GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #817: TIME IS A FLAT CIRCLE, REDUX

 My brother, Alex, shares his birthday with Kurt Russell on March 17. That's pretty cool. Up until 5 seconds ago I was only aware that I shared a birthday with Walter Payton, which only really means something if you live in my neck of the woods. The reason I say "until 5 seconds ago" is because I Googled it, and it looks like there are other celebrities who have their birthday on July 25. I don't really give much of a shit about Lindsay Lohan, Miley Cyrus and Matt LeBlanc, but holy shit! Woody Strode was born on July 25! So was Walter Brennan, which probably means nothing to many of you. But Natalie Portman might get your attention.

Ooh. La-di-da. Look at me. Jeez. Anyway.

The reason I bring up Kurt Russell is because he does a fantastic job as Wyatt Earp in the movie, Tombstone. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that, kind of like I don't have to tell you that water is wet. I noticed something that not many other people talk about, which is that Russell adds a particular flavor to his acting style in this one. I saw it again in H8ful Eight and in Bone Tomahawk, which others *have* mentioned, but if you really want to go back he did it in Big Trouble in Little China, where it's a lot more pronounced.

In these films Russell adds quite a bit of John Wayne to his performances. Go back and watch Tombstone again. You'll hear it in Russell's speech patterns.

It's a funny thing. If you go back to the very beginning of John Wayne's career, back when he was still signing photos as "Marion," it turns out that Wayne modeled his demeanor after this guy who used to hang out on the sets of westerns in Hollywood's infancy. He thought this guy was the toughest son of a bitch he'd ever met and wanted to be just like him. He walked like this guy, he talked like this guy. The very persona of the Duke that everyone around my age is very familiar with was all based on this one guy.

This guy was there as a consultant. You see, he'd actually been part of the Wild West. He'd been the law in cow towns like Abilene and Dodge City (yes, Dodge City!). In fact, he ran a faro table in Tombstone. It's difficult to say how many men this guy killed, but the estimates range from eight to upwards of thirty.

That's the thing, though. He didn't *just* run a faro table in Tombstone. That guy's name?

His name was Wyatt Earp.

Time is a flat circle.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #790: TIME IS A FLAT CIRCLE

 

There aren't a lot of photographs of Abraham Lincoln delivering speeches. In fact, there's only one. On March 4, 1865, he delivered his second inaugural speech from the picture seen above. I know it's a little hard to see specifics, but maybe this close up will help:

You can read the full speech here. It's a good one. So good they inscribed it on the Lincoln Memorial with the Gettysburg Address. I can't imagine any modern president giving a speech like this.

He had 41 days to live.

On March 11 he issues Proclamation 124, pardoning any and all deserters of the Union Army provided they return to their posts within a certain time. The war seemingly is running its toll on the nation. Keep in mind that Virginia, a Confederate state, is not that far from Washington, DC.

On March 14 he issues an executive order on the subject of retaliation. For every Union soldier killed, a Confederate soldier must also be killed. For every Union soldier taken into slavery, a Confederate soldier must be captured and put to hard labor until his corresponding soldier is set free. This is possibly the president who wanted peace more than any other president in history. To resort to this must have been like acid in his bloodstream. A necessary evil? If only he knew what would happen in less than a month.

On March 17 he addresses the Indiana regiment, pumping them up for winning the war. He mentions that Confederates are pressing 1 out of 4 slaves into fighting the war for them. Looking back on the speech with modern eyes is a definite collar-puller, though. You can read it here. Lincoln may have been the best of the presidents, but he was far from perfect.

On March 27 he issues an executive order to raise the American flag at Ft. Sumter, won back by William "War is Hell" Sherman. If you don't know, that's where the Civil War officially began when Confederates raided the fort. The very same commander who lost the fort was the man to raise the flag over it again. It was a symbolic gesture to show that the war was finally going well for the North.

On April 3 the Union sounds the death knell for the South by taking Richmond, just a hop skip and jump from the White House. The very next day Lincoln visits Richmond without fear for his life.

On April 9 it happens. Robert E. Lee surrenders the Confederacy to Ulysses S. Grant, thus ending the Civil War.

On April 11 Lincoln makes his final speech on the White House lawn. It's his victory lap, but it's also about what the country needs to do next: Reconstruction. He talks about not just throwing the Confederates in the trash because that's where they belong. He talks about reform. Healing. Helping them become better people. As one can imagine, that doesn't sit well with many people. One person in particular. You can read this speech here. It's also a good one. A little awkward, again by modern judgment, but still good.

On April 14, 41 days after his second inaugural address, Abraham Lincoln goes to Ford's Theater for a play called Our American Cousin. He sits in the balcony overlooking the stage. He doesn't sense a shadowy figure behind him. He may not even hear the sound of a pistol going off. The bullet soars out of the gun and plants itself in the back of Lincoln's head.

Stop.

Let's take that bullet out of Lincoln's skull and put it back in John Wilkes Booth's gun. Let's walk him back out of the balcony. Back to the saloon where he spent the intermission. Back to earlier in the day when he told his co-conspirators that Lincoln was going to be at the theater that night. He sent someone to kill Secretary of State Sewell and one to kill Vice President Johnson. Go back earlier in the day to when Booth showed up at Ford's Theater to pick up his mail, to when he was told that Lincoln would be attending the play that night.

Back to April 12 when he learns of Lee's surrender at Appomattox. He tells others that he's planning to retire from the stage to focus only on Venice Preserv'd, a play about assassination. Because now he knows that Lincoln must die. This is when he makes the decision.

Back to April 11 as he watches Lincoln from the White House lawn giving a speech about winning the Civil War and the Reconstruction that must follow. As Booth learns that Lincoln intends to give slaves rights, he vows that this will be Lincoln's final speech.

It is.

Back to March 17 when Booth learns that Lincoln will attend a play called Still Waters Run Deep at Soldier's Home. Booth immediately plots to kidnap Lincoln and even puts his men on the road to Soldier's Home. Lincoln never shows. As we know from above, he was too busy on that day for theater.

Back to March 5 when he boasts to friends about how close he was to Lincoln the previous day. "What an excellent chance I had to kill the president," he tells them.

Because go back to that first picture. It's hard to see, but Booth wasn't lying about being close to Lincoln that day:

Look a little closer.

Time is a flat circle.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #776: TUTANKHAMEN AND EGYPTOLOGY

 Technically the entire name of the book is Biblical and Oriental Series: Tutankhamen and Egyptology. It was published in 1923 and is so difficult to find that not even Google will help me find an image of it. I found an entry on Amazon, but they don't have a copy and so they don't have a cover image. I'm too lazy, and it's too late for me to take a picture with my phone and import it to my laptop, so you'll have to pretend that I posted a picture of a book above this paragraph that is greenish blue and simply says the title and the word Mercer on it. Not sure if Mercer is the author or the publisher. Once again, Google foiled my GF research.

The reason I bring up this book is because it belongs to the Elmhurst Public Library, but for many decades between them purchasing it and now, it vanished. Someone checked it out in 1945 and just didn't return it. I'm sure the guy just forgot about it, and after time it became part of his own library because the book was just returned this summer with a note: "This book was recently discovered in my father's bookcase. With regrets for its long overdue status."

That's 78 fucking years late. I can't even imagine what the late fee would be. I worked there for almost 10 years, and in my time it was ten cents a day . . . until you reached a certain point that you went on a list. When we didn't have much to do, they had us call people on this list in an attempt to get the book (or movie or magazine or whatever) back. If we still didn't get it back, we just charged them for the book. If they came back to use the library again, they couldn't check anything else out until they either returned the book and paid the late fee or simply paid to replace the book. So something like this would not have happened during my time. I was thinking about calculating what that late fee might be for this book, but I don't have the date it was checked out, and I don't know the charge from back then or when the charges changed, etc. It would be an exercise in futility. But I am pretty curious. Almost curious enough to waste a reference librarian's time to find out. Earlier today I came pretty close to doing just that.

But 78 years isn't all that bad in the big picture. Here Google was very helpful because there are many instances of books being returned late all over the world, and sometimes a century or more has passed. Since I am curious as all fuck, I decided to find out what was the most overdue book in known history.

Unfortunately I couldn't find out what the title of the book was. All I know is that it's a history book, and it's written in German. It was borrowed from the Sidney Sussex College library in Cambridge back in 1667 or 1668 by Col. Robert Walpole. Not the first prime minster of Great Britain. No, this was Sir Robert Walpole's father. It was not returned until it was discovered in 1956! That makes it around 287 years overdue! The guy who found it was putting together a biography of Walpole, so I figure his descendants gave the author access to Walpole's library, where he found the book and realized, holy shit, this belongs to the college library! Weird to think that a guy doing research just stumbled upon something that was then enshrined in the Guinness Book of World Records.

The EPL eliminated late fees a few years back, so nothing is owed, but still. I wonder what they'll do with the book now. I doubt it's back in circulation. Perhaps they'll bring it to the historical museum at the Glos mansion. Which, by the way, was where the library started out life in a back room in 1916.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #247: MORTALITY

(This entry to be read to the tune of this song.)


My body has been consistently trying to kill me for the last few years. You would think that my literary estate would be at the front of my mind. Well, I put it off and put it off and put it off because I had faith that somehow I would survive. What a fucking stupid idea. I'm surprised 2016 failed to take me.


But I got it done a few months ago. So yeah, if that blood infection virus thingy killed me, my literary estate would have been secure. There's that.


But then there's other stuff. What happens to my Twitter when I die? My Facebook? My bank accounts? My PayPal? Everything else? Honestly, one of my biggest quandaries was this: if I died, who would know? My family. Some close friends. No one else.


I took some time to write it out, and it made me feel odd. Right now, as I stand (or hover like a madman above this glowing electronic device that could possibly blow the kneecap off of the world), when I die there will be someone who will have my passwords. They will post something to my Facebook. And then they'll write something else to link to that Facebook post for the Twitter people.


I have written you all a message from beyond the grave. That's some Future Mystic Bullshit for you right there.


When I was a kid I remember my grandparents taking me out to the middle of nowhere to show me their tombstone. Both of them are still alive (for now), and they have their tombstone already. Their names are on it. Their birth years are on it. All it needs is their bodies under its ground and their death dates. How fucking odd is that?


That's what it feels like to have an envelope on my night stand that says, "In the event of my death," on it.


The very thought that the world will continue to work after I'm gone is obscene. Dammit, I'm the only one who matters, right? The world is supposed to end with my death. Nothing matters after I've breathed my last.


It's a weird thought that occurs to me every once in a while. In my heart of hearts I know that I'm a small cog in the giant machine of life, and when I die there will be a fresh part to take my place. But dammit, there's an indignant part of me who insists I'm vital to the continuation of existence. That part of me is fifteen years old no matter how old I get.


Here's the bad news: everyone reading this right now is going to die. Here's the good news: everyone reading this right now is going to die. Life is a snake constantly eating its own tail. Or, if you prefer your philosophy to come from an HBO show, time is a flat circle.


We all have that adolescent asshole living in our psyches. But we also know that (s)he is an asshole.


Is there an afterlife? I don't think so. I'm pretty sure that our energy leaves our body and gets recycled into the universe. I don't mean to say that our consciousness survives. I don't think it does. I think whatever we were gets eaten by the worms. They take that energy to make more worms. Until some fisherman digs them out of the ground and uses them to capture fish. That energy goes into the fish. And then it goes into the fisherman and his family. And so on and so forth.


One thing seems certain: we will all be a fisherman's shit before we become something else. Life's cycle takes a while before we become something bigger again.


Sweet dreams.