VOLUME III, No. 42, November 5, 1999
(Free to A Good Home)

Written and Edited by Mujaputtia Umbababbaraba, "The Bernie Carbo of Poetry"    
Y2K Complacent 
First Things First.  Greetings Mooj Heads!  Another week means another issue of The Mooj Weekly Standard.  This is probably as good a time as any to respond to some long time Mooj Weekly Standard reader concerns so perhaps I will. Basically, many long time Mooj Heads have been telling me lately that The Mooj Weekly Standard is shaping up to be a pretty mediocre newsletter.  (And I'm afraid that I might actually have to agree with them.)  As many of my long time minions know The Mooj Weekly Standard was developed in early 1996 as an entertainment vehicle to help supplement and support the Mooj Social Justice League.  The original circulation was limited only to those on the Friends of Mooj Social Action and Awareness Mailing List and all profits [generated by a very limited advertising campaign] were set aside to help those, like me, who were socially disadvantaged.  The Mooj Weekly Standard was just one of several newsletters published by The Mooj Literary Guild at the time and it slowly developed into the most popular of the Mooj publications.  Within a year it became a regular gathering place for the rapidly expanding Mooj minion family.  By late 1998 The Mooj Weekly Standard readership had quadrupled and my other newsletters began to die off one by one since I stopped writing them.  By April of 1999 The Mooj Weekly Standard was the only "Mooj" newsletter in circulation.  (Coincidentally, this was about the time the newsletter began to appear on the Internet.)

So what are these concerns voiced by our charter subscribers?  Simple:  The Mooj Weekly Standard no longer provides the spiritual and intellectual guidance it once did and many fear that that The Mooj has lost touch with his minionship.  I say to you this: nothing could be farther from the truth!  Yes, I do admit that I have been a bit "out of touch" lately but that is undoubtedly the result of my recent escape from jail and torturous journey to freedom.  (Not to mention having my family fortune stolen; being hunted by some deranged clone of myself; meeting a dog with a human brain; having every bone in my body broken by a van load of freaks; being abducted by a UFO and all the other awful things that seemed to have happened to me these last few months!)  Can this situation be remedied?  Perhaps, but not until I can establish myself somewhere and let the dust settle from my recent nomadic wanderings.  Now that J.J. Bigsby (a.k.a. the fake Mooj) has been arrested and returned to the Chester County Jail in my place I might actually get the chance I need to find the peace of mind that I so desperately need to return The Mooj Weekly Standard to its original glory.

This issue of The Mooj Weekly Standard shall be a testament to my desire to re-energize this fledgling newsletter and return it to its former greatness.  Sit back and enjoy.  (My only regret is that our pal Lance Worthy couldn't be located in time to assist in this monumental effort.  Where is that guy?)

The Mooj Mail Bag (A random Sampling of This Week's Mail)  
Poetry Corner  
The other day I saw an article in the newspaper about how the US Navy is doing away with making sailors perform unpopular tasks such as painting, grinding paint, or repainting things that were once painted but are now grinded.  This was being done in an effort to increase retention and get more people [lazy idiots more likely] to enlist.  They navy will now hire contractors to perform these much hated tasks.  I reflected upon this tid bit with interest because I was a tar, myself, once.  Below is a poem I wrote in honor of all those who served with or before me in the legendary 7th Fleet.  (Those serving in today's wimpy, politically correct navy will have no clue what this poem is about.)
 
The Ballad of Subic Sam

Walkin' the streets of Olongapo City
Pesos in his pocket gonna buy him some gritty
Mojo in his gut, gonna make him feel sh_tty
Kids playing Frogger—really quite a pity

Sierra Club rock band playing really loud
Peso show, Shark's Cove, drawing up a crowd
Mag-sai-sai, mamison, bar fine dis-allowed
Sh_t River, noxious fumes, rise up in a cloud

Imitation snakeskin boots coverin' up his feet
Chewing on some lumpia as he walks on down the street
Jeepney, Barrio bound, grabs himself a seat
Exits at the White Rock Hotel, rents himself a suite

Haze gray, under weigh, next week it'll be true
Every time he urinates the pain will not subdue
He'll wait in the clap line with other bad boys, too
Subic Sam, The Peso man, he never had a clue

A Terrifying Tale of Love and Tenderness 
Oliver Rowe of Greenville, SC sent The Mooj Weekly Standard an odd remembrance of a time long since past.  I won't say anything more about it other than I hope you get more out of it than I did.
My Not so Bitchen Prom

There I was at my senior prom with Becky Ann Miller, the foxiest chick in all of high school.  It was 1978 and I was totally Mr. Cool back then so before the prom I scored some booze and hid it in the trunk of my dad’s Mercury Montego (which I borrowed for the big date).  On the way home from the dance I pulled the old “running out of gas” trick and pulled off to the side of the road in a pretty secluded spot.  I pretended to find the bottle of booze in the trunk while looking for some spare gasoline and Becky thought that was cool.  When I got back into the car with my jug of Boone’s Farm wine she already had her top off.  I popped in a Lynerd Skynerd 8-track tape, unscrewed the cap on the jug of wine and we got busy.  We were just about to round second base when some headlights flashed in the rearview mirror and momentarily illuminated the interior of the car.  Becky freaked out but I told her that it was nothing and so we got back down to making out.  Then the headlights shined on us again. Whoever it was had pulled closer to us.

“Hey baby… it ain't no big deal,” I told Becky and we started making out again.  But then the headlights came on again and the car drove even closer to us.

“This is pretty freaky stuff,” said Becky, “let’s get out of here.”  I agreed and tried to start the car but like an idiot I actually did run out of gas and so I couldn’t start the engine.  We watched in horror as the car crept closer and closer to us.

I knew the area pretty well and knew that the road we were on was a dead end and that there was no way out except past that psycho parked behind us.  Becky and I got out of my car and booked into the woods.  But it was pitch black outside and we got totally lost.  As we ran blindly through the dense forest we heard someone in the woods chasing us.  Becky was totally freaked out.  Finally we couldn’t run any more and just sat down and cried.  Becky was crying because she was terrified and I was crying because I wasted $5 on a jug of wine, $35 on a tux, $5 on gas, $20 on a corsage and now I wasn’t going to have anything to show for it!

A Tale of Love and Tenderness that Isn't so Terrifying 
George Henry from Lowell, Massachusetts also wrote into The Mooj Weekly Standard to share his tale of teenage love.  His story takes place during the summer of 1949, when he was a shy 17-year-old boy and madly in love with a girl named Tracy Giovanni.  Here’s his sad little tale:   
A Sign from God

Tracy Giovanni had beautiful big blue eyes, long brown hair and was by far the prettiest girl in all of Cataumet Village, the small seaside community on Cape Cod where my family and I spent our summers long ago.  Tracy Giovanni’s family lived in the cottage across the lane from us and I dreamed about her almost every night of my whole young teenage life.  She was my age and only dated boys that were older and so I figured I never had a prayer.  (But I could dream—and I did.)  Tracy knew who I was because she always saw me around but she never spoke to me.  Once in a while she sort of smiled my way and that would send shivers down my spine.  All summer long all I could do was sit on my porch and hope and pray to catch a glimpse of her as she came and went from her cottage.
 
One afternoon my best friend Kevin O’Conner was over and we were sitting on my porch listening to the Red Sox game.  The Sox were playing the Yankees and they were getting hammered.  The score was 10 to 2 and it was the bottom of the ninth inning.

My attention to the game abruptly faded when Tracy came outside of her cottage and sat on her porch.  Boys quickly congregated in front of her cottage and she was—as she usually was—the center of attention.

“Man, that Tracy’s sure fine lookin’ — ain’t she?” said Kevin.

“Man, she sure is,” I said as I gazed longingly across the street at the girl I loved more than anything.

“Hey Georgie, when you gonna be man enough to ask her out on a date?”

“I would if I could but I can’t.  No way.”

“You’re a fool Georgie—a fool.  My sister says Tracy told her once that she thought you were cute.”

“Really?”

“Yeah and Tracy also told her that she thinks you’re stuck up because you never talk to her.”

“Is that so?”

“We’ll, are you ever gonna go and talk to her?”

“Nope.”

“Oh well.”

Leading off the bottom of the ninth inning for the Red Sox was the great Al Zarilla.  On four straight pitches he walked.  Then Dom DiMaggio came to bat and he singled to right field.  Runners were now at the corners and there were no outs.  Ted Williams was at bat and my attention to Tracy Giovanni diminished somewhat.  The Yank's Vic Raschi had been magnificent that day but he walked Williams.  With the bases loaded and no outs the Yankee's skipper Casey Stengal pulled Raschi and put in the left hander Joe Collins to pitch to Birdie Tebbetts.  Tebbetts, who had been struggling at the plate lately, lined one down the right field line scoring Zarilla and DiMaggio.  The score was now 10 to 4.

Without giving it much thought I said:  “Kevin, I'll tell you what I'll do.  If The Sox come back and win this game I'll march right across the street and ask Tracy Giovanni out on a date!”  It was a safe bet I thought—that was until Sam Mele (hitting in the pitcher's spot) doubled in Williams and Tebbetts and The Sox scored two more runs.  It was now 10 to 6.

Billy Goodman moved Mele to third with a slow grounder to first base.  Bobby Doerr, the next hitter, then hit one deep to center field, which brought home Mele.  It was now 10 to 7 but there were two outs.  The shortstop Vern Stephens was now up and he worked his way deep into the count.  Joe Collins was throwing nothing but fast balls and left one hanging, which Stephens sent for a ride, right over the Gem Blade billboard on the Green Monster!  It was now 10 to 8!  Stengal went back to the bull pen and brought in Hugh Casey to face the hot Johnny Pesky.  Pesky got ahead in the count and found a pitch he could drive: a high fast ball, which he bounced off the Green Monster.  Al Zaria, up for the second time that inning, walked.  Now it was Dom DiMaggio's turn and he hit another one into the gap, scoring both Pesky and Zaria!  The score was tied!!!

By now all the boys had abandoned Tracy Giovanni and were standing around my cottage listing to the game.  Ted Williams was now at bat and all of Fenway was in an uproar.  I prayed as hard as I could that Williams would hit a home run to win the game and he did!  Life stopped in tiny Cataumet Village and every man, woman and child was running up and down the lane cheering.  After all the excitement had died down O’Conner turned to me and said:
 
“Well Georgie, you know what you have to do.”

I did.  Without giving it a second thought I walked across the street and knocked on Tracy Giovanni’s door.  When she answered I said:  “Tracy, would you like to go up to Narragansett tonight and watch a movie with me?”

She laughed and said: “Get lost creep,” then slammed the door in my face.

The Buray Bengali (Warning:  You must be 18 years or older to read these jokes!)   
 

One day a Vaseline salesman was driving down a long dirt road in Rajahmundry when he ran out of petrol.  He was too afraid to leave his wares unattended (due to all the bandits that live in Rajahmundry) so he took his samples of Vaseline with him as he walked along the road to a nearby village.  At the first house he came to he opened up the door and yelled:

"Main tumhaare bachche ki maan banne waali hoon!"

No one was home except for a beautiful young girl who had just finished taking her bath (she was wrapped only in a towel).  She was annoyed with the stranger and told him: "Rukjao! kanoon ko apne haath mein mat lo!"  The salesman was very hard of hearing and thought that she had said: "Muzrim ko ba-izzat bari kiya jaata hai," so he quickly removed his clothing.  Just at that innocuous moment the girl's father returned home with her seven brothers, all of whom had all been working in the fields.  When they saw the naked girl, the naked salesman, and the jars of Vaseline sitting on the counter the father said:

"Kya issi din ke liye tujhe paal pos ke bada kiya tha?"   

Bhuadi was a very shy boy who had never strayed far from his small village of Burhanpur.  Finally, when he came of age, his uncles decided to take him to Ahmadabad to treat him to a big feast.  They thought they had brought him to a restaurant but instead they mistakenly took him to a house of ill repute.  When they entered the house they told the lady:

"Ab hum kisi ko muh dikhaane ke layak nahin rahe."  She was puzzled but accepted their offer.

Since the uncles were poor they could not afford to eat themselves so they waited outside for Bhuadi, who they thought was inside enjoying a fine meal.  When Bhuadi emerged from the house fifteen minutes later he told his uncles:

"Kanoon ke haath bahut lambe hote hein!"

The uncles joked among themselves that they never knew mutton could be so tasty.

Closing Thoughts 
What's that you ask?  No Travels with Mooj section?  Actually, The Mooj can't describe his travels this week because The Mooj didn't go anywhere.  I was dropped off here in Sedona by my alien abductors and here is where I decided to stay.

Within hours of my arrival I was quickly assimilated into the closed knit artistic community and adopted by a very well known art colony.  I never realized how talented I was as an artist (since I have never painted anything in my life other than the bulkhead of a navy ship).  All these months of wandering, starving, and suffering must have really made the difference.  In just this last week alone I have sold over $100,000 worth of paintings.  (I can hardly keep up with the demand!)  In fact, next month I will be one of the featured artists at the world famous Richard Wrangler Gallery here in scenic Sedona.  If you are in the neighborhood stop by and I will personally sign any painting you purchase.

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The Richard Wrangler Gallery of Contemporary Art
1351 Highway 179
Sedona, Arizona 86336
(520) 282-6644 ext. 122
Fall Show Begins November 4th

The Richard Wrangler Gallery features Classic and Contemporary Art in all forms from original paintings in oil, acrylics and watercolor to sculptures in bronze, marble and alabaster, exceptional ceramics and distinctive jewelry by world renowned artists.

We are committed to excellence in our art and our service.  Please feel free to call us for further information about our artists or additional photos of their work.  The Richard Wrangler Gallery opens it’s fall show November 4, 1999 and continues through the end of the month. Artist’s Reception will be held November 8th from 5:00 to 8:00 p.m.

Featured Artists:

Russ Bastard is a colorist of unrivaled ability with a deft touch and a dazzling palette.

Pattel Melrose Hooker’s superb Still Lifes remind us of the jewel quality of finely rendered realism.

Vicky Stubing’s bright southwestern colors and whimsical folk subjects are warm, charming and evocative.

Michael (pronounced “Mik-ail”) Thurston Howe is a consummate artist whose simple and elegant designs are without equal.

Mujaputtia “The Mooj” Umbababbaraba is new to the Sedona art scene (he literally seemed to “fall from the sky.”)  His art work is beyond description.

Call the gallery for more details.

Be sure to visit our neighbor Gallery, the Turquoise Vortex, also hosting an artist's reception in November. 

Below are some Samples from the Mujaputtia Umbababbaraba collection: