Exclusive!! LeBron to Bucks!!

The Moss Problem and this sportswriter have obtained exclusive news that the Milwaukee Bucks are in smoke-filled room negations to sign LeBron James to a three-year contract of unprecedented proportions in order to bring new life and another NBA championship to the Brew City's only professional sports team. Sources could not be named at this time, in an effort to protect H. Houndstooth's continued access to information that could otherwise prove litigious for interested parties. Readers will be asked to accept this story on faith and check back frequently for more breaking details as they surface.

The details that are known: LeBron was reported to have visited the Buck's new half-billion dollar sports area, set to open for next year's season. James was impressed with the as yet unnamed arena in the heart of downtown Milwaukee, remarking that it reminded him of a “giant Arby's,” his favorite sandwich franchise as a youth in Akron, Ohio. Part of the negotiations could hinge on the arena being named either “LeBron Arena” or “Giant Arby's.”

Bucks general office has neither confirmed nor denied these rumors, but an exclusive interview with an unnamed franchise insider has reported plans to dump the contracts of the entire team, including all of the “slow, 7-footers with names no-one can pronounce” in an unprecedented move to re-build with a legitimate superstar and “a supporting cast who wants to be there,” and for whom winning is more important than salary. This potential restructuring, if it transpires, could send shockwaves through professional sports as far a future franchise building is concerned.

In other exclusive Bucks news, it has also been reported that both the front office and James are in negotiations with former NBA superstar and Milwaukee native, Latrell Sprewell as a candidate for player-coach, because as has been reported, Sprewell remarked, “I may be pushing 50 but I can still dunk over most of the pussies currently playing in the league.” James, it is reported, is pushing this deal, as he has admiration for both Sprewell's game and his history of direct player-coach relationships, as “no pussy-footing around.”

James and Sprewell, reported, also see eye-to-eye concerning matters of great consequence for the NBA going forward, including uniform standards, and both veterans consider themselves “old-school” and not fans of the new form-fitting, over the shoulder styles and long pants that may be be standard as soon as 2019. They also are against the use of NFL receiver styles “gloves” which are being introduced by Nike as soon as next season. When approached for comment about any of these rumors, James and Sprewell both declined to comment, but it is noted that in both cases, each of them replied with a double "thumbs up," and in the case of James, what sounded like, “Aaaaaaay.”

H. Houndstooth

The Byrds - Younger Than Yesterday

I have spent my life trying not to have to try to figure out The Byrds; it might have been different if I'd started way back, maybe not from the beginning, but maybe when this 1967 album came out, their fourth. I could have joined the cult, been indoctrinated, socialized, whatever. It's kind of like with any cult, if you're brainwashed from childhood, the belief is second nature, and of course even inescapable. But it you're not, none of it ever really makes sense. The Byrds have had so many members come and go over the years, they may as well be a group with a history like the Masons, and in fact, there could be arguments made that The Byrds and the Masons are one in the same. This brilliant, groundbreaking album comes off the tracks at the end of the “CTA - 102” when we hear the simultaneous forward and tape reversed voice of Satan (which sounds suspiciously like the garden gnome episode of “Night Gallery”)—and the album then starts traveling in reverse (the next song is “Renaissance Fair”).

I was finally coerced to approach this record by my ex-employer, Anthony Franciosa (not the actor, but the editor of The Moss Problem), and even though the compensation is minimal, Tony convinced me over breakfast at his regular hangout, Foxy's Restaurant, in Glendale (part of the greater Los Angeles). One of his arguments was that the song “Thoughts and Words” sounds exactly like a Bob Lind number (who I just wrote about) and then goes into a chorus that sounds exactly like someone else (on the tip of my tongue—I'll think of it and fill it in here later). Then it uses the backwards guitars, which never sounded good to me, but still, I like the idea. That technique is taken to an extreme with “Mind Gardens,” which is one of those hippie numbers that drugs (LSD?) allow the artist to dispense with harmony, melody, rhythm, structure, rhyme, story, or any narrative sense at all. Long live 1967! The funny thing is that I always thought the song was called “Mings Garden” and was about Moo Goo Gai Pan.

“My Back Pages” is another one of those Bob Dylan songs that is much better than he played it. And I'm not one of those Dylan haters, in fact I'm writing the first book ever about him, and he's sitting across the table from me right now, and I'm only interrupting our interview to write this quick review. What many people don't realize is that The Byrds were actually several groups at once, and one piece of evidence for that is the cover of this record, with images of them in the future, after having passed away, returning as ghosts. All dead before their time, they did return, were accused of inventing “country-rock”—but never convicted. Actually, I'm not sure if the back of this record, with a badly done collage of old band photos (or someone else's high school yearbook, perhaps), was actually like this (I wish I could include a picture—wait, maybe I can, here at The Moss Problem [This being a rock writing simulcast with DJ Farraginous]) (it looks like drawn on goatees, red lipstick, and bleeding tears) or if some punk kid altered it with marker. Because it may have been the inspiration for The Rolling Stones Some Girls—if the latter is not true.

The Byrds are and were Chris Hillman, David Crosby, Michael Clark, Gene Clark, Gene Clarke, Mitchel Clark, Gene Clarke, Michel Clarke, and identical twins Jim and Roger McGuinn. An earlier incantation of the band was known as the Yardbyrds, and here they've revived their hit, “Have You Seen Her Face.” The song “So You Want to be a Rock 'n' Roll Star,” so ingrained in the culture it won't come out even with Formula 409 at least satisfies the “song with 'rock'n'roll' in the title” requirement for consideration for inauguration into the Rock Hall o' Fame, in Cleveland, Ohio. Another odd fact is that the band's name upside down and backwards is “Spjh8.” Someone has released a record called “Older Than Tomorrow”—but it violated the conditions of its parole before it could drop. All other facets of this record and band, including the songs I haven't touched on, the concept, the attitude, and the execution, can only be described as seminal. If not kaleidoscopic.

NOTEBOOK EXPERIMENT

YOUR ANSWER! FROM AN EMPTY SKULL IN A DESERTED AUDITORIUM
In this atheistic foxhole at the Siege of Babylon, of cigarette-machine revivalists, all over Home-Front Supertown----Dogfaces compare wrist-scars and arrest records while the world-champion worst-ever stand-up sit-down wake-up fall-asleep comic ever drowned at sea, devoured by sharks. Thank God.

Under surveillance for suspected crimes against humanity, I prance, flit, queen my way through deathcamp-sweet-deathcamp. Pop an escalator and we're all smiles for the executioner, pop a decelerator and look out world! We're avenging ageless all-agers striking hyper-dramatic freeze-tag-like, action-figure poses.

A Mighty Fortress is Our Hysterical Wretch.

NINETEEN NINETY-TWO

We were happy and we were sad. Now I'm an insane man writing in a coffee shop as if I was important, even this, it's not funny or insightful or even coherent. I want to have something to say, I want so bad to get something on paper, to feel justified finally, allowed to be happy and calm, but I am so scared of everything, especially this notebook. I've ripped out every marked page except the addresses of my friends and I've let down all of them. Maybe I could get started by writing a poem or story for each name.

Check it out, another ugly, awkward, useless idea from the workshop of Darius "At Least He Didn't Kill Himself Today" Smith! Heartsick, sad, stuck, and worthless, yes, but I'm happy. Not kidding.

SHOCK ARMIES ATTACK!

I need a haircut but I can't face a barber. My few obligations (psychiatrist, grocery store) loom so large in this eventless time. On the internet all day, reading Jack Kirby comic books, listening to TV noise, ignoring the phone, picturing my demise in a detached way, panicked, daydreaming about drugs. Various Eastern Front World War Two games set up, unplayed. Stark and shabby, this is the situation every day for six months now.

FROM THE DESK OF A DULLARD

00 > > personal hygiene, eh? maybe they should only focus on the folks who need it? > > i stayed in salem last night, no computer, but in a bit i'll send a whole > mess of emails back to you! i'm balls-deep in compliance issues, which i > know nothing about. it's a mess and due tomorrow. um. > > also, again, can i have your address? i'll just send you some pratchett... > > also, hmn, check out the Discworld MUD site. i've signed up. it's a > text-based game that uses the world pratchett created as base. very thick, > hard to master, i'm just figuring it out. > > david > > > > > >5F, snowing steadily, I walked out today on our group study of personal > >hygiene, I'd reached my limit again. I walked out the door over to > >Corryville looking for something to buy (because I'm American.) In the end > >I found two science fiction paperbacks (my drug of choice for years now.) > >Not Pratchett, alas, only Kit Reed and Harry Harrison. > >Aside from feeling vaguely ashamed and on the verge of depression (which > >I'm managing to avoid so far) everything is about the same, group home life > >is not much fun but it can't last. Please call or write soon. Love, Jeff. > > > >

THE ANTI-MIDAS TOUCH

i can't explain

THE END OF THE BEGINNING

His Dad fell asleep in the Garage with the Car running. Chicago on the 8-Track sang "Only the Beginning."

Let's make an Effort to transform this Ordinary Suicide into a Super-Start. For Somebody. 

The Bees died off Early that Year so Everyone in Town was super happy. Kids never came into Contact with Peanuts or Latex.

Shul Neighbor, Barber and Town King ordered the Deaths of Three Jews. His Men searched but None were found matching the King's Description: Lamb's Wool for Hair, Giant Bird Beak for Nose, and Lengthy Fangs coated in Christian Blood.

WAR IS PEACE/LOVE IS HATE/CONFUSION IS SEX

Century 22 Reality, Worthlessville, Ohio.
Our Sporty Spice says, "I wonder if you'll ever know what I'm sure I'll never know, namely thrill-killing (we reserve all rights to attempted murder for our beloved Cincinnati Police Division,) snuff film enthusiasm (I have starred in way too many 'Real Live Murder' films to consider them anything other than a headache and a paycheck,) and lastly, I do not get high off of AIDS or genital warts or whatever you freaks are into today. "

Let Sporty Spice Kill at Will (You Can Trust Her! Really!) or Let Sporty Spice Be Disappeared! Re-Appeared! Our Ghost Queen! Hurrah for Something, Somehow! As Ever.
----Directive One, Shock Squad Sporty Spice Ohio, Winter 2017-18 USA.

NOW! READ THE SEQUEL, '1985' BY THE AUTHOR OF 'A CLOCKWORK ORANGE'!

MADDOX! YOUR FUTURE!

The TV stations stop broadcasting, the radio stations sign off, the police force resigns and the fire department doesn't respond to alarms. The electric utilities and the phone companies give up, all banks fail, all grocery stores declare bankruptcy. Teenagers systematically lay torches to the subdivisions, door-to-door salesman take up serial murder, and you're making love to your boss in a fast-food toilet stall. You're finally happy. The Best Page in the Universe!

THE STORY OF THE NIGHT

The sun goes down and I hit the ground and I'm almost happy that's the way I want to be. At 4 a.m. I stood in front of the Coke Machine Now and at the Hour of Our Death. It snowed from two to four then rained from four to six. I laid awake stunned to discover that Catwoman might be the best movie I've ever seen. Witnessed Cincinnati Police Division commit murders to the Harper's Bizarre version of "Feelin' Groovy." Rumored soundtrack to tonight's "Unsolved Homicides" is "Red Rubber Ball" by the Cyrkle. An Ordinary Late Winter Morning in a Worthless Ohio Town.

MEET THE BLOGGERS!

Staggering into the park at three a.m., destination: overlook, Jim Gladish, drunk on cooking sherry, snubbed by the ugliest girl at the X Spot, Jim Gladish, rightfully the world's most important blogger and everywhere people laughed if they were paying attention to him at all and over 99% of the time no one knew who this so-called superstar Jim Gladish even was. So, to the overlook! Jump into the void and into the oblivion of eternity! But first a cigarette....

No more top thirty unknown sitcoms? One, two tears, then a flood. Jim Gladish knew right then he couldn't kill himself; where would that leave his Jim's TV Universe readers? So he staggered home. These were the Better Days before the new Golden Age. Jim Gladish will inherit the world and give away half in five minutes, yours for the asking. Have at it.

CAROLYN SUE vs THE NORMIES

Sue stood under the marquee of the Plush Pussy while sleet screamed down on Super Street. She scanned the poster case: SEE NIPPLES OR DIE was the feelie now playing, a ten-minute loop of "Unknown Dee-Lites" accompanied by the new, secret hallucinogenic vapor pumped into the auditorium. Sue was not a feelie freak. No. Sue was an Abortionist.