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Downtown, the Unbound Magazine's From the Publisher's Desk
Fearless Rick | 10/20/2012
Saturdays Can Be Dangerous Places
Aren't Saturday mornings wonderful?
Finding myself this particular weekend with way too much time, money and stuff for a reasonable person to have on his or her hands, I decided to take back my past and interpose my accursedly-warped, finely-honed sense of propriety and humor into the present and force-feed the future with about as much nonsense, inconsistency and lack of adherence to deadlines, rules and common grammar as only the reincarnation of the best of Downtown, the Unbound Magazine, can produce.
Therefore, henceforth, herewith and without further ado, re-do, hair-doo, voodoo or doo-doo, I, being still Fearless and usually going by the name "Rick" - though there are those in this bizarro-world of the 21st century who prefer to refer to me by other, less-flattering terms - am pleased to announce the resurrection of a few of the more inane, stupid, moronic, but, eventually, highly entertaining features from the halcyon days of the mid-eighties, particularly, the effervescent Toast of the Town, the biting sarcasm and uninhibited cynicism of Horoscopes for Realists and this column, From the Publisher's Desk.
(I may begin writing a column called "My Imaginary Sex Life" since fiction and a vivid imagination is vastly superior to what lately passes for stimulation, though I am willing and open to any and all suggestions or offers. We'll see how that works out the next time I'm drunk: later today.)
For those 6,784,349,041 people (yes, I counted) who have never had the undeniable pleasure of perusing a copy of the Unbound Magazine from the 80s, or, for those who have forgotten or are trying to forget, a bit of a refresher:
Toast of the Town is nothing more than unattributed quotations overheard or passed along to our editorial board (uh, I'm pretty sure I don't have one of those) that are somehow topical, comical, or otherwise worthy of being made publicly famous. The latest iteration of this monstrosity of a brainstorm will include more pith than the average bladder can contain (there's a funny story in there somewhere about how a nurse-in-training challenged a couple of guys to hold more than a pint of beer-induced urine in their bowels, but that's for another day), excessive innuendo, false bravado (if that's possible), double entendre, deus ex-machina, mea culpas, menage a tois, faux pas, double meaning, rear view mirrors, trap doors, double penetrations and scatalogical exceptionalism (oddly, neither of those last two words met the rigors of my speel-chequer, though they seem to be having a beneficial effect on my spleen-cracker, whatever that is) than one can find in the accumulated archives of the New York Times, Wall Street Journal and Saturday Evening Post combined (yeah, that's a bit of a stretch, but modesty will get you just about nothing from nowhere these days). Most of the quotes will be new, many will come from around the web, and there may be some interspersing of regurgitated lines from some 25-30 years ago (old, funny stuff never dies, it just rusts and smells badly).
Horoscopes for Realists was originally inspired, circa 1985 or so, by the over-popularity of new-agedness, adherence to old value systems like religion, mysticism and fortune-telling, and the great successes of various charlatans who foist ridiculous predictions upon an unsuspecting public (much like central bankers do with fiat money). I came up with the idea for horoscopes in the original print editions of Downtown simply because somebody suggested that everybody reads them, but quickly decided that I could not, and would not, conform to the absurd notion that people's lives are somehow ruled by the rotation of the earth and its spacial position vis-a-vis the rest of the universe. Much of the newer version of Horoscopes for Realists will be of the republished variety since I have all the old, crusty issues of the original print edition columns and they're still pretty damn funny.
Since I'll have to retype most of them because I haven't yet figured out how to insert floppy discs into an iPad, iPhone, or any other extraneous computational device which seem to be so popular today, there will be fewer typographical errors, but, replacing the poor spelling and lack of recognizable syntax (eminently preferable to unrealistic sin tax) will be various tweaks and upgrades for the gut-wrenching, knee-slapping pleasure of the reader.
Since I'm no Hugh Hefner (cheeky bastard), I can only aspire to imitate his genius with profound flattery and high praise by writing my own periodical treatise on the nature of our world. It's not exactly philosophy, but, rather, a means of communicating my unconventional views on a world that has increasingly become compartmentalized, sterilized, over-policed and generally lacking in fun (The 1950s and early 1960s were fun. Everything after that is just trying to live up to the rigorous, riotous work of the Rat Pack and their Vegas showmanship.).
So, there you have it. The new and impoverished Unbound Magazine, internet style. See if that makes Siri smile, you Apple fanboys.
I wish to point out here that there will be no set publication dates for these various columns, since time and space don't seem to matter much in the age of the internet and also since this exercise of my mind and fingers will probably amount to unwanted intrusions into my privacy, additional time and effort and lots more money, for which I have no apparent need. Naturally, as always, all editorial content is intended only to make readers look at the ads and respond with appropriate digital activity. I'm tired of being only semi-rich. I want to be mega-rich, so I can thumb my nose and have drinks with the Donald on MY YATCH.
To the end of providing the world with more meaningless drivel (today amply supplied by mainstream media), Downtown Magazine, in association with Rochester1.com (since I have owned the URL for six years and can't figure out what to do with it), may or may not initiate the restoration of various columns and/or articles from the prior print editions, such as Miss Lonelyheart's Advice Column, Reviews of Movies I Haven't Seen, Page Three Girls (If you look good in a bikini and like to make men drool on their keyboards, we should talk. Contact me here.), personal ads or reprints of copyrighted material from 1982-1989. And I'm definitely not doing anything like Local Heat. That got me into more trouble than even I could maintain.
In case you weren't paying attention, the previous paragraph was my version of a disclaimer. I also claim no responsibility for your failed marriage, stupid kids, barking dogs, what you regret saying last night to those cute girls, continuous denial of civil rights, why you bother to vote and any and all pecuniary responsibility derived from anything I might present to the general public. Being the most irresponsible person I know, I am not responsible for anything, so sue somebody else (I despise the judicial system, too.).
I would be remiss not to point out the obvious, that there are, for now, no comment areas connected with these articles. Besides finding these idiotic creations of "social media" repositories of spam and associated noise from people who don't have the wherewithal and work ethic to pen their own blogs or websites, I just think people who want to add their own two cents to someone else's work, should email their comments and be subject to the same editorial demands of the original writer. To that end, an email link for comments will be appended to all columns and articles, most of the time, and the comments will be pooled and posted as letters to the editor at some later date, maybe.
If the pen is indeed mightier than the sword, then perhaps cutting cynicism via keyboard, bytes and electrons can correct the insidious nature of governments.
Well, it was Saturday morning when I started this. It's now afternoon. I'll see you all later, at some local bar. If you're lucky.
Next time: The untold story: the unmitigated truth about the downfall of my fledgling 1980s media empire, or, "How Gannett couldn't handle my success, killed my business and ruined my life."
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I also would like to publicly chastise Bank of America, but thank them for all the favors they've done for me and others since the economic collapse of 2008, and, remind readers - as well as Idiot Girl - not to take anything contained herein, nor yourselves, too seriously, and remand myself to Sans Pantsa, the pantless island prison of ex-publishers, to be forever chained to a mountain of words, having my liver being eaten daily by an irate eagle sent by Zeus, disguised as a 12-Step Bloody Mary, only to have it grow back again, a la Prometheus (That ought to do it, and Bill Murray's "Groundhog Day" has nothing on me. A pox on you too, David Letterman, for stealing my Top Ten concept. I will never forget.).