on the window sill

It’s a good sign
It’s hanging over
The Mask of Death
and it’s smiling

Masks don’t smile
I thought to myself.
All Jerris aren’t crazy
but this one is.

Cribs, however, often
smile, Jerri. Especially
if they are heirlooms.
Especially if they have
something to say. Or
at least at times like that
they can appear to smile.

The men don’t need to care
Jerri said dreamily, The baby’s
fine, the crib is fine. There’s
no reason to care.

But Jerri said, Look over there

I thought for certain that the crib
would be flying away or the baby
would be standing up and saying

I’m OK or the Mask of Death
would be saying It’s Me! but
it wasn’t that at all

The men had turned from the fireplace
They wanted to know what all the commotion
was about. They had finished their dark beers
because Last Call comes early in paintings
And then they began to look angry

Jerri put a finger to her lips
Duck, Jerri said

Don't even breathe

But nothing happened
and nothing kept happening
and finally the men turned away
from the fireplace and didn’t even move

Until Jerri disappeared
Until I disappeared
and then, and only then,
they disappeared

and the baby
began to cry

all artwork, including monsters but not old timey photographs,
® mr. crispy flotilla, 2007

Thursday, September 06, 2007

THE CASE AGAINST TS ELIOT – A COMPELLING PAMPHLET DISCOVERED BY CRISPY (see facsimile imprint pamphlet cover, dated 1968, below)

When Gore Vidal described Abraham Lincoln’s death, he started to cry. It was terribly strange–after all, Lincoln died 150 years ago, Gore never met him, and gore is usually quite quick with a quip, and slightly snippy, usually, about heterosexual relationships, even, say, Abe and Mary Todd’s. Honestly though, tears came to his eyes and he was all choked up and sniffly. Isn’t it wonderful? A man you never met can have an effect on you through his words and deeds even when those words and deeds are wispy and far away, and even when you are witty and smart and sarcastic.

I imagine that Gore, being Gore, cries less about his family than he does about Abraham Lincoln. I know that Abraham Lincoln cried more about the deaths of George Washington and Thomas Jefferson than he did about the death of his father. Gore Vidal said so. Although to be fair, he cried less about all three than he did about his son Willy who died, broke his heart, and how long did he come out to the crypt and open it up to visit him and look at his son’s pale face?

I don’t know how Abraham Lincoln felt about Willy, but I think I know how he felt about Washington and Jefferson, even though I know less about them, and even though I am not Abraham Lincoln. Just recently, for example, I began to read a biography of Europe’s greatest creators. It’s called ‘The Creators’ by Daniel Boorstin and it is the capstone to one of the great careers in the history of American intellectual endeavor. What a delight to read of Homer, Cervantes, Gibbon, Rabelais, Shoenberg, Giotto and the rest, who include Mozart, Beethoven, Virginia Woolf, James Joyce, T.S. Eliot and of course Boswell. They almost seem so real that you feel as though you can reach out and touch them if you want to. It’s an inspirational feeling! Suddenly I am squeezing Beethoven’s arm, and then I am winking at Rabelais, and the next thing I know I am giving Virginia Woolf a big smooch on the lips, which are pale and pouty looking.

T.S. Eliot, who I haven’t mentioned yet because he upsets me so much, I would simply have to punch. I would just have to and I would like to punch him once in the stomach and hear him say “ouch” and then once on his big schnoz. “That’s what you get for thinking you’re so smart and witty and European!” I would say. Why, with this book alone I can think of ten people who were smarter–I don’t even have to name them, it is so obvious. And I can think of twenty people who are more European, starting with James Joyce and ending with Pablo Picasso. I think that acting like you’re European when you are really from St. Louis (not St. Louis, France, either) deserves an additional kick in the butt, or, as the British Europeans would say, “bum.” And once you have done that, you have to say, “You think you’re so big and smart and European but you’re really not those two things and you’re actually one of us!”

Somehow, though, even with two punches and one kick I still didn’t feel any better.

When I first thought of doing this, I was sure that it would be a very soul-satisfying experience. Maybe it would be, normally, but it wasn’t now.

Maybe it was thinking about Gore Vidal, who seemed so invincible and now is crying.

Or Constanz, when Mozart died, so alone. He was so young.

Or maybe I am still thinking about Willy Lincoln, gasping for breath.

Or maybe, just maybe, kissing Virginia Woolf wasn’t such a great idea.

all artwork, including monsters but not old timey photographs,
® mr. crispy flotilla, 2007
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