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Milty's Mag, December 1941
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Milty's Mag Page two BLUES BY A JUKEBOX Philadelphia. Two A.M. The mighty bridge swings its silhouette across the river, and the jewels of auto headlights are scare atop its frame. The breeze blows cold across the water. A tugboat hoots, softly. A few blocks from the waterfront the brick walls of factories rise into the night, their windows dark. Only the streetlights make holes in the blackness. They, and the bright square which is the window of an allnight restaurant. We walk into the place. It is small, of typical oblong shape. The counter is along one side, and four booths along the other side. In the back is a jukebox which spins its load of records, endlessly. There are some young men already in the place. They are dressed roughly, and are tall and slender. They are tough. Two of them dance together in the middle of the room to the music of the jukebox. They are both blonde, and their hair is cut short, soupbowl style. It hangs straight down, stopping short at a point just above the ears. One of them has a scar on his forehead. His eyes are very blue, and his lips are very full. Those lips have a peculiar curve to them. They are ruthless and sensual. It is a cruel mouth, but it is set at this moment in a fixed expression of breathlessness, and as the two young men dance, holding each other closely together, interlocking gliding, silent steps, the mouth gives the impression that this boy dances as though he means it. Who are these people? Where do they come from, what sort of empty life is it that they live which reaches its greatest culmination in standing around all night before a jukebox, and do they know where they go from here. We return to the fresh night. We see the large sign that stretches over the door of the place. "Purity Restaurant," it says. ------------------------------------------ ----------------------------------------- Chatter ........... Here it is hardly the middle of October and I'm starting to compose for a Milty's Mag which doesn't have to be finished until the first of December. Incredible, isn't it? The reason being that I'm tired of last minute rushes. And the landlady doesn't like for me to mimeograph after midnight. Those who criticize magazine reviews in the FAPA are partially correct. An issue of an FAPA magazine which is half devoted to comments on the previous mailing is more or less a waste of effort.
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Milty's Mag Page two BLUES BY A JUKEBOX Philadelphia. Two A.M. The mighty bridge swings its silhouette across the river, and the jewels of auto headlights are scare atop its frame. The breeze blows cold across the water. A tugboat hoots, softly. A few blocks from the waterfront the brick walls of factories rise into the night, their windows dark. Only the streetlights make holes in the blackness. They, and the bright square which is the window of an allnight restaurant. We walk into the place. It is small, of typical oblong shape. The counter is along one side, and four booths along the other side. In the back is a jukebox which spins its load of records, endlessly. There are some young men already in the place. They are dressed roughly, and are tall and slender. They are tough. Two of them dance together in the middle of the room to the music of the jukebox. They are both blonde, and their hair is cut short, soupbowl style. It hangs straight down, stopping short at a point just above the ears. One of them has a scar on his forehead. His eyes are very blue, and his lips are very full. Those lips have a peculiar curve to them. They are ruthless and sensual. It is a cruel mouth, but it is set at this moment in a fixed expression of breathlessness, and as the two young men dance, holding each other closely together, interlocking gliding, silent steps, the mouth gives the impression that this boy dances as though he means it. Who are these people? Where do they come from, what sort of empty life is it that they live which reaches its greatest culmination in standing around all night before a jukebox, and do they know where they go from here. We return to the fresh night. We see the large sign that stretches over the door of the place. "Purity Restaurant," it says. ------------------------------------------ ----------------------------------------- Chatter ........... Here it is hardly the middle of October and I'm starting to compose for a Milty's Mag which doesn't have to be finished until the first of December. Incredible, isn't it? The reason being that I'm tired of last minute rushes. And the landlady doesn't like for me to mimeograph after midnight. Those who criticize magazine reviews in the FAPA are partially correct. An issue of an FAPA magazine which is half devoted to comments on the previous mailing is more or less a waste of effort.
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