Smile, Hon, You're in Baltimore! COVER

To order a copy of
Smile, Hon, You're in Baltimore
send $3
(check, money order, stamps, or cash) to:
William P. Tandy
PO Box 963
Havre de Grace, MD
21078 USA

Table of contents

Introduction by William P. Tandy page 3
Dirty Sheets by Benn Ray page 5
Spring Always Comes to Patterson Park by Elizabeth Britton page 10
Smooth Operator by Davida Gypsy Breier page 12
Communique from Ken Carl page 14
You Can See All the Stars as You Sit Along Security Boulevard by William P. Tandy page 15
A Concrete Pillow and a Quarter-Life Crisis by Ryan Detter page 17
Chaos by Kate Haas page 19
Rat by Michel E. Schuster page 31
Sure, I Been to Baltimore...by Androo Robinson page 32
Got Your Ears On? by GeezerWal page 33
Legs by William P. Tandy page 35
A Tale of Two Cities by Dan Taylor page 38
Ain’t Ju the Lady? by C. Carter Glass page 43
Baltimore, Once Upon a Time by Bill Tandy page 45
...But My Sister Will by William P. Tandy page 49
Notes page 51
Call for Submissions page 52

Introduction from Smile, Hon, You're in Baltimore!

             It’s tough to write about a town you haven’t seen much of lately.
             Too many twisted days and nights Out of State, Out of Mind. From swearing in the New Year at a remote compound deep within the impenetrable Heart of the South Jersey Pinelands to pondering the implications of a “freeze warning” with the locals over 9 a.m. happy hour in a grungy dive in the French Quarter. Too many said days and nights for me to speak with any affected authority on a city of which I’ve seen so little as of late.
             An Island in the Stream, as it were. Of the State. Of the Great Northeast Megalopolis. Of the Country. Of the Whole Goddamned World.
             And now, as Junior & Co. draw the hood over the head of the District & Elsewhere, Baltimore finds itself a front-row witness to a nation’s execution. Wait, no – perhaps more of a murder/suicide. No matter – after all, the Germans may have scuttled the Bismarck, but who “pulled the trigger” makes little difference to a demersal steel monument doomed to cold and endless night.
             We’re living in warped times – something they’ve been suggesting, I suppose, since the very Beginning. Still, you can’t help but feel that there’s something more to it, this time around. We’re a Nation on Dope. What kind, you ask? Well, friend, take your pick – a little something for everyone. From the poor man’s son bleeding out in the trenches to the sizzling dope fiend hell-bent for election.
             It’s much like sitting on a train in Penn Station, just as everything out the window starts to move. For one confusing instant you wonder, is this train moving? Or that one? Or both? Has the rest of the world gone crazy, or just me?
             Perhaps the world is no different than it ever was. Like a bad drunk, Junior, or a twisted acid rush, when everything runs together in a mad rush on the senses. Then stops for one fleeting moment, just long enough to tease the brain for what it’s done to itself. All the Beauty and Truth and Unrequited Evil it shows itself and no other.
             It’s not a bad time to slow down. Stop. Take a look. It never is a bad time for that, really – especially in Charm City, where the trains run all day, with or without you. Where pushers wax philosophically on ways to keep kids off the street. Where rogue ministers work minor miracles inside hell’s own classrooms. Where beehives and Formstone are the stuff dreams of Broadway are made of.
             It’s all there – it’s all here. Laughter and horror and sometimes a little of both. And those who know where to look – how to look – don’t need Lauer or Couric or the slick pages of a glossy to find it.
             They just know.

William P. Tandy
February 2003

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