The First Epistle From The Young Squirt To The
By the shades of Mike Faraday and Julius-Caesar, Friend Ham, lend me
your shell-like ear and let me gently inquire who in tarnashun and
thunderashun is the wild galoot from the west who is always hollering
“Rotten”? By heck, this bewhiskered old son-of-a-gun has got my horned
animal, or to be brief, explicit, and to the point, my goat. For the
last five hectic and sufferin’ years all I’ve heard him yell is
“Rotten”. Tell him to go take a walk, take a bath or a shave. Perhaps he
can take a drink, (if he can get it). Go and see that pretty little show
called “Open Your Eyes”; that might help some.
I want to remark with all due sang froid (which is no relation to
aperiodic oscillations) that everything about us hams ain’t rotten. Just
to prove my brave and bold assertion, I’ll hereby request in a gentle,
subdued—that is, in not a too stentorian tone of voice with a chortle of
discontent—that this bewhiskered gazebo take an optical slant at the
antenna depicted on the July QST’s cover and then peep inside at the
works and the jeweled bearings of the station. Does that look rotten to
you, you howling old Bullbum? Go hide your aged cranium, old Pessimistic
Listen in on your own part of the world, Skeezicks; hear Mrs. 8NH (as
we’ll always know her). Is her spark rotten, is her fist rotten, is the
intensity of her signal rotten when we get her down here in New England
like the seventeen regiments of Scotch Highlanders full of Gordon Rye?
Answer up, you old geezer, before we dance on your old oaken coffin.
And tell me this, Methusalum, what’s rotten about stations like 1HAA and
1AK? You oughter take a trip to 1AK, seat yourself in his leather
upholstered operating chair, lean back in bliss and comfort and be
lulled to rest by the helluvanote of YN, the whistle of POZ, or the
falsetto of LCM. Then throw his Paragon and hear the dope from Willie
Smith out in Missouri who is vainly trying to date up his girl using as
a means of dating his little half-inch spark coil. Who said “Rotten”?
Everything in the game ain’t “rotten”, as I remarked to a fellow fan
when Babe Ruth knocked his twenty-seventh homer. Of course you and I are
rotten; that’s why our fellerhams fall for this bunk. It’s so darned
rotten that they laugh out of sympathy for the authors. No matter about
that, I’m all right and the world’s askew and you (OM) are a loud
shouting airdale, mud-slinging hashound. Release the man, he is badly
I suspect that you have a dark, dismal and damp cellar at your domicile
where you are want to congregate down by your waterpipe and where your
ground begins. On a broad and massive shelf overhead, I can now, in my
mind’s eye, see you reaching up and detaching a large brown bottle with
a bulging belly from said shelf. This bottle, as I see it, is inscribed,
“Wood Alcohol, for Adults Only”. You put this horrid exhibit to your
lips and take a long drag therefrom. Then you gasp for breath. Back with
your shoulders, out with your chest. You feel 75 years younger. You feel
fine; you’re drunk y’ darnphule. This is the time, I suspect, that you
write those rotten, tainted and corrupted stories. I believe, you old
scarecrow, you’re too darned mean to speak a good, cheerful word to us
young ham; afraid that we’ll ask you to lend us your darned old
squeaking Betsy or your poor abused cat. Personally I don’t believe that
you’ve got a Betsy; I think it’s a tin Lizzie.
Did you read that stuff in our July issue written by Miss Grammerhausen—femule
ham? What was rotten about that? Guess she is a regular guy. Admit it,
you crab-walking, slant eyed son of Macaroni.
I sure had to laugh when I read of an old has-been like you trying out
impulse excitation. Guess you know more about output indigestion!
Let’s not drop the subject—while we’re at it let’s flay this knocking
old mugwump alive. Now, I myself can sit in on my superdreadnaught set
and get stuff that ain't corrupt. By suitably adjusting the
deterioration of my filament due to electrionic emission, (hoping that
the Ham (F) gets that phrase OK and considers my think-tank is not out
of phase) and as the tiny atomic and infinitesimal electrons seek the
path of Prohibition, that is to say the straight and narrow, I proceed
to adjust my circuits to resonance, not neglecting the tertiary. Here am
I up in New England and twitter—twitter comes NSD. I use NSD as I was
wont to use a test buzzer in the Palmy Days. I hear NAM say to him, “O,
NSD, O NSD why don’t you set old Ireland free?” Then I know that my
antenna is still up and that there’s considerable push to my main
spring. So I bend my well moulded head to my work and my youthful
countenance (whatever that is) light up with a beatific and a 100KW
smile. Hope that all hands will excuse my poetic language. I gotta
compete with old Jingle-Jazz. Now my gear is adjusted, so stand from
under. I cut her down to 200 meters. In through the window comes
1AW—also that bird Runyon—a guy out in Oak Park, Illinois, whispers in
my ear, and Mrs. 8NH flirts with me—a married man. I glow with pride
because this ain’t so bad for home made stuff. I try to spit on my
female pussy in my zeal, for you see I’m not about to be outdone by old
Tom Longwhiskers. I miss pussy and spit in the baby’s ear. Do you call
that rotten, Old Drybones? I’ll say it’s gud work—it denotes perfect
resonance and unerring aim.
Get some Omega Oil and douse your withered shinbones, Old Timer; then
maybe you can get down on your creaking knees and thank the Lord that
you’re alive and that you can still hear the lusty roar of the Ham
around the corner.
On the level, I’ll bet that you were one of those gazaboes who, in the
year 1910 or thereabouts, made the ether squirm to the tune of your
decrement. I can see you now, smoking your old black pipe, a green shade
pulled over your watery eyes—gazing into vacancy and pounding the devil
out of one of Turnsback’s keys. On the tail end of the key you have a
tick tacking spark coil operated through an App’s hammer. You still have
the hammer, I’m sure. Down goes the key and up goes some poor old
commercial station—another good electrolytic gone wrong. You pound on in
blissful ignorance and the London Constabulary arrests a man for
stealing a loaf of bread.
I sure hope, through, that I can see you down in New York some time.
We’ll go Hellpoppin’ together. We must take in a good show, guzzle a
little moonshine together, accompanied by the Edison Military Band and
the office force of QST.
Come out of your hop, Old Beezlebub, or I’ll put Sheer-luck Holmes on
your tail, and he’ll have Watson with him.