Thursday, November 10, 2022


A while back when I still regularly went to a drinking hole around the corner and to the place downtown where a man may have a drink while smoking, I came up with a cocktail that was refreshing on a summer day, and raised eyebrows during any season. Because it was named after an eccentric who had issues and was unmarried and childless. A devoutly Catholic loner living in a residential hotel. Where the executors of his estate found his huge body of work after he passed.

Over fifteen thousand pages of a novel about two pre-teen heroines leading a child slave rebellion in outer space. With copious illustrations.

Naturally it has never been published. The Lord Of The Rings was bad enough. Thousands of pages about short sexless men on a magical quest fighting monsters and daemons and hobnobbing with elves, with several passages in made-up languages.

Anyhow. I am reminded of someone I know, a self-made millionaire, who is desperate to wed but cannot excite a woman enough. This in a city known for eccentrics and loonies.
You'd think.


2 oz Bourbon.
Heavy dash Grenadine.
Three drops Angostura.
Over ice in a highball glass, top with ginger ale.
Garnish with a cherry.

There is no evidence that Henry Darger ever drank, but as a very religious man with issues, no family, living by himself, it seems inevitable.
Judging by what I've read about his magnum opus, "The Story of the Vivian Girls, in What is Known as the Realms of the Unreal, of the Glandeco-Angelinian War Storm Caused by the Child Slave Rebellion", it seems to very largely be Catholic mythology retold in a deviated fantasy form, much like The Lord Of The Rings is Anglo-Saxon and Welsh stuff with hefty doses of Scandinavian and Finnish.

Quote from Wikipedia: "Darger repeatedly attempted to adopt a child, but his efforts failed."

That's probably a damned good thing.

Another cite: "Darger's lack of knowledge of anatomy [ --- ] girls are always depicted either with no genitalia at all, or with penises."

John Ruskin, famous English poet, playwright, and intellectual smarty-pants of the Victorian era, was so repelled by the horrifying reality of the female body on his wedding night that he did not consumate his marriage and never touched his wife again. I mention this purely to show that Henry Joseph Darger was not entirely unusual.

I like Ruskin's poetry, but it's shorter, considerably, than the Lord Of The Rings, of which I read two thirds before concluding that it was endless twaddle, and gave up. I have no desire to ever read The Story of the Vivian Girls, in What is Known as the Realms of the Unreal, of the Glandeco-Angelinian War Storm Caused by the Child Slave Rebellion.

I no longer drink (as it might interfere with my pills). I am single. Please do not jump to any conclusions. They would be unwarranted. I am not religious.

I strongly believe that the Cotton Panty Cocktail (equal parts vanilla vodka and butterscotch schnaps shaken over ice) should also have a cherry, AND be served in a standard martini glass, but that's probably my only eccentricity.

Unlike Henry Darger, J. R. R. Tolkien, and John Ruskin, I have a dirty mind. So I'm not obsessive. And rather normal. I have not scribbled much.

Like Tolkien, I smoke a pipe.
No connection.

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