| REALLY NIFTY PICTURES! Plus some textual material that Your Benefactor simply happens to like. |
| THESE SERVE NO WORTHWHILE PURPOSE other that to illustrate Mr. Helmer's heavily armed children, Marc and Jan, in Austin, Texas, as he labored to complete his first book, The Gun That Made The Twenties Roar--a history of the Tommygun--published by Macmillan in 1969. Below: "Floozie," his Attack Cat, after completing her course in Dr. Naismith's "Puss 'n' Boots" Camp that "Reinvests your pet with entertainment value." |
Floozie would not be intimidated by the blood-lust illustrated
in the following Maxim Silencer ad (circa 1910) that
amounts to a upbeat testimonial from a satisfied customer,
and which today would be found not only appalling but
politically incorrect by contemporary cat fanciers.
in the following Maxim Silencer ad (circa 1910) that
amounts to a upbeat testimonial from a satisfied customer,
and which today would be found not only appalling but
politically incorrect by contemporary cat fanciers.
TO THE RIGHT AND
BELOW we have a
little tribute to
Gilbert Shelton
(here posing with
Marc and a dandy
train wreck), the true
inventor of
"Underground
Comix" in 1966 with
Frank Stack's
Adventures of Jesus.
BELOW we have a
little tribute to
Gilbert Shelton
(here posing with
Marc and a dandy
train wreck), the true
inventor of
"Underground
Comix" in 1966 with
Frank Stack's
Adventures of Jesus.
He is today unjustly embarrassed by having
rendered, in a University of Texas art class,
the painting below of Jack Ruby, killer of Lee
Harvey Oswald, inspired by a newspaper
photo. Mr. Helmer retains this painting as a
rare Early Shelton, while Gilbert today
prospers as a prominent comic artist in France.
rendered, in a University of Texas art class,
the painting below of Jack Ruby, killer of Lee
Harvey Oswald, inspired by a newspaper
photo. Mr. Helmer retains this painting as a
rare Early Shelton, while Gilbert today
prospers as a prominent comic artist in France.
THIS SHELTON ORIGINAL, along with an inset
of the paper that inspired it, and a stuffed
buzzard, here decorate Mr. Helmer's Chicago
apartment (1969-1999) above a sleeping
beauty named Sharon who to this day visits her
old boyfriend, a defrocked Playboy editor
whose benign brain tumor (left) has landed him
in the miserable hamlet of Boerne (pronounced
Burr-nee, fer yew Yankees), Texas, about 30
miles northwest of San Antonio, where his
loving daughter teaches high school--and
which may go far toward explaining this website.
of the paper that inspired it, and a stuffed
buzzard, here decorate Mr. Helmer's Chicago
apartment (1969-1999) above a sleeping
beauty named Sharon who to this day visits her
old boyfriend, a defrocked Playboy editor
whose benign brain tumor (left) has landed him
in the miserable hamlet of Boerne (pronounced
Burr-nee, fer yew Yankees), Texas, about 30
miles northwest of San Antonio, where his
loving daughter teaches high school--and
which may go far toward explaining this website.
| THE ABOVE PHOTO and the one below are included here out of sheer perversity...and to illustrate the fun Mr. Helmer had as a kid photographer for the McAllen, Texas, Valley Evening Monitor. |
| ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Mr. Helmer's run-ins with the law have been largely avoided and have never involved real jail-time, despite his enthusiasm for the occasional prank and things that go BANG!--as commemorated in this poetic imagery borrowed from Tom Robbins: |
The laws of God
the laws of man
He may keep
who will and can.
Not I.
Let God and man decree
Laws for themselves
and not for me....
--A.E. Housman
the laws of man
He may keep
who will and can.
Not I.
Let God and man decree
Laws for themselves
and not for me....
--A.E. Housman
| TO PROVE (in case anybody was wondering) if Mr. Helmer is a wimp, the answer is yes. In his reckless youth, however, he was an avid cave explorer-- in part because the light emitted by the old carbide lamps made it impossible to see how far he could fall. |
| MORE EXCITING PICTURES WILL BE ADDED WHEN MR. HELMER FEELS LIKE IT! But we might as well end this installment on a happy note featuring not one but TWO of his Old Girlfriends, Claire and Cornelia, from Grad School days. See if you can figure which one put out and which one did not, but enjoyed lecturing me and Glenn Whitehead on our choice of women. Cornelia and I remain in close touch via Internet. The machine gun was captured from Austin's American Legion. |
| PS As long as he's at it: Pictured at right is the Big House with roommate Glenn Whitehead on the floor and Pearl Coffee seated. I sure wanted to get into Pearl's pants as she was both bright and beautiful and long remained a friend, but at Scholz' Garten one beer got her happy, two beers she became the Life of the Party, three beers she was nicely horny, and four beers she was looped...leaving me to cart her home in no condition to do anything but sleep. |
| BELOW we have a photograph taken some fifteen years later of Mr. Helmer at the Playboy Mansion West lecturing Mr. Hefner and daughter Christie about something to do with The Playboy Defense Team. It was dark and Mr. Helmer had just returned from the men's room with his fly unzipped (as Christie seems to have noticed), but this was remedied by the photo department before the picture appeared in the magazine. |
Mayfield Cave, now
commercialized as The
Caverns of Sonora
commercialized as The
Caverns of Sonora
The Devil's Sinkhole
near Rock Springs
near Rock Springs
THEN...
A bit of real excitement entered Your Benefactor's
life. On August 1, 1966, while he was in grad school,
Charlie Whitman ascended to the top of The
University of Texas Main Building's Tower and began
shooting people. That accomplished three things: It
invented a new kind of mass murder; it awakened
police to the need for S.W.A.T teams; and it provided
me an opportunity to practice first aid. Whitman fired
at a girl in a white blouse peeking out an open
window in the Student Union Building and missed
her head by a good two inches, but the bullet
richocheted through the forearm of the guy over
whose shoulder I was looking. Hit an artery whose
bleeding I could stop till help arrived, discovered I
had a tiny nick from a bullet fragment, but didn't
have the wits to turn myself in as an Official Whitman
Casualty! Also, didn't think to look for the slug. Darn.
A friend of mine, Ron Perryman, took the picture
that made the cover the Life.
A bit of real excitement entered Your Benefactor's
life. On August 1, 1966, while he was in grad school,
Charlie Whitman ascended to the top of The
University of Texas Main Building's Tower and began
shooting people. That accomplished three things: It
invented a new kind of mass murder; it awakened
police to the need for S.W.A.T teams; and it provided
me an opportunity to practice first aid. Whitman fired
at a girl in a white blouse peeking out an open
window in the Student Union Building and missed
her head by a good two inches, but the bullet
richocheted through the forearm of the guy over
whose shoulder I was looking. Hit an artery whose
bleeding I could stop till help arrived, discovered I
had a tiny nick from a bullet fragment, but didn't
have the wits to turn myself in as an Official Whitman
Casualty! Also, didn't think to look for the slug. Darn.
A friend of mine, Ron Perryman, took the picture
that made the cover the Life.
DID THIS EVENT sour Mr. Helmer's enthusiasm for the
Thompson submachine gun? Hell, no. It soured him on the
ubiquitous warnings on schools and other public buildings
that they are GUN FREE ZONES! Nearly all of Whitman's "kills"
took place before a dozen or so citizens grabbed deer rifles
out of their car trunks and kept that sucker pinned down until
he was wasted by a really scared young cop with a shotgun.
BELOW is the Action Arm of The Playboy Defense Team.
Thompson submachine gun? Hell, no. It soured him on the
ubiquitous warnings on schools and other public buildings
that they are GUN FREE ZONES! Nearly all of Whitman's "kills"
took place before a dozen or so citizens grabbed deer rifles
out of their car trunks and kept that sucker pinned down until
he was wasted by a really scared young cop with a shotgun.
BELOW is the Action Arm of The Playboy Defense Team.
| AND HERE we have Baby Daughter Jan and Mad Dog Junior, c. 1980s, with grown-up Thompsons, plus a Sweet Thang from early Playboy Days who I'm guessing (hoping) will not be recognized at this somewhat later date. |
| SO AS NOT TO END THIS on an unrelenting theme of sex 'n' violence, here are two uplifting illustrations courtesy The Pilgrim Tract Society of Randleman, North Carolina |
ACTUALLY--AND CONTRARY TO A RECKLESS STATEMENT MADE PREVIOUSLY ON THIS PAGE,
Mr. Helmer did have a few close calls, a couple or so "warnings," and twice the Evanston, Illinois, police were
unable to establish his connection with a giant oxy-acetylene leaf-bag bomb that was a little more powerful than
expected (his scanner monitored calls from three neighboring suburbs); or with a little 9mm stove-shooting
demonstration (the new stove already was on order), the noise of which upset a patrolling cop car that radioed for
several backups. (They could never locate the source, and neighbors didn't rat.)
Prior to that the warnings were for mere high school pranks. In the South Texas town of Pharr, Bobby the Cop
(the only cop) had a little talk with him about the spark plug in his 1941 Plymouth's tailpipe that, when triggered,
could produce anything from a modest little blow-torch of a blaze to a spectacular twenty-foot flamethrower,
depending on acceleration or high-speed down-gearing in second.
And one could probably call it a warning when he and two friends spent the night in the McAllen city jail, getting
chewed out for a little stunt involving a new black Oldsmobile sedan with a "bloody arm" dangling from the trunk.
The arm was mine, and after an hour or so we were curbed by siren's scream, right in front of the local movie
theater whose crowd was just getting out. That crowd loved it, and so did the dozen or so lawmen from the state,
the sheriff's department, the Border Patrol, plus cops and constables from neighboring towns, who were now
congregated at the little three-man police station and could not help snickering.
Years later I discovered this prank had earned me a fifty-page FBI file in which everybody interviewed lied and
said what an good kid I was. I bring this up now only because I still have the little newspaper clipping that
appeared in the next day's McAllen Monitor, in 1953, which goes nicely with one sent to me by writer-researcher
Brad Smith, author of Verne Miller and the Kansas City Massacre, which concerns another William J. Helmer, who I
figure must be my Evil Twin.
Mr. Helmer did have a few close calls, a couple or so "warnings," and twice the Evanston, Illinois, police were
unable to establish his connection with a giant oxy-acetylene leaf-bag bomb that was a little more powerful than
expected (his scanner monitored calls from three neighboring suburbs); or with a little 9mm stove-shooting
demonstration (the new stove already was on order), the noise of which upset a patrolling cop car that radioed for
several backups. (They could never locate the source, and neighbors didn't rat.)
Prior to that the warnings were for mere high school pranks. In the South Texas town of Pharr, Bobby the Cop
(the only cop) had a little talk with him about the spark plug in his 1941 Plymouth's tailpipe that, when triggered,
could produce anything from a modest little blow-torch of a blaze to a spectacular twenty-foot flamethrower,
depending on acceleration or high-speed down-gearing in second.
And one could probably call it a warning when he and two friends spent the night in the McAllen city jail, getting
chewed out for a little stunt involving a new black Oldsmobile sedan with a "bloody arm" dangling from the trunk.
The arm was mine, and after an hour or so we were curbed by siren's scream, right in front of the local movie
theater whose crowd was just getting out. That crowd loved it, and so did the dozen or so lawmen from the state,
the sheriff's department, the Border Patrol, plus cops and constables from neighboring towns, who were now
congregated at the little three-man police station and could not help snickering.
Years later I discovered this prank had earned me a fifty-page FBI file in which everybody interviewed lied and
said what an good kid I was. I bring this up now only because I still have the little newspaper clipping that
appeared in the next day's McAllen Monitor, in 1953, which goes nicely with one sent to me by writer-researcher
Brad Smith, author of Verne Miller and the Kansas City Massacre, which concerns another William J. Helmer, who I
figure must be my Evil Twin.
On the other hand, no point in wasting space...I'll think up an excuse for these later...