Why We Read - The Western Canon According to Ivan Von Noshrilgram, Sr.

Why We Read - The Western Canon According to Ivan Von Noshrilgram, Sr is from Alistair Vogan's short story collection Beyond Good and Eviler.

Books. Why? And, really, to what end?

Books are often heavy. But they are useful. Books - or livres in French - help us understand the writer's intention. "What does the writer mean?" we might ask. One may regard a book affectionately, watch it closely on the shelf in its natural habitat, but to read is much more fruitful. It brings us closer to the author.

In the summer of 1972 Ivan Von Noshrilgram, Sr. created a digest of the very valuable Western Canon. Why an abbreviated Western Canon? Life is short. With the demands of life who has time to involve oneself with ideas, or more importantly, the thoughts of others? And, if you are operating heavy machinery, like a hair-dryer, or a large riffle or something, isn't that dangerous? ...Yes. But these are dangerous times, and dangerous times require extreme measures. One of them is reading.

What follows is The List interspersed with quotes from The Von Noshrilgram Problem: Philosopher-Botanist, or Extinguished Firewalker? which we believe demonstrate his peculiar genius. Eunice and I, and everyone at The Foundation hope you find this of some value.

William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616)

"Gee. I like those stories by William Shakespeare - whatever language that is he writes in. Born in sixth year of the reign of Queen Elizabeth he had a mind greater than all others. He was ahead of us then; he is ahead of us now. Some would argue, as literary scholar Harold Bloom did the other day when we were eating toast, that William Shakespeare invented the human too. Imagine that.

I think you should read "the Bard", however, there is an order in which his most successful works should be tackled. To crack the nut that is Mr. Shakespeare I recommend the following plays":1) The First Part of King Henry the Sixth

2) The Second Part of King Henry the Sixth

3) The First Third Part of One-eighth of Henry the Twelve

4) Most of Henry

5) Just Henry's Bum

6) Romeo and Juliet

7) also, the one with all the talking, where the people die at the end

The ANCIENTS

"...The Greeks were sober thinkers. And they worked out a lot. They also influenced a lot of people that followed them. (That's why they're in the canon and you're not.) I highly recommend this list, if not for the wisdom of these early people then simply for reassurance that there are some important recurring themes in literature... Watch the cat there. Look out! ...by my slippers!":

1) Rhesus

2) Medea

3) Phoenician Women Wowsy wow wow

4) A Letter Concerning Toleration

5) An Essay Concerning Human Understanding

6) Hugging 'the Right Way'

7) Shut Up Eat Your Dinner I'm The Adult

8) Because I Said So I am Taller And My Mass is Greater

9) An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding (The sequel)

10) I said "Just Do It Young Lady"


The UNIVERSE (How does it reeeeally work?)

"...The Universe is there. No, there. ...There! Look at my finger, AND FOLLOW IT KID. ...Well, it was there a second ago. When? When you stepped out for crackers. Anyway there is a universe...why not try to understand it?...":

1) On the Sphere and Cylinder Measurement of a Circle

2) Quadrature of the Parabola

3) On Spirals

4) The Straight Line, Curvey Ones Too

5) How to Use a Yo-yo, volumes 1 through 18

The MYSTERIES OF THE HUMAN MIND

"...Your mother called...":

1) Selected Papers on Hysteria

2) The Origin and Development of Psycho-analysis

3) The Interpretation of Dreams

4) I Didn't Say Banana I Would Know If I Had Said Banana

5) You Definitely Said Banana I'm a Medical Doctor

Edited by Alistair Vogan

that downward spiral

That Downward Spiral is an excerpt from from Alistair Vogan's short story collection Beyond Good and Eviler.

Scott found his way inside the Wendy's, ordered and sat alone at the periphery of tables and chairs fastened to the floor. He sipped his coffee while he watched the other cars zip past on highway 401. It was like a race and they were getting ahead.


Twenty minutes passed. The coffee was getting cold. What was Emily doing? He looked towards the door with the icon of the woman stamped on the plastic square. She didn't emerge. Unexpectedly, sitting by himself and suddenly aware of it, he missed her. He realized that other men at this point would begin to worry about their missing consort, so he tried, thought maybe he could be worried, but ultimately was distracted by the large cheek of a woman's buttocks which he realized was being pressed against the back of his skull. He looked up just as the woman, looking down in a studied, bored manner, noticed him. She’d thought his head was the back of a chair. She apologized listlessly and moved an inch closer to the back of the line. She wanted a cheeseburger. In 11 minutes she'd order a "cheeseburger" but there wouldn't actually be any cheese on it. Not any thing a person seventy years ago would recognize as cheese. Scott looked at the menu, her ass, then the picture of the hamburger illuminated from behind, and thought the cheese looked like an orange bathroom tile. Suddenly the woman jerked around and swiped him viciously in the ear with the faded ski-pass fastened to the zipper on her ski-jacket. "Kyle!?" Scott winced, and checked his ear irrationally, to see if it was still there, then his hand for blood.


"What?" a voice yelled in the distance by a simulated driving video game.


"Kyle. Get the hell over here!" and then looked at Scott who was holding his ear. She scowled at him like she couldn't believe she'd let his head touch her ass.


The door to the woman's washroom opened and displayed the chaos within. Scott forgot about the pain. He thought he saw Emily coming. He stood up but realized it's wasn't her. I am worried, he thought. See? He sat down and looked around Wendy's lost, like a golden retriever tied outside a supermarket.

***

Inside the bathroom Emily caught a glimpse of Scott before the door shut. She knew by the position of his eyebrows in the middle of his forehead that he missed her. Well, good, she thought.

So she took her time. She washed her hands. She had a detailed conversation with a nice lady about the nice lady's new teeth. The woman reminded her of her aunt Elsie, and she was learning stuff.

It hadn't always been this way. This she knew. She hadn't always had to put up with this. Really, he was a good guy, she thought, as she nodded at the woman's teeth. A lot of people didn’t really understand him like she did. Jesus. Had she just thought that? she wondered; because that sounded really stupid …Anyway, this rough patch would pass. Definitely. She was really certain. She would never walk out on him. That’s for sure. She would never walk out on him... Anyway. She smiled and promised herself she'd start flossing. She watched the nice older lady leave then she washed her hands for the forth time, starting to feel a little guilty.

She gathered her strength.

Outside the women's washroom, Scott looked up and saw her exit the bathroom business-like. He felt like he hadn't seen her in weeks. He was happy. He smiled and stood up, thinking they'd leave, but she sat down. "It's a madhouse in there." She took a coffee and spotted “those teeth” in line. "Good. My coffee's still warm." She yawned and adjusted herself, not looking at Scott who, she thought, was really struggling hard to look incredulous.

"What's going on? I thought you were kidnapped."

"Oh that's sweet. You were thinking about me?"

"...What’s that mean?"

She locked eyes with him, "The traffic is picking up Scott. Maybe we should get going."

"Well...you were gone a long time," he said uneasily. “…I was really worried.”

She asked him how long but, yep, he was stumped. He pulled a number out of a hat. "Uh. About eleven minutes maybe?"

She shrugged.

“I went twice. I thought maybe I’d missed you somehow.”

"How do guys get out so quick?" and took a long look at him, trying to measure his sincerity.
But he thought she was waiting for a response. This disoriented him. "Mmm. Seriously? You want to know?" he asked.
"No. I don't think so. Thank you," she said coldly, feeling she had allowed herself to inadvertently lose control.

"Well, most of us don't wash our hands."

"Great. Well." She said through curling lips, "That's really disgusting."

She tried to look around Wendy’s like she expected to see someone else she knew, someone more important to be specific, or, more generally, she looked in a way that suggested essentially that she had much better things to do than to sit at a table which was fastened to a floor.

Gradually she became conscious of the act of looking rather than actually seeing, and she could feel him watching her anyhow so she turned to him deadpan.

“So now what?”

Terrifying Story

Terrifying Story is from Alistair Vogan's short story collection Beyond Good and Eviler.


Note: the following is the first three abreviated chapters of a novel-in-progress. Please pardon any indecisiveness that may appear to exist in terms of theme, character, style, story-line, genre or raison d'etre. And also pace. Pace and tone... and maybe direction. Really, it's a work-in-progress. It's to be published by Double Day, though, in the spring of 1999! Maybe. They don't seem to be answering their phone. 'Cause, have they relocated then?


A Disclaimer


This is possibly one of the most frightening stories you will ever encounter. This cannot be overstated. You are forewarned. I suggest, if you are weak-hearted, easily anxious or find comfort in animated films with talking animals and sweeping orchestra scores, you move along and find yourself elsewhere. Basically, this isn't for little girlz.

Ivan Von Noshrilgram, Sr.'s

Terrifying Story

Chapter One

The way it happened (Brace oneself)...

It was not long ago. It was a dark and humid night. Frightened, I ran from my house into the street. To where I ran and for how long, I can not really be certain. I would rather not think about it.

That night, thick, lead black clouds slid over the moon like glaucoma. Visibility was low. I bumped into things my mind could not identify. A thick humid wind swept across the landscape and tore at the shrubs, trees and my lone slouching figure as I entered the threshold of the Necropolis. A tree limb cracked and tumbled over a rooftop like a discarded corpse. Glass was heard shattering but only momentarily because the deep rumble of thunder muted it. Presently the rows of cold stone and the caste iron gate were released from the dead black night by a long artery of lightning cutting across the sky. A duck quacked menacingly overhead and with sinking dread I realized I had left my hairpiece on the dresser.

No. It was a woman's throaty scream I heard - perhaps of a cheerleader - emminating as if from the darkness itself, causing the hair on the back of my neck to bristle. Then, as I entered the threshold of the Necropolis an actual duck, (Anas Platyrhynchos), most certainly hovering menacingly directly above, unleashed such a most blood-curdling quack as one would not expect this side of Hades. Without hesitation I passed through the first row of dusty tombstones stealthily, then the next, and it was there that I saw a lone figure, in possession of a large rusted shovel, slip behind the base of an ancient tree. Watching his shadow cast upon the bushes I made out his awkward attempts to hide the shovel in his fedora. Naturally, being a private detective and familiar with all things evil and malicious, I was one step ahead of him. Ever so slowly, very slowly indeed, I slipped my hand inside my Holt Renfrew sports jacket and reached for my trusty revolver but, somewhat dismayed, I discovered my cordless electric shaver, by Braun. Reflexively I switched it on, began to shave - starting with precision at my left cheekbone and progressing with carefree movements towards my chin, even whistling a short section from Guys and Dolls! - and therefore gave myself away. Immediately I sensed the moist odour of rotting flesh. I began to gag when from behind two powerful, icy hands grasped my nostrils, and began to "yank" in opposing directions...

Chapter Two

No. Not quite right. Indeed...It was my throat. Yes. I distinctly felt the hands upon my naked throat. I dropped the blasted razor. Of course it is moments like this that action is required, decisive, precise and effective, even brutal. However I attemped to scream. Cold fear stifled it, and then, perhaps out of denial, while tapping my index finger upon my protruding lower lip I began to ponder why I would have allowed myself to leave the house anyway without the hairpiece. I am always punishing myself that way. In fact I can spend hours devoted to it. Was it intentional on a subconscious level? Was I my worst enemy? One cannot have an afro one Monday, then not Tuesday, but then have one again on Thursday. There are natural laws after all that everyone recognizes, I said to myself as I was being strangled and my razor buzzed at my feet.


Another "Quaaaack!" - this time yet more blood-thirsty, creating an expanding circle of waves over the black blades of the Necropolis lawn - and the violent flapping of wings too which pulled me from the security of my dream world. The "Anas Platyrhynchos" continued to hover above, periodically slapping its massive webbed feat - as dry as Dorothy Parker - against the sides of my skull. Oh its cry! Its heartless cry! "Surely this must be the winged messenger of Satan," I said aloud. "Kuuuwaaaaaaack!" it seemed to respond in its filthy avian code.


The assassin's hands laid upon my throat, to my surprise, seemed to vaguely lose interest in their quest; and I instantly changed form, very cleverly assuming the attitude one might when shopping for retirement gifts at Walmart for a loved one. But I was out of luck that eve. He was not misled, no, and so the talons returned with renewed vigour - though I was certain I had delivered a convincing imitation of discovering the perfect cow oven mitts for someone dear in middle-management. Perhaps my hearty, "Do I get air-miles then?" lacked the necessary emotional depth... Nonetheless, I found myself at the tipping point, struggling for my life, trying to free my neck from these shackles of bone and flesh. I wrestled as a young Charles Bronson, or Clint Eastwood might have; perhaps even reminiscent of stolid Russel Crowe in Gladiator. Finally, against my will, I let out the pitifull scream of a seven year-old girl, a math whiz, and mockingly it echoed from across the endless rows of tombstones. Also adding to the torment my roller skates caused me to falter - my right leg slid forward, my left back - ripping my slacks and I, losing my balance, shot sideways forehead-first into a pine, a sapling, really. It was more damaged than I was. Also, I dropped my Fran Lebowtz action figure. ...All this apparently unnerved the dark assailant.

Chapter Three

(the terrifying denouement)

And just like that the well-girthed bird arose into the night air and began moving south, its body black against the cold and sparkling indifference of a canopy of stars. Exhausted, I collapsed on the ground in a heap, and wept beside the sapling... now barely alive. My antagonist? I do recall his unfavorable laughter, and the sound of his footsteps as he stomped across the dry grass through the rows of tombstones, then over a gravel road and finally disappeared into the bushes... with my cordless electric razor, by Braun. Was I shaken? Oh yes! For a moment I was a man beaten perhaps. Delirious, and seeking comfort, I reached for a telephone and ordered a large Hawaiian pizza with double cheese, making sure to check for any existing drink specials cause they won't always tell you about them, will they? I like cream soda. However, none came! No part of my order. Because there was no telephone. Just as their was no gun; as there was no hair, as there was no "digity". Only terror. Terror. ...Terror.


Then, I slipped into the Void and experienced a dreamy nothingness - as if I was at that moment in my Remembrance of Things Past pajamas - and later, since I would spend the entire evening and much of the morning on wet grass, hives and a real zeal for scratching.


the end




Important Terrifying Facts


Terrifying Fact # 1: In 1975 ninety-seven people were murdered in the safety of their homes, while sleeping.

Terrifying Fact # 2: In Texas forty-nine people await the death sentence. Method: lethal injection.

Terrifying Fact # 3: I like cheese. (Maybe not so terrifying, in retrospect.)

Terrifying Fact # 4: The serial killer is often highly intelligent and a integrated member of society. He is not unlike you or I.

Terrifying Fact #5: I am not unlike you or I.

Terrifying Fact # 6: It takes a rotting cadaver 47 days before the lungs begin to collapse.

Terrifying Fact #7: No one knows why, but sometimes, often 15 hours after the time of death, the deceased's heart begins to beat again.

Terrifying Fact # 8: Death is a real commitment most are reluctant to make.
Dead people are good listeners.
Dead people are cool to respond with uproarious laughter but, alas, rarely snicker.
Dead people are the least productive in the workplace and frequently
incommunicative.

Ivan Von Noshrilgram, Sr

(Distinguished philosopher botanist, wild game hunter, exotic animal trainer, extinguished firewalker, writer and humanitarian lecturer. And terrifier.)

Edited by Alistair Vogan

Eulogy for Ivan Von Noshrilgram, Sr.

Eulogy for Ivan Von Noshrilgram, Sr. is from Alistair Vogan's short story collection Beyond Good and Eviler.


(Recited at an undisclosed Navajo Indian reserve, Four Corners, New Mexico, 1999.)


He was what they used to call a 'hep-cat'.
He walked a 'road traveled', sure, but it wasn’t a highway.
And there was a spring and life in his gate
but the white picket. White picket? ...It was yards away.


His words were tempered, not tossed:
A box was a thing people got stuck in,
- not a void others filled up with crap then gave away on special occasions, he’d say.
...He said a lot of things.
Then, he’d clear his throat, hike up his pants...
Yes sir... he’d be ready to Bowl!


He Bowled ‘cause it was ‘the right thing to do.’
- you needn’t question everything.
Just as the ball, cold and solid, would disappear before him,
In time, it would return fresh, ...anew
"Not unlike the cycle of death and rebirth,"
the dance of Siva.
He said these things
and people took notice.


His bowling shirt and shoes were his uniform.
Well, not his whole uniform.
There were pants,
black acrylic socks;
and, for a time, a mustache.
But in this ritual,
with the team shirt and pants, the shoes, socks
and a large order of nachos with processed cheese and jalapeno peppers
‘It’ all came together
while his consort worked the room at the El Macombo Chinese Restaurant
across the highway.


Yes, indeed, there was perfection.
It was that simple.


...Why complicate it?



...Mishima Yukio
From the original forward of 'The Decay of the Angel'.

Recited by Akihiro Miwa at the funeral service for Ivan Von Noshrilgram, distinguished philosopher botanist, wild game hunter, exotic animal trainer, extinguished firewalker, linguist, writer and humanist lecturer.　And bowler.

Edited by Stephen Carter

The Von Noshrilgram Epistle, 1983

The Von Noshrilgram Epistle, 1983 is from Alistair Avery Vogan's short story and essay collection, Beyond Good and Eviler.

It was 1975: the year The Muse first spoke to me. Or, should I say, through me. It was a Wednesday, to be precise, and a chilly, blustery fall day. Almost winter, the trees, cold and hard, held but a few brittle leaves which rattled relentlessly in the wind. Bereft of summer’s beauty the landscape was a suffocating blur of gray and brown. I felt ill at ease. I stopped. And then it began...

I’ll never forget that moment! It was the beginning and I was transformed! The change was irrevocable and clear and, to further emphasize the impact of this, I remember distinctly the smells in the air, the clothing I wore, every item my pockets and the foolish thoughts running through my 61 year-old head just moments before it happened. It seems some things one never can forget. They are stamped in our mind with an indelible ink that perhaps only death can erase.

I was on a bicycle. I should mention that. It was a warmer day than most. I wore a cardigan. It was open but I was still quite hot. There was also a light breeze and the fragrance of incense from nearby Kinkakuji temple blew across a humble rice field towards me, of all people. I remember that smell. I have it now in my mind. It was thick and dry, and, as it sailed upon a crest of a capricious burst of air, my cardigan slapped against my sides as if to say “Hey Von Noshrilgram! Today’s the day!” I was but five minutes from the home of the abbot of the previously mention temple when I heard The Voice clearly, through the rustling of the tassels on the little girl’s bicycle I had mistakenly grabbed at the train station and now found myself riding. (This sort of accident is commonplace in Japan, or I am told. We’re often in such a rush to get home, and frequently it’s dark.)

I cannot remember the words exactly. The Voice spoke in a deep knowing way with such eloquence I felt it must to be shared. It was the sound of Truth. It whispered, in a conspiratorial tone, with a disorienting sense of a familiarity:”…WOWY, YOUR HEAD… IT SUUURE IS POINTY.”

Overcome, my flip-flops stumbled upon the pink plastic pedals of the Hello Kitty 3000 TM and I zigzagged along the street for several meters. I stopped at the community information board and leaned on it as I replayed The Voice in my head. “Could this be true?” Could The Muse, one of the nine deities of Greek and Roman mythology which presides over the branches of learning and the arts: The Muse that inspired all great artists and intellectuals of recorded western history be demanding my attention? Me? Ivan Von Noshrilgram, Sr., celebrated botanist, wild game hunter, exotic animal trainer, humanist lecture, distinguished fire walker, writer and linguist? Still leaning, I snapped the kickstand out - not unlike Marlon Brando in The Wild Bunch.

I did not try to interpret. I simply continued to lean - mostly because my cardigan was hooked solidly to a hamlet of staples protruding from the lamppost. My forehead, pressed into the grain of the wood, I began to work at the staples anxiously.

“...WHAT?” it whispered incredulous. “IT IS... ON THE BACK, BEHIND YOUR EARS. EEEK! LOOK AT THOSE EARS!!!”

I yanked my sweater free, inadvertently removing substantial patch of wool the shape of a rectangle. I looked through it unimpressed and saw an angry little girl with a Hello KittyTM knapsack hanging menacingly from her shoulder. To her right a mob of hardened seven year-olds stared me down.

Gurgle, gurgle ...gurgle. (This mysterious sound emanated from somewhere in the void before me.) “HEAR THAT?” Said the Voice. DID YOU? THAT SOUND MEANS... WEEEEEHEEEE! IT’S LUNCH TIME!”

I let the bicycle drop and ran...

Several Months later:

It might be clear to the reader not so inclined to the extra-ordinary that all might not have been precisely as it struck me then. Well, you are right. Indeed. We often, as humans, or what-have-you, find ourselves overwhelmed magically by one thing or another; we become hypnotized by the sounds and lights; we, immersed in experience, later find our reason has been dissolved by phantoms, by our own self-generated illusions. This is precisely one of those times, when, lost in Newton's world - a mundane and finite labyrinth - we subconsciously yearn for some form of emancipation into another realm where we might fly. "Oh, fly a little child!...Fly!" But fly too high and the unforgiving light of Reason melts our puny wax wings - or, informs us, in a round about way, that a toaster is not an acceptable form of transportation. And so we plunge back to the big ugly sphere where one plus one equals two: the empirical world of induction.


Certainly, there was a point when something simply clicked. A Revelation, you might say. The drapes of illusion were yanked rather viciously from my eyes, and I saw, as if for the first time. I suppose we all must have moments of folly. Sometimes these are moments that are swift and enlightening and if we are lucky, no one sees - like when your dress shirt is tucked into your underpants and the elastic wanders up to your sternum. But sometimes these moments are episodes that are followed by the necessity of medication, or sometimes, simply, a gentle tap to the nape of the neck with a large frozen turkey.


My revelation was swift. It came at a crossroads - in the kitchen, between the garage and the refrigerator. When I was hit, the impact was earth-shattering. I tried to remain calm, tried to keep my crumbling universe concealed, but I exposed myself, really, that very moment before the open refrigerator when I inserted the car key into the coleslaw and tried to start up the meat drawer. That I wasn't in possession of a valid crisper doesn't seem, after sober consideration, to warrant a sixty thousand-yen traffic ticket. Can one really double-park a collection of poultry? I suppose I should thank the Japanese police officer for pulling me out of such an obvious state of denial. (That said, I'll never wave to pedestrians from a moving vehicle with such unconditional love...)


But, my revelation! My revelation that The Muse was not The Muse, was certainly devastating! I think more so because what I believed to be one of the "nine deities of Greek and Roman mythology which presides over the branches of learning and the arts" was it seems in fact, my Ukrainian aunt, Aunt Oogie, who appears was transmitting psychic messages while sleeping before her new thirty-six inch television. And naturally, she denies any involvement. Why my aunt aunt? Sigmund Freud would have had a field day. Yes, the ceaseless references to ten-pin bowling could have tipped me off. Yes, that the Golden Girls might not be the prime motivating force of The Muse simply did not occur to me. But there is a silver lining. I now know, after some meticulous research that sponge cake is not included in the vernacular of any known Greek deity.


CONCLUSION


We all have 20/20 vision when we look back at our blunders. But before we truly learn our lessons there is often great beauty to our visions. It seems all things Beautiful are illuminated poorly, and in the shadows we hide our longing. I guess, if you're Mr. Freud, that's probably where you'd hide your mother.

Edited by Radha Singh

WELCOME to Beyond Good and Eviler!

It was 1975: the year The Muse first spoke to me. Or, should I say, through me. It was a Wednesday, to be precise, and a chilly, blustery fall day. Almost winter, the trees, cold and hard, held but a few brittle leaves which rattled relentlessly in the wind. Bereft of summer’s beauty the landscape was a suffocating blur of gray and brown. I felt ill at ease. I stopped. And then it began... 

I’ll never forget that moment! It was the beginning and I was transformed! The change was irrevocable and clear and, to further emphasize the impact of this, I remember distinctly the smells in the air, the clothing I wore, every item my pockets and the foolish thoughts running through my 61 year-old head just moments before it happened. It seems some things one never can forget. They are stamped in our mind with an indelible ink that perhaps only death can erase. 

I was on a bicycle. I should mention that. It was a warmer day than most. I wore a cardigan. It was open but I was still quite hot. There was also a light breeze and the fragrance of incense from nearby Kinkakuji temple blew across a humble rice field towards me, of all people. I remember that smell. I have it now in my mind. It was thick and dry, and, as it sailed upon a crest of a capricious burst of air, my cardigan slapped against my sides as if to say “Hey Von Noshrilgram! Today’s the day!” I was but five minutes from the home of the abbot of the previously mention temple when I heard The Voice clearly, through the rustling of the tassels on the little girl’s bicycle I had mistakenly grabbed at the train station and now found myself riding. (This sort of accident is commonplace in Japan, or I am told. We’re often in such a rush to get home, and frequently it’s dark.) 

I cannot remember the words exactly. The Voice spoke in a deep knowing way with such eloquence I felt it must to be shared. It was the sound of Truth. It whispered, in a conspiratorial tone, with a disorienting sense of a familiarity:”…WOWY, YOUR HEAD… IT SUUURE IS POINTY.”
Overcome, my flip-flops stumbled upon the pink plastic pedals of the Hello Kitty 3000 TM and I zigzagged along the street for several meters. I stopped at the community information board and leaned on it as I replayed The Voice in my head. “Could this be true?” Could The Muse, one of the nine deities of Greek and Roman mythology which presides over the branches of learning and the arts: The Muse that inspired all great artists and intellectuals of recorded western history be demanding my attention? Me? Ivan Von Noshrilgram, Sr., celebrated botanist, wild game hunter, exotic animal trainer, humanist lecture, distinguished fire walker, writer and linguist? Still leaning, I snapped the kickstand out - not unlike Marlon Brando in The Wild Bunch. 

I did not try to interpret. I simply continued to lean - mostly because my cardigan was hooked solidly to a hamlet of staples protruding from the lamppost. My forehead, pressed into the grain of the wood, I began to work at the staples anxiously. 

“...WHAT?” it whispered incredulous. “IT IS... ON THE BACK, BEHIND YOUR EARS. EEEK! LOOK AT THOSE EARS!!!” 

I yanked my sweater free, inadvertently removing substantial patch of wool the shape of a rectangle. I looked through it unimpressed and saw an angry little girl with a Hello KittyTM knapsack hanging menacingly from her shoulder. To her right a mob of hardened seven year-olds stared me down.
Gurgle, gurgle ...gurgle. (This mysterious sound emanated from somewhere in the void before me.) “HEAR THAT?” Said the Voice. DID YOU? THAT SOUND MEANS... WEEEEEHEEEE! IT’S LUNCH TIME!” 

I let the bicycle drop and ran...




The Beyond Good and Eviler blog has been created to perpetuate the memory of the late Ivan Von Noshrilgram, Sr., celebrated philosopher botanist, wild game hunter, exotic animal translator, humanist lecturer, extinguished fire walker, writer and linguist. As the sole inheritor of the Ivan Noshrilgram estate I felt it incumbent upon me to establish The Ivan Von Noshrilgram Foundation in 1999. The mandate stipulated in the constitution of The Ivan Von Noshrilgram Foundation is to celebrate the wondrous life and boundless spirit of my late great uncle, and to encourage or, whenever possible, foster humour writing throughout the English-speaking world. Those of you who knew my uncle are aware that his friends, colleagues, associates and admirers throughout the non-English speaking word were many - and this respectfully may include you dear reader - however until our staff includes speakers of all major languages it will have to remain unfortunately exclusively English. I certainly invite translators to approach the Foundation regarding this! (For submissions please contact Eunice at beyondgoodandeviler@gmail.com.)
This and that said, please kindly be patient while we set ourselves up...
We shall most certainly be running at full speed shorty.

Hold your hoses.

Ivan Von Noshrilgram, Jr.
(President of The Ivan Von Noshrilgram Foundation; Botanist, Wild Game Hunter, Exotic Animal Translator, Humanist Lecturer & Linguist)
New Delhi, India

In

loving memory of

Ivan Von Noshrilgram, Sr.
(1914 - 1999)