Because Kurt Vonnegut hasn't mentioned this yet:
In 1957, Lawrence Ferlinghetti was tried for obscenity for publishing Allen Ginsberg's poem "Howl," which contains, among other subtleties, the words "cock" and "cunt" used in a sexual sense, direct and graphic references to homosexual and heterosexual acts, and a scathing indictment of capitalism.
I have in my possession a framed page torn from an Utne Reader. This page contains a photograph, and that photograph shows several uniformed West Point cadets at a table, each of them reading intently from a copy of Howl and Other Poems.
Everybody knows the first line. The first line barely counts.
...who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons,
who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,
who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts,
who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,
who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love,
who balled in the morning in the evenings in rose gardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to whomever come who may,
who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blond & naked angel came to pierce them with a sword,
who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman's loom,
who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a candle and fell off the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,
who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but
prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sunrise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake...
I wonder, a little, if growing up in a lesbian household during the Reagan era has left me a little innured to disenfranchisement and silence. The Clinton era was a magical reprieve, for me--and not an unalloyed one. Slick Willy, after all, gave us "Don't ask; don't tell." But still, the fear that speaking my mind may have unintended consequences is not new to me. It is not a revelation.
And the fact remains, things are better now than they were then. Voices are louder, tolerance is greater, people who are 'different' are more accepted than they were. There was a time when I Spy was radical. Hell, there was a time when The Cosby Show was radical. A black family as Mr. and Mrs. America? A woman as Secretary of State? The issue of homosexuality addressed openly, in national debate? Obscene. Unheard of.
But now I speak the truth.
People died to win that discourse. And not one or two. Dozens. Hundreds. They died for the labor rights movement, and they died for women's suffrage, and they died for the rights of Native Americans, and they died for the rights of blacks and other ethnic minorities. I could name the names, or you can name them for yourselves. But it's a slower death not to speak; silence is death.
But. Genies don't go back in bottles. Or have we forgotten that, too?
Oh. And if you were counting, it's the 399th anniversary of Guy Fawkes Day. The soldier monk was a redhead, if you didn't know, and they say he was tall and comely.
He was also a scapegoat.
ETA:
[22:13]
katallen: penny for the guy, mister?
[22:14]
matociquala: okay, I just began to wonder if the expression "a fall guy" refers to Guido Fawkes.
[22:14]
matociquala: Because he was.
[22:14]
matociquala: The whole thing was Catesby's idea.
[22:15]
katallen: it was
[22:15]
matociquala: And maybe Tresham, before Tresham chickened out and turned the rest in--
[22:15]
matociquala: wow.
[22:15]
matociquala: you don't suppose--
[22:15]
matociquala: nah.
[22:16]
stillnotbored: what?
[22:16]
katallen: ::prods::
[22:16]
matociquala: Jaime.
[22:16]
matociquala: "A fall Guy."
[22:16]
stillnotbored: what?
[22:16]
matociquala: Guy Fawkes was set up by his co-conspirators.
[22:16]
matociquala: He was essentially left behind to take the blame while everybody else ran for it
[22:16]
stillnotbored: yes
[22:17]
matociquala: So I just clicked on maybe the etymology of that turn of phrase dates to him.
[22:17]
katallen: where do we get the whole 'guy' thing from anyway?
[22:17]
matociquala: That's what I'm wondering.
[22:17]
stillnotbored: ah I get it *g*
[22:17]
matociquala: Can I blog this? I bet somebody on my flist knows.
In 1957, Lawrence Ferlinghetti was tried for obscenity for publishing Allen Ginsberg's poem "Howl," which contains, among other subtleties, the words "cock" and "cunt" used in a sexual sense, direct and graphic references to homosexual and heterosexual acts, and a scathing indictment of capitalism.
I have in my possession a framed page torn from an Utne Reader. This page contains a photograph, and that photograph shows several uniformed West Point cadets at a table, each of them reading intently from a copy of Howl and Other Poems.
Everybody knows the first line. The first line barely counts.
...who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons,
who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,
who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts,
who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,
who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love,
who balled in the morning in the evenings in rose gardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to whomever come who may,
who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blond & naked angel came to pierce them with a sword,
who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman's loom,
who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a candle and fell off the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,
who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but
prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sunrise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake...
I wonder, a little, if growing up in a lesbian household during the Reagan era has left me a little innured to disenfranchisement and silence. The Clinton era was a magical reprieve, for me--and not an unalloyed one. Slick Willy, after all, gave us "Don't ask; don't tell." But still, the fear that speaking my mind may have unintended consequences is not new to me. It is not a revelation.
And the fact remains, things are better now than they were then. Voices are louder, tolerance is greater, people who are 'different' are more accepted than they were. There was a time when I Spy was radical. Hell, there was a time when The Cosby Show was radical. A black family as Mr. and Mrs. America? A woman as Secretary of State? The issue of homosexuality addressed openly, in national debate? Obscene. Unheard of.
But now I speak the truth.
People died to win that discourse. And not one or two. Dozens. Hundreds. They died for the labor rights movement, and they died for women's suffrage, and they died for the rights of Native Americans, and they died for the rights of blacks and other ethnic minorities. I could name the names, or you can name them for yourselves. But it's a slower death not to speak; silence is death.
But. Genies don't go back in bottles. Or have we forgotten that, too?
Oh. And if you were counting, it's the 399th anniversary of Guy Fawkes Day. The soldier monk was a redhead, if you didn't know, and they say he was tall and comely.
He was also a scapegoat.
ETA:
[22:13]
[22:14]
[22:14]
[22:14]
[22:15]
[22:15]
[22:15]
[22:15]
[22:15]
[22:16]
[22:16]
[22:16]
[22:16]
[22:16]
[22:16]
[22:16]
[22:16]
[22:17]
[22:17]
[22:17]
[22:17]
[22:17]
- Mood:
By the way, Ferlinghetti *won* - Music:Tracy Chapman - For My Lover

Comments
The original F&SF pub was June of '88.
It also says that there's Guy, AR (pop. 241) and Guy, TX. ^_^
Fall Guy
In the early 19th century, professional wrestling was a real, although relatively unpopular sport. It wasn't until promoters started attaching story lines to the show that people started taking notice. The use of story lines made it necessary to fix the outcome of the matches, with the loser taking the fall. In sporting circles, it became common to speak of a loser as a fall guy.
Liz (Williams)
Come in, come in. Put your feet up.
I had a typical American's understanding of Bonfire Night (Mostly consisting of having read V for Vendetta once) until last year, when I started researching the Gunpowder Treason for Stratford Man.
And I was very surprised by how the reality differed from the legends.
I think theoretically we're supposed to be celebrating Mr. Fawkes' arrest and execution... but I'm a little fuzzy on that too.
Ah, well. Any excuse for a bonfire.
I'm hopeful, but I'm also thinking of the anarchist description of Guy Fawkes: last man to enter Parliament with honest intent.
In the meantime, consider that this speech was once shocking, and now, to almost everyone, makes perfect sense. I'm sure she'd tell us to keep at it, but I think she say we'd managed to improve a little--slowly.
And so she should be, and of us all.
But...
3b. An act of decamping or running off ‘on the sly’. to give the guy to: to run away from, ‘give the slip to’. Also to do a guy.
In half the senses of the word "guy" it seems to come from the same root that gives us "guide" but the rest, most common senses, Fawkes is your fall guy. So to speak.
I love you and your OED. *g* I don't trust the American Heritage or Webster's to get things right. Noah was a revisionist....
Huh. Interesting how this leads us back to the terrorism discussion, isn't it?
Yes, it's supposed to be the celebration of his arrest. Lewes has had Bonfire Societies for about 170 years now, and they make a huge thing of it - torchlit parades and about half a dozen big displays around the town. They also burn papier-mache effigies of unpopular people - for example, past candidates have included most British politicians (all of our Prime Ministers, although I recall that Margaret Thatcher got burned several times).
There is a slight edge to the proceedings - a Catholic friend of mine isn't too happy about some of the comments that get shouted ("No Popery!") although she appreciates that the whole event is a historical relic. And it is a lot of fun, though it looks dangerous - fireworks get thrown and they roll blazing barrels of tar through the streets, but amazingly, the last major injury was sustained in the 19th C when someone blew up their own kitchen.
Liz
You know, that sounds like awfully good fun, except as noted the Popery part.
You too?
I've taken a lot of shit lately for supporting Kerry even though he believes marriage is between a man and a woman not to mention for supporting Clinton during 'don't ask, don't tell' insanity. Growing up afraid that I'd be taken from my lesbian mother might have something to do with it. Clinton's election was like an enormous weight lifted. This lumbering beast of a country can only be nudged in the right direction, it seems.
And I remember the fear and silence of my childhood very well. And I am not going back.