Fascinating Journal

Smartset, sponsored by Drexel University.

I stumbled across it through a link to an article about Hitler's health problems, which included horrible, horrible flatulence.

For example, to combat recurrences of the volcanic stomach problems, Morell plied him with a remedy called “Dr. Köster’s Anti-gas pills,” which contained significant amounts of strychnine – and Hitler often took as many as 16 of the little black pills a day. The sallow skin, glaucous eyes and attention lapses noted by observers later in the war are consistent with strychnine poisoning; another ingredient in the pills, antropine, causes mood wings from euphoria to violent anger. Even more peculiar were the injections of amphetamines that Morell administered every morning before breakfast from 1941, which may have exacerbated the erratic behavior, inflexibility, paranoia and indecision that Hitler began to display increasingly as the war ground on. And there was a barrage of other supplements -- vitamins, testosterone, liver extracts, laxatives, sedatives, glucose and opiates, all intended to combat the dictator’s real or imagined ailments. After the war, U.S. intelligence officers discovered that Morell was pumping Hitler with 28 different drugs, including eye-drops that contained 10 percent cocaine (up to 10 treatment a day), a concoction made from human placenta and “potency pills” made from ground bull’s testicles. But despite the barrage of medicines, Morell’s diaries (which were recovered from Germany and are kept in the National Archives in Washington, D.C.) make clear that the bouts of “agonizing flatulence” remained a regular occurrence.

Other awesome articles: Sex and the Rennaissance Nun, Syphilitic Chic, and the Sexual Prowess of Castrati.

Oh, and for you literary types there's this.

All American Gangster

That new movie out, with Denzel and Russell Crowe, is based on a real-life heroin dealer Frank Lucas. Here is an old New York Magazine profile of him.

Highlights and/or lowlights:

Back in the early seventies, there were many "brands" of dope in Harlem. Tru Blu, Mean Machine, Could Be Fatal, Dick Down, Boody, Cooley High, Capone, Ding Dong, Fuck Me, Fuck You, Nice, Nice to Be Nice, Oh -- Can't Get Enough of That Funky Stuff, Tragic Magic, Gerber, The Judge, 32, 32-20, O.D., Correct, Official Correct, Past Due, Payback, Revenge, Green Tape, Red Tape, Rush, Swear to God, PraisePraisePraise, KillKillKill, Killer 1, Killer 2, KKK, Good Pussy, Taster's Choice, Harlem Hijack, Joint, Insured for Life, and Insured for Death were only a few of the brand names rubber-stamped onto cellophane bags. But none sold like Frank Lucas's Blue Magic.

In the end, the tour comes back to 116th Street. It's now part of Harlem's nascent real-estate boom, but when Frank "owned" this street, "you'd see junkies, nodding, sucking their own dicks . . . heads down in the crotch. People saw that, they knew that shit was good."

A drug kingpin attracts attention from the police, and according to Lucas, most of his trouble came from the NYPD's infamously corrupt Special Investigations Unit. Known for its near-unlimited authority, the SIU wrote its own mighty chapter in the crazy-street-money days of the early-seventies heroin epidemic; by 1977, 52 out of 70 officers who'd worked in the unit were either in jail or under indictment.

The worst of the SIU crew, Lucas says, was Bob Leuci, the main player in Robert Daley's best-selling Prince of the City. Says Frank: "We called him Babyface, and he had the balls of a gorilla. He'd wait outside your house and fuck with you." Once, according to Lucas, Leuci caught him with several keys of heroin and cocaine in his trunk. "This is gonna cost you," the detective supposedly said after taking Lucas down to the station house. The two men then reportedly engaged in a heated negotiation, Lucas offering 30 grand, Leuci countering with "30 grand and two keys." Seeing no alternative, Lucas said, "Sold!"

According to Lucas, it was Barnes's "delusions of grandeur" that led to a bizarre chance meeting between the two drug lords in the lingerie department of Henri Bendel on 57th Street. "Nicky wanted to make this black-Mafia thing called the Council. An uptown Cosa Nostra. The Five Families of Dope. I didn't want no part of it. Because before long, everyone's gonna think they're Carlo Gambino. That's trouble.

"Anyway, I'm with my wife at Henri Bendel's, and who comes up? Nicky fucking Barnes! 'Frank,' he's going, 'we got to talk . . . we got to get together on this Council thing.' I told him forget it, my wife is trying on underwear -- can't we do this some other time? He says, 'Hey, Frank, I'm short this week, can you front me a couple of keys?' That's Nicky."

Lucas says he thought about quitting "all the time." His wife, Julie, whom he met on a "backtracking" trip in Puerto Rico, begged him to get out, especially after Brooklyn dope king Frank Matthews jumped bail in 1973, never to be heard from again. "Some say he's dead, but I know he's living in Africa, like a king, with all the fucking money in the world," Lucas sighs. "Probably I should have stayed in Colombia. Always liked Colombia. But I had my heart set on getting a jet plane . . . there was always something."

And my personal favorite, which reveals how gross suburbanization and sprawl and big box stores have saved us all from crime:

A couple of days later, eating at a T.G.I. Friday's, Lucas scowled through glareproof glass to the suburban strip beyond. "Look at this shit," he said. A giant Home Depot down the road especially bugged him. Bumpy Johnson himself couldn't have collected protection from a damn Home Depot, he said with disgust. "What would Bumpy do? Go in and ask to see the assistant manager? Place is so big, you get lost past the bathroom sinks. But that's the way it is now. You can't find the heart of anything to stick the knife into."

You read this profile and you wonder why Russell Crowe needs to be in this movie at all. Frank Lucas is the flip side of Malcolm X, and I'm guessing the casting will dicate that the movie pays less attention to character development and more attention to dramatic face offs and closeups. I never thought I'd say this, but where's Spike Lee when you need him?

Me Disagree Man Write Bad Bad!

Our educational system has many problems: dead-end schools, misallocated funding, corrupt school boards, incompetent teachers, overreliance on testing, overreliance on self-esteem, intransigent teachers unions, you name it. However, this article is one of the least persuasive critiques of the American educational system ever. Here's a quick paraphrase:

See I know this guy, and he teaches, and his students get dumber and dumber, and like, there's no limit to how dumb they can get, and like, you know, I don't care who's the President in 2008 but I'm moving to France because there everyone has jobs and there they've never heard of the term "dissolute youth" and no one there ever riots and burns cars and man I wish I could go live in Iowa on a farm but Jesus got there first plus I'm not their kind of people they'd probably eat me or even worse convert me.

But don't take it from me, take if from the hard data:

He cites studies, reports, hard data, from the appalling effects of television on child brain development (i.e.; any TV exposure before 6 years old and your kid's basic cognitive wiring and spatial perceptions are pretty much scrambled for life),

Yeah, Dave Housley, author of a collection of stories known as Ryan Seacrest Is Famous, thanks to your stupid book I had my year old niece watch American Idol so that I could point out Ryan Seacrest and now she drools all the time, can barely walk or talk, and likes to do incredibly stupid things like eat lint. And she has less teeth than a redneck on meth. Thanks, Dave.

Also, just curious, but does hard data have internet links? Or do I have to break open a computer to get to it?

And here's another good one:

What, too fatalistic? Don't worry. Soon enough, no one will know what the word even means.

Ooh Snap!! But is this gentleman using "fatalistic" properly? I thought fatalistic meant being resigned to one's fate, not predicting a particularly bad one. Presumably if he was truly resigned to this fate of eventually watering the crops with Mondo, BECAUSE MONDO HAS WHAT PLANTS CRAVE, he wouldn't have bothered to write this column. Maybe this guy was exposed to television as a young child. In fact, I would count on it.

Jen Knox Takes It Off Monday at Bar Rogue

Everyone's favorite cowboy-channeling poet Jennifer L. Knox, whose Doc Holiday poems graced the pages of Barrelhouse 4, will be reading at Lolita & Gilda's Burlesque Poetry Hour at Bar Rouge on Dupont Circile on Monday at 8 pm.

Jen's new book, Drunk By Noon, comes out in November so come to find out what kind of ass kicking poems she has in store for you.

The Burlesque ladies have quite a line up scheduled. In addition to Jen, you'll hear from Aaron Belz, Peter Davis and Michael Schiavo.

Even if poetry isn't your thing, who couldn't use a drink on Mondays? There's no excuse.

James Lipton's Pimp Hand Is Strong

Via Gawker, James Lipton reveals to New York Magazine that he was a pimp in Paris as a young tough. Here are some key excerpts:

The oddest part of the book is perhaps your time in Paris and Greece. Were you really a pimp in Paris?
I was. It came up once when I interviewed Julia Roberts, so I had to set the record straight. Even better was learning about Agamemnon from those shepherds in Mycenae. I still have that shepherd’s crook. Sometimes I pick it up and twirl it like a baton. Wood lasts. [A follow-up with Lipton’s assistant clarified his role in the world of French prostitution: He was a “mec”—a guy who works for the prostitutes—not a pimp.]

During your time in Paris, it is also rumored that you became quite adept at Parkour. Is this the case?
Yes. Parkour, also l'art du déplacement or Free Running, is the only way I can truly unwind. I believe that athletic skill must be combined with courage and altruism, unlike some people, who merely reduce it to karate and friendship. I also believe in efficiency in all things, but especially efficiency in mvoement. You will notice that during Inside the Actors Studio, I sit quite still. I am conserving energy, and after the show I then unleash it upon the urban space that is my New York City. Once, after Jackie Chan and I finished up his appearance on Inside the Actors Studio, we threw off our confining clothes, donned full body Lycra suits, and hurtled ourselves out the 4th floor window. I slid down a drainage pipe with him on my back. We hit the concrete road and it felt like rubber. I sprang up and over the fence with Jackie in hot pursuit and leaped for the fire escape in one fluid motion. We made it to the top of the building and swooped from roof to roof. I have never felt so free. And while Jackie is not a practitioner of Parkour, he more than held his own with me. Did you know that I choreographed that chase scene at the beginning of Casino Royale? I did.

Not many people know about your side career in songwriting. Tell us more.
(chuckles) I have for too long kept this part of my life under wraps. In the mid-90s I worked with a promising young female artist named Joan Osborne and after a long night of passionate lovemaking, the lyrics came to me after I gave her a particularly explosive orgasm and she said, sighing deeply, "James, are you God? Because I think you made me see him." No, my dear, I answered, and then it hit me, I started singing as if I had known the words all my life: "What if God was one of us? Just a slob like one of us? A man who licks your clitoris? A stranger on the bus, trying to find his way home?" We both knew we had a hit on our hands, but we toned it down for the American public. And by that I mean I took out the part about the clitoris. Other songs of which I am particularly proud include "Damn, I wish I was your lover," which I included in a poem to Sophie B. Hawkins literally minutes before the judge issued the restraining order, as well as "Shame on a N---" that Ol' Dirty Bastard performed. I based that on a run-in with some Morroccans during my days as a French pimp.

What was your greatest role?
Ahh...that's an easy one. As a practitioner and teacher of The Method, I beleive that to break character is the ultimate sin. You have heard of those people who shake a famous person's hand and swear to never wash their hand again? That is how I look at each character that I have played. I am a palimpset of the American theatre and cinema. These layers glisten upon me like scented oil.

Barrelhouse(ish) Event: Thursday at the KGB in NYC

Warning: Shameless Self Promotion Alert!

This Thursday, Barrelhouse Editor Dave Housley (also known as, um, "me") will be reading at the KGB Bar in New York City. This reading is the official launch for my book, Ryan Seacrest is Famous, the title story of which first appeared in Barrelhouse Online way back in the day when we were publishing our own work.

Full details on the KGB site.

I'll be reading with fellow Impetus Press writer Christian Tebordo, author of the brilliant We Go Liquid. Publisher's Weekly said of WGL:

TeBordo's wit and minimalist prose carry the novel, and sprinklings of wry humor keep the narrative from become too macabre. TeBordo has crafted an unsettling portrait of the dark undercurrents of youth and loss.

I'll either be reading the title story, which requires that I perform a Colonel Klink accent that I'm very bad at, and also includes a masturbation scene to Us Weekly, or a story about a dude who shaves his balls. Either way, it should be embarrassing for me and entertaining for whoever feels like coming on by.

Details here.

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Californication, Yep, It Stinks

So here's how the premium channels get you: nudity. The first few episodes, they feature nudity until you're hooked and then they bog down into boring melodramas you could find on network or sub-network TV. Case in point: Californication on Showtime.

David Duchovny is Hank Moody, a writer in LA whose novel God Hates Us All was turned into a Tom Cruise/Katie Holmes vehicle called Crazy Little Thing Called Love. He hates LA, having grown up in New York, but hangs around because he pines after his long-term girlfriend, with whom he has a 12 year old daughter, who came with him to LA but then left him for a richer, more stable man, whose 16 year old daughter Hank screwed, albeit unaware of who she was, or her age, at the time. And of course, while he gets laid constantly in the post break-up period, he was always devoted to his LTGF when they were together. Because most guys can turn that shit on and off.

Wow, where to begin with the cliches here? Somehow I missed them all in the rush to see more nudity. And there was alot of it. But now there's none. And the shows are degenerating, rapidly. The last one was about dealing with his dad's death, "flashing back" in grainy footage--because digital technology didn't exist back then--to a point in time roughly a year, perhaps 6 months earlier, when his dad visited and Hank's relationship with his LTGF was imploding. Of course, the emotional hinge lies in the letter Hank received from his dad soon after, which he never opened until it was too late. And, somehow, his grief brings him closer to his ex-LTGF. And guess what was in the letter? Yep, more cliches!!

Anyway, watching a few minutes of this will give you a good idea of what I'm talking about it...the awesomest is Hank's "beat writer legit" look on the set of the movie, just in case you were curious about who in the shot still had his credibility.


The only thing the episode has going for it is a guest spot from Judy Greer, who is totally awesome. (She is making the rounds of guest spots, and had a good one in Always Sunny) As Kitty on Arrested Development, she was always showing her boobs, but now she's playing a hooker on Showtime, so you totally can't see them.

SNL Hates Women, Esp. Mexican Women, and Loves Bon Jovi

Five years ago, I was driving home at night and put on Baltimore's 98 Rock. They were playing a parody of a Jon Bon Jovi song. The lyrics were hilarious: "my heart is like an open highway, I just want to live life my way". But something about the song wasn't right. There were no fart sounds. But 98 Rock wouldn't actually play Bon Jovi, would they? Hell no!

Yes, yes they would.

So I guess he's got a new album coming out and gets to host SNL. Man, is he good looking, if you ask me, HE's the one who should've married Heather Locklear! Their kids would be born with natural deposits of botox.



Anyhoo, two skits stood out to me because they bordered on being racist and sexist. During Weekend Update, Mya Rudolph portrayed a Mexican maid who would have to make the jokes if the writers went on strike. Naturally, her jokes weren't funny, (but her accent was!), thus proving the HILARIOUS point that not anyone, certainly not Mexican maids, can make jokes like paid WGA writers can. I bet those maids can't even be high-functioning addicts either, or mopey self-absorbed fucks. But don't take my word for it, see for yourself!



Another skit featured a Star Trek-esque scenario where the captain, a woman, loses her purse and got so preoccupied with finding it she dooms her ship. And to top it off, they had a skit where Jon Bon Jovi played the young Bon Jovi suggesting to his mates to name the band Bon Jovi. Priceless.

Jon Bon Jovi got to sing during his opening, and at the end, while Foo Fighters performed in the middle. Call me a cynic, but I didn't see that much difference between the two bands. Milquetoast. So what's Dave Grohl's excuse?

Exhibit #1,234 on the downfall of SNL.

Stuart Scott Sets New World Record for Unintentional Comedy in a Sports Broadcast

It would take something very special to bump the Barrelhouse Kicks Ass in Nonrequired Reading post, but I think this is it. Last night, ESPN's SportsCenter had a little feature called Poetry Jam, in which Stuart Scott came on and did his best hip urban beatnik poet sports fan impression, with some kind of wildly ill-conceived rap about the Boston Celtics.

I'm a fan of poetry, although I don't really understand it all that well. I'm also a fan of the Boston Celtics. I like SportsCenter way more than I'd like to admit, and when I'm off of work for a day, I've been known to watch three or four revolutions of the morning edition.

All that said, if you had asked me to suggest what could possibly improve ESPN's SportsCenter -- and even after the debacle of their summer "waiting for football season" stalling maneuver "Who's Now," which was just plain embarrassing, every single time they showed it, so much so that I found myself blushing, deeply ashamed for Mike Wilbon as he argued whether Danica Patrick was more "now" than Barry Bonds, and even as I'm typing "more now" I feel a deep little tic, like I've just said the most dirty word ever, out loud, then realized I'm talking to my mother...or something like that -- anyway, even given the profound embarrassment that is "Who's Now," I never would have imagined that a viable suggestion to improve SportsCenter would be: more slam poetry.

Seriously, this is funnier than I am, so here's the clip:



But here's the thing: Stu Scott is not the first sportscaster to break it down, rap/poetry style. That honor belongs to Cheers' Sam Malone:



My favorite part of the Scott piece is the end: "spoken word." He might as well have said "sexual chocolate" and let the mic drop onto the floor. I also like the faux stage, and the light clapping, like he's stepping up to drop some knowledge at the Gas Light Cafe in 1955.
Truth: slightly funnier than fiction.

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Barrelhouse Becomes Nonrequired Reading

It’s official. Barrelhouse is nonrequired reading in schools nationwide. Your humble DC literary magazine has two pieces featured in Best American Nonrequired Reading 2007 and two more mentioned as in the Notables section.

Greg Ames’s Ed Asner poems are reprinted in all their hairy, full-frontal glory as part of the introduction by Dave Eggers and Lee Klein’s take on Barry Bond’s steroid scandal “All Aboard the Bloated Boat: Arguments in Favor of Barry Bonds” is featured in the meat of the book. And a meaty book it is. There’s great stuff in here from Opium, Monkey Bicycle, Tin House, and more.

Joel Oestreich’s “This Essay Doesn’t Rock” and the illustrated story “The Only Child” by Erin Pringel with art by W. Craighead III are suggested further nonrequired reading.

Congrats to all our writers featured. We're so proud. Remember us when you're charge $10,000 per reading. Did we mention when we published your piece that we also provide roadie services?