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If you're a longtime fan or subscribe to the newsletter, you may know that Jody died on Christmas day. She'd been ill, but it was nonetheless unexpected and shocking. We spent a low-key Christmas eve, anticipating the unwrapping of gifts in the morning and the preparation of our annual Christmas feast. Jody adored Christmas. We cuddled on the couch watching It's A Wonderful Life and then went to bed early. The next morning, Christmas day, Jody was dead. One year to the day before she passed, Jody wrote the following and I share it with you. Christmas Day,
Sunny and cool. I took a walk with my dog. We walked around our big block of Supermarkets up at the corner of 185th and R.B. Road--it's weird to see those stores from the back because nobody ever goes there, I mean why the hell should they? They shouldn't. Except us (of course), and The Homeless Man. The Homeless Man lives in the woods somewhere around here, I never found out exactly where--Mary & I took a pile of blankets to him the year when everything in the neighborhood froze solid but The Homeless Man was nowhere to be found, so we went back home where it was messy, piles of papers books and so on all over the place but at least warm and comfy Anyway, I was telling you: today when I hiked around the alley side, guess who was there? The Homeless Man. We said hello and all that crap and then he threw back the lid of a dumpster that was standing behind QFC--you know how big a dumpster is, pretty goddam big--and he said, "Look." Those were his exact words and I looked. The dumpster was jam-packed to the brim with last weeks' pork chops, lamb chops, steak, hamburger and every kind of pre-packed veggies, all laid out in those styrofoam thingies with the Glad Wrap or whatever it is, nicely sealed over them and everything looking almost fresh with the price stickers still on them. So anyway we chatted a while about how The Homeless Man could take some of the stuff home and cook up a nice stew for himself, except he had no place to cook anything and so forth and so on and then the dog and I walked on because we had to hurry up and do all the shit people have to do to stay alive in this culture and, well, I guess that's about it. Except for one thing--couple of weeks ago an anthropologist from London phoned me; very nice fellow, lovely Brit accent, wanted to know about Henry Miller and George Leite--you remember George, I spoke of him in my last article. See, there was this piece called "The New Cult of Sex and Anarchy" in Harper's magazine a good while ago and this fellow wanted to know about it because he was writing a book. So I thought, "Well, you know: George's poem about The Mastodon, that poem kind of says it all." So here is that poem for your delectation, OK? To the tune of Tannenbaum: O Mastodon, O Mastodon, O broken glass Comes from your ass. O Mastodon, O Mastodon, O broken glass comes from your ass. O Mastodon. O broken glass; O broken glass O Mastodon, O Mastodon, O Mastodon, O broken glass Comes from your ass. I hereby swear and affirm that these events are true. (Signed) Jody Scott 12/25/06 (rest in peace, dear buddy George). Daughter Lani died 2006, wife Nancy & son Daliel still thriving in California, bless ‘em. -Jody Scott
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Last month I wrote about Wicky, one of the many fascinating characters Jody knew. This month's Censorable Ideas is a sort of addendum to that post, a sweet little story Jody penned on a napkin for Wicky, when they were a couple. Once upon a time a little W. woke up, got out of glorp, and descended gracefully into her cereal bowl; when all at once she saw a big gigantic spoon begin to drop towards her location in the bowl. It was terrifying! Her little arms and legs flashed wildly, as she tried to swim away through the curdled milk and sugar and floating grains of Grape Nuts; but faster and faster descended the great spoon-- behind which was a great, hungry, gaping FACE-- the face of J.S. Wood! Reaching for her silver sergeant's whistle on a lanyard around her neck, the frantic W. gave a short, sharp blast. Instantly the hideous face, which had pores the size of coal cars, became transparent and disappeared, leaving a gaping hole in the air. "Whew, that was a close one," declared the relieved W.; whereupon she florked into the shower and had breakfast. She would have bragged about her coolness and presence of mind to the other monks around the srab, BUT, they were all doing impressions of Mae West, so she went back to glorp and dreamed a hero's dreams. -Jody Scott  
Hung around house writing short stories, all bad. Mom knew a salesman (a pig but she didn’t know that) at Kemper Insurance. Got a job there. Had no idea what to expect. There were eight floors to Kemper Insurance with a dumbwaiter running up through them and on each floor, crouched around the dumbwaiter and waiting for mail, was one boy and one girl. The girl was supposed to sort incoming mail, the boy to deliver it in a handcart but we switched around and had a fabulously FUN time sending shoes up and down the d’waiter and like that.. But on the day the job started: I walked in (in my HS clothes, plaid skirt, sweater, bobby sox, saddle shoes) and here was this handsome & fabulous creature, gorgeously dressed like a boy model of 18 years old, even the gold watch would knock your eyes out. This was Don, far too sophisticated to play the baby games the rest of us played, and we got to be good friends, long phone talks mostly about politics and my favorite subject “How can suicidal humanity be helped out of the pit it wallows in?”; in another couple of years we’d be running around with a Chicago Ultra Sophisticated Crowd, going to the ballet and like that—um, let’s see, one of them was Edward Gorey, and snobbish Joan Mitchell who stayed home and painted. And so on. Anyway, 1940 morphed into 1941 and September came and Dad died. I remember that night, the midnight phone call, the horror, the silence. (Frank would love it.) Mom went insane. I have no other word for it. She played “Gloomy Sunday” night and day. It was awful. I had no skills to handle this at the time—then it was January, 1942, Don and I were hatching a scheme: we wanted to hitchhike on Route 66 all the way from Chi to L.A.! Wow! What an adventure, so we got ready to take off and Mom said, “You can’t do it unless you get married.” Married? What the f—k for? But her mantra was, “What will the neighbors say?” This was all-important in my mother’s mind and she couldn’t be talked out of it so I figured, what the hay, if it makes her happy. So we went downtown to the Justice of the Peace’s office and paid $2 to “get married,” and Mom and the neighbors lived happily ever after, until they died. And later I got “divorced” and married fabulous but crazy O.T. Wood which is a whole other story which I can’t tell yet because it may hurt the innocent. (Suggestion to the past: forget about “married,” it’s nothing but Police State Suppression. Up the Revolution! Whatever that means.) Next: to L.A. on Route 66 with hardly any money, ending in getting arrested in Texas. (Which is also another story. Stay tuned!) -Jody Scott Read more from Jody about her life  During the late 40's Jody lived in Berkeley with George and Nancy Leite. They ran daliel's bookstore on Telegraph Ave. and published Circle Magazine. Both influential precursors to the birth of the Beat movement. Jody and George co-authored as Thurston Scott the novel CURE IT WITH HONEY. Here is an entry in Jody's journal from Monday, Aug 30, 1948: "Day as usual. G. in fine mood. All go to SF at 6 to De Angulo opening, then to A. Nin's, then to Italian restaurant, then to Mona's. Spend total of 1 fin. All somewhat sad. Bed late." https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Circle_Magazine www.kirkusreviews.com/book-reviews/thurston-scott/cure-it-with-honey/
 Inside daliel's looking toward Telegraph Ave. photo by George Leite  Remember when Hannibal Lector was all the rage? Years ago, before zombies replaced him in the fickle heart of the public. Well this is the true story of what happened to Hannibal Lector, written by one who was there, which I can now share with you because all the guilty parties are dead and beyond the law's convoluted reach. The names have not been changed to protect the innocent-- assuming there are any.... ******** The Silence of the Hacks ******** I don't want to rain on little ole Thomas Harris' parade or put a spoke in his wheel--it's just that I'm sick and dog-tired of all these tenth rate so-called "writers" harvesting kudos and million-dollar advances for writing pure trash all the time. I mean what's the point? Hannibal Lecter can go take a long jump off a short pier--so what if the Queen Herself knighted the slimy little jerk? It just proves what a tribe of perverted bums our Leaders are, don't it? Because you are never told the truth, Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury. You are once again being fed a LIE and right now I'm going to tell you the way it really happened (which is nothing like it's reported in the so-called News of the Day, Hannibal the Cannibal being the hot story of the moment). Anyway, a bunch of us got together and said we wuz sick and dog-tired of the reading public being such a ninny, needing something as DUMB as mere cannibalism to get them to go to their bookstore and buy a book. At that time Hannibal Lecter was right here in Shoreline, Washington, which is the suburb of Seattle where me and my buddies live. He was hiding out here; it's the one place the cops would never think to look for him. One night late we formed a sort of a posse you might call it, with ropes and all.. We went to Hannibal's door and knocked loudly. When he opened the door we jumped him. We drug him out (him yellin and screamin and waving his fists, but he aint in all that good a shape from being in prison too long). He wasn't wearing his scary mask that the Warden made him wear in prison, and it woulda been more exciting if he was wearing it, but he wasn't. So we knocked Hannibal down and kicked him till he shut up whimpering. Then we drug him to that big ole maple tree that grows in front of his house--you pass it on your way to walk your dog in Boeing Creek Park; you'd probably remember the exact spot if you thought about it, anyway we put one end of that rope in a noose around his neck, threw the other end over a limb of the maple tree and we all pulled, yelling "Yo-Ho!" becuz we was feelin good. Ole Hannibal he kicked a bunch but pretty soon he was dead with his tongue stickin way out. When he was all done kicking we cut the sonofabitch down and threw the body in the trunk of my ole Chrysler New Yorker. Then we all drove back to my house. We drug old Hannibal by the legs around to my back yard which is where we cut him up using a chain saw. First the head, then the legs--we sawed the legs into nice roast-size chunks like any good butcher would do. Then the arms. Then the torso. Old Jerry wrapped most of the parts in Glad Wrap and popped them in the two old freezers on my porch. They'd do nice for Sundays all through the winter--then we fired up my barbecue, filled it with good well-seasoned hickory charcoal for a slow simmer and we took and roasted old Hannibal's left thigh just as neat as you please. Cooking time was two hours, then we placed the roast on a platter and I carved and served (bein as how it was my house), then we filled up our jelly glasses with some full-bodied Chianti, 1984 with a mellow yet tangy and pleasingly fruity bouquet, and we all fell to eatin. "More fava beans, anyone?" Caroline asked. "I'm sure enjoyin this roast," Sidney said. "This mustard crust is my favorite." We all smacked our lips, that roast was so good. The most delicious meat I ever et. I had three helpings, four glasses of Chianti and a whole mess of fava beans. Bianca, she cut herself another big slice, poured gravy on it and cut it up and et it, making smacking noises, it was so prime. "Mmm, mmm! Don't that just hit the spot. Best roast I ever bit into," then went back for more. There was some charred bits; I carved them off and threw them to my two cats Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas. Pretty soon everyone said "Good night" and drove off belching and picking their teeth, and I fell onto the couch in the living room where I sleep, thinking-- "Well it's not MY fault that my wholesome, honest, uplifting books get rejected because the public can't stomach that kind of stuff! I mean what the hell, better luck next time." And so saying, I rolled over, farted loudly and fell into a deep, satisfying sleep, happy as a clam in clover. And that's what REALLY happened to Hannibal the Cannibal. That other stuff they try to feed you ? That is a pure lie. Don't fall for it. Why let them manipulate your mind? Go for the truth every time; it's a lot more pro-survival. -Jody Scott   Written exactly one year before Jody died: Christmas Day, 2006. Sunny and cool. I took a walk with my dog. We walked around our big block of Supermarkets up at the corner of 185th and R.B. Road--it's weird to see those stores from the back because nobody ever goes there, I mean why the hell should they? They shouldn't. Except us (of course), and The Homeless Man. The Homeless Man lives in the woods somewhere around here, I never found out exactly where--Mary & I took a pile of blankets to him the year when everything in the neighborhood froze solid but The Homeless Man was nowhere to be found, so we went back home where it was messy, piles of papers books and so on all over the place but at least warm and comfy Anyway, I was telling you: today when I hiked around the alley side, guess who was there? The Homeless Man. We said hello and all that crap and then he threw back the lid of a dumpster that was standing behind QFC--you know how big a dumpster is, pretty goddam big--and he said, "Look." Those were his exact words and I looked. The dumpster was jam-packed to the brim with last weeks' pork chops, lamb chops, steak, hamburger and every kind of pre-packed veggies, all laid out in those styrofoam thingies with the Glad Wrap or whatever it is, nicely sealed over them and everything looking almost fresh with the price stickers still on them. So anyway we chatted a while about how The Homeless Man could take some of the stuff home and cook up a nice stew for himself, except he had no place to cook anything and so forth and so on and then the dog and I walked on because we had to hurry up and do all the shit people have to do to stay alive in this culture and, well, I guess that's about it. Except for one thing--couple of weeks ago an anthropologist from London phoned me; very nice fellow, lovely Brit accent, wanted to know about Henry Miller and George Leite--you remember George, I spoke of him in my last article. See, there was this piece called "The New Cult of Sex and Anarchy" in Harper's magazine a good while ago and this fellow wanted to know about it because he was writing a book. So I thought, "Well, you know: George's poem about The Mastodon, that poem kind of says it all." So here is that poem for your delectation, OK? To the tune of Tannenbaum: O Mastodon, O Mastodon, O broken glass Comes from your ass. O Mastodon, O Mastodon, O broken glass comes from your ass. O Mastodon. O broken glass; O broken glass O Mastodon, O Mastodon, O Mastodon, O broken glass Comes from your ass. I hereby swear and affirm that these events are true. (Signed) Jody Scott 12/25/06 (rest in peace, dear buddy George). Daughter Lani died 2006, wife Nancy & son Daliel still thriving in California, bless ‘em. -Jody Scott |
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