The Crab City Darkness

August 17, 2025

As Brutus is an honorable man, so The Crab City Darkness is a beacon of free speech.

A report on Facebook today from one newspaperman, quoting this (slightly edited) opinion from another:

This week marks the completion of my 39th year at [The Crab City Darkness]. Much has changed during my tenure including the policy regarding social media posts. So let me just say that I offer absolutely no criticism of the organization or owner [Dinosaur Broadcast Man] here. None whatsoever. Indeed, I am happy to have my speech restricted in this manner. Isn’t it best for all involved? I really appreciate the reassuring sense of being monitored 24/7 for content by my employer. Wouldn’t you?

Yes, of course. Please slam your boot on my neck; I feel unbearably unconstrained. Illiberty, that’s the ticket.

 

 

Socialist Park

August 17, 2025

When recent chat with my childhood summer camp / Princeton / Wyomissing PA (now Golden CO vs. Palo Alto CA) friend Bill Richardson (William F. Richardson, hereafter WFR) turned to about politics in Reading PA (county seat of Berks County, where we both grew up; and where WFR’s father William E. Richardson (1886-1948; hereafter WER) was a progressive Democratic congressman from 1933 to 1937), I referred to the Socialist Park of my childhood (where we went for 4th of July fireworks):

— WFR: How do I not know there was a Socialist Park in Reading??

— AMZ: You don’t know about Socialist Park because it was in Sinking Spring, not Reading, and because Wyomissing had its own more elegant parks, while Socialist Park was more of a people’s park (with a dance hall and a roller rink).

WFR’s family had status and money, mine came out of the working class, but that was no bar to our friendship.

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The march of the boletes

August 17, 2025

From Matthew Melmon on Facebook yesterday:

— MM: The humidity today is unreasonable. SADNESS. Thank you for your attention to this matter.

In response:

— AZ > MM: Yes, something we’re not used to. But then, predictably, it has brought the boletus mushrooms back to my patio garden. (They will wait underground, for decades if necessary, until there’s warm humid weather, when they will suddenly send their fruiting bodies aboveground, to spread their spores everywhere on passing breezes.)

Recent appearances of the boletes in my garden were noted in postings on this blog, in 11/23, 9/24, and 5/25. The current outbreak is the first one I’ve noticed in August.

 

The factory whistle and the retirement pocket watch

August 16, 2025

A note on two  items of American working life which are, in fact, connected to one another. A little follow-up to my 8/14 posting “The watch and the microscope”, where I wrote:

the watch is … from my grandfather Melchior Arnold Zwicky’s (1879-1965) retirement from the Textile Machine Works in Wyomissing PA

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Now we are 85

August 15, 2025

I’m a few weeks away from 85, a landmark 🎶Sir Richard Starkey🎶 reached a month ago, leading to this:


(#1) New Yorker Shouts & Murmurs column “When I’m Ninety-Five” by Bruce Handy and Jay Martel (on-line on 8/11/25; published in the 8/18/25 issue), with 13 updated lyrics

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CV time at Stanford

August 15, 2025

Ever since I retired from Ohio State in 1995, I’ve been living in the gig economy, mostly in various irregular and temporary appointments at Stanford, eventually ending in an odd status that is neither faculty nor staff, that of adjunct professor: someone who is presumed to be actually employed somewhere else but is available for various services to Stanford. For which I receive other services from Stanford: access to things available through the university library (for me, this is primarily free and easy access to the on-line Oxford English Dictionary) and stable document storage (most of my publications, in .pdf files, citable on-line for almost instant access by others; thousands of such citations have been embedded in my blog postings over the years).

To maintain my adjunct status, I must periodically demonstrate that I am worthy, by submitting my CV for scrutiny by the relevant dean. My actual CV is a gigantic document; the last printout was 17 pages of densely formatted material (publications, courses taught, papers delivered, honors and awards, academic service activities, graduate students advised, at three different institutions). I can’t imagine anyone gaining illumination from it.

Then, from the administrator of the Stanford linguistics department yesterday, 8/14/25:

Your current adjunct appointment is scheduled to end 8/31/25.  If you are interested in renewing your affiliation, please send me your current CV and I’ll get that paperwork going with the Dean’s Office.

8/31 is only two weeks away, so there’s plenty of room for things to go wrong, even though the exercise used to be thought of as mostly pro forma, a reassurance that I was still intellectually active. Now that I’m a flaming symbol of DEI, who knows? These are perilous days.

In any case, it occurred to me to use the material from the “About AMZ” page on this blog (without the embedded links), which gives some actual sense of who I am and what I do (please don’t tell me that my work is, well, so idiosyncratic; people have been berating me about the eccentricity of my ideas and interests for at least 50 years now, without any effect). So I created, from this page, a .pdf file that my department’s administrator can submit to the dean, reproduced below. (I see now that the “About AMZ” file needs a reference to my published poetry and to exhibitions of my comic homoerotic collages.)

Below the line, the file I sent the administrator:

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The watch and the microscope

August 14, 2025

Two  items of memorabilia unearthed in the back of a drawer in one of the three desks I am, very slowly and painfully, clearing out and consolidating into one small one. Behind each is a touching bit of personal history and a larger lesson from sociocultural history (mostly from the early 20th-century United States, but also from Switzerland). The neutral descriptions of these two objects, devoid of both historical context and personal and sociocultural meanings:

the watch: a men’s pocket watch

the microscope: a 20X pocket microscope

A joint photo of these memorabilia:


(#1) The watch and the microscope

Historical context: the watch is from 1944 or 1945, in any case from my grandfather Melchior Arnold Zwicky’s (1879-1965) retirement from the Textile Machine Works in Wyomissing PA, and it came to me in his 1965 will; the microscope came to me by mail order from the Edmund Scientific Company (in Barrington NJ) in about 1950.

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Botanical linocuts

August 13, 2025

First, apologies for losing a day. I fell victim to some sudden and overwhelming intestinal affliction that I would prefer not to describe here — it’s profoundly disgusting — a disaster that took me an entire day to do basic cleanup on, and then took most of my helper’s day yesterday to do a proper cleansing. Resilient AZ then kicked in, so by 4 yesterday afternoon I was back into the business of dispossession, mostly on office supplies (the house I am in has three fully working desks, each overstuffed with its own contents, oh Jesus), but now some tackling of framed artworks. Which brought me to works that I hadn’t previously posted about, so this is my chance to record them before they go away.

Some are penguin-oriented. On 8/11, I posted “i just gotta be me”, about a penguin photo montage by Steve Raymer. Still to come (when I get good photos of them) are works by two wildly dissimilar painters: the California surrealist Cliff McReynolds and the Oregon artist Ann Munson, loving enthusiast of the Oregon landscape, garden art, and creatures, both domestic and exotic. Today I bring you Henry Evans, a printmaker — a linocut artist, to be specific — devoted entirely to botanical subjects. Someone Jacques and I discovered many years ago, in a long-gone science and art store in Stanford Shopping Center. Where we bought, and then had framed, two elegant one-color linocuts of herbs, “Sage” (1984) and “Worm Wood” (1985).

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i just gotta be me

August 11, 2025

This is stage 3 in the history of pop-cultural affirmations of individuality; it came to me in a framed version of the photo below, an image that’s graced a wall close to my worktable for many years, but has now come down in the great project of dispossession, as I undo the contents of my condo, which was once a kind of gigantic museum of visual delights of all sorts, covering almost every vertical surface, also filling shelves and crowding other horizontal surfaces (on a variety of themes, of which my family and my life, penguins, mammoths, penises, attractive male bodies, cartoons, and collages (many of them both antic and homoerotic) were especially prominent), with an accompanying library of books of equally varied delight:


(#1) It turns out (as I discovered by turning the sheet over) that this was a page in a calendar (presumably from Raymer’s employer, the National Geographical Society, which went on to use it in a line of t-shirts, still selling well); in any case, some 20 or 30 years ago, Raymer put together some of his photos of rockhopper penguins and added the defiant caption i just gotta be me (a sentiment with a history, which I’m about to sketch)

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The pencilguin

August 10, 2025

Today’s Rhymes With Orange strip (by Hilary B. Price) turns on reanalysis + analogical coining, yielding a kind of pun that looks like a deliberate eggcorn — embodied in that rare and elusive creature, the pencilguin, cousin to the penguin, but very much resembling a pencil, specifically a Dixon Ticonderoga (maybe even with the HB medium soft (#2) lead American children tend to favor):


(#1) The pen of penguin is probably Welsh pen ‘head’ (the bodypart), but suppose we (mis)take it to be English pen ‘instrument for writing or drawing with ink’, a reanalysis encouraged by penguins having black bodies as dark as ink; then we can venture to create the analogical name pencilguin, for a penguin-like creature having a pencil-like body rather than a pen-like one

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