Blase Eight by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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The audience number started to diminish at the 4:30PM
juncture and continued the steady slide until, now at 7PM; the audience had dropped to 25. No one other than the Sand Duners
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was aware that 20 of those spectators were made up of residents of the Sand Dunes; who had been secretly given copies of Patricia’s last flyer. They didn’t give one bit of a damn about the elms, but were trying to figure out what the hell was going on; and how it might affect them.
Tiring himself, and seeing that the number of those carrying the slings and arrows had severely diminished, Vinny invited his “old friend,” Patricia, to the podium at 7PM.
Those of the tired eyes which were still open looked at Patricia Primstation, who ambled her way to prominence.
Ty said; “The main event!” and Cindy searched her purse for the appropriate gong, but found none.
Attempting to steal the initiative, Thomas offered a “warm welcome.” It was easy, as he wasn’t kidding in the least.
Patricia was encouraged by the testimony to her recognition; and said; “Good day, Councilman Higgins. Good day Council members and Mr. Mayor. As you may recall, I represent the Brisas Area Gardening Society; an organization with 100
active members. ............ I might add; and the silent majority of Propicio. Our concerns continue to be with the unlawful activities conducted on Calle de la Congelacion. Let me read from my notes. Our gardens will soon be infiltrated. Yes, infiltrated by those interlopers from another part of the world.”
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The Sand Duners bristled as they curiously looked to each other for confirmation of what they hoped that they had heard incorrectly. They were disturbed to see similar countenances.
Patricia continued; “This is an un-needed expense, a burden, and blight upon the law abiding taxpayers of Propicio.
The illegal trees wildly proliferate here because of governmental neglect. Our officials headed by the mayor have made no response to our concerns. Perhaps, taking a cue from the lawless area officially tolerated, named Calle de la Congelacion, have taken to hanging around there, totally unsupervised. We find that intolerable. Further, we have become aware of the distinctive odor of burning marijuana in Elm City.
Judging by the residue of teenage parties the kids cluster around the third house on the right, a tiny, red, tin-sided A-frame. In effect are they operating an illegal opium den? Is this another grandfathered permitted use in Propicio?
In addition, through our fruitless searches for our children we have seen junk cars and trucks on many properties, a further hazard for the children and a potential home for disease carrying rodents.
As we previously mentioned, many of us live on Camino de las Brisas. That’s where our organization began, but it has grown to encompass a sizable and growing sector of the Village.
It seems to us that we deserve attention. We newcomers struggle
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to beautify this fine desert community, pay taxes and seek to bring up our children in safety. What can be done to help us?
I’ll await your reply in my seat.” As she walked to it, Penny received a very small, polite round of applause and many hostile stares.
With a straight face Thomas said; “Yes Mr. Mayor, what can be done about it?”
Vincent looked up from the pad on which he was furiously scribbling and hoped that his perspiration would either be un-noticed or attributed to hard work. He saw the audience and the Council staring at him. Sweat dripped from his forehead. He thought; “I should have gone into my cousin Tony’s concrete business. No bullshit, no voters; just money.” He worked up a nervous smile and said; “So, you admit to trespassing?”
Groans answered the “joke.”
He continued; “All right, we’re all friends here.”
More groans.
“Tough audience. ......... The elms have a right to be there. They pre-dated the Village’s rise to prosperity. Just like your gardens, they have been maintained by owners of private property. How would you feel if someone came out to destroy your birds-of-paradise? They aren’t native. They come from South America.”
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A fiftyish man in the audience sporting an LA Dodgers baseball hat and a ZZ Top inspired gray beard sat motionless with his arms folded against his chest. He called out; “Our birds-of-paradise” don’t throw their seeds all over town.”
He received some applause and laughter.
Vincent replied; “Fair enough. My appeal to morality didn’t sway.” Thomas and one other Council member got coughing fits.
Undeterred, the uneasy Mayor said; “Well then, the law supports the elms, plain and simple. Grandfathers are grandfathers. You can’t change the rules at half-time.”
Cindy whispered to Ty; “They’ve got to be kidding.”
Ty answered; “Yeah, but they don’t know it.”
The man in the baseball hat called out; “No, but you can change sides. I mean, come on, you can stop a company from polluting, but you can’t stop a damn tree from throwing its crap all over the place? Gimme a break.”
Vincent replied; “Oh, so let me understand the issue more clearly. You’re objecting to the seeds; not the trees themselves?”
The audience made an ambiguous grumbling sound. The Sand Duner portion of it looked distraught; while they considered the weak possibility of the Mayor being on their side.
The Mayor looked to Patricia and shrugged his shoulders questioningly.
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Patricia was flustered and looked around her. She said;
“Well. ......... well. ......... I guess. ........... Unless anyone has objections.”
Vincent broke the silence with; “Done then. I will commission a blue ribbon panel to study the issue,” silently invigorated with the prospect of pocketing at least 30% of the experts’ fees.
Baseball hat said; “That’s absurd. How do you separate an elm from it seeds?”
Vincent said; “Friction? I don’t know. Do you?”
Baseball hat said; “No,” and made an expression almost as incredulous as that of Ty and Cindy, sans their giggling.
Vincent continued; “That’s why we’re going to have the experts look into the matter. Now, people, as far as your kids partying, you know, you’ve got to take a little responsibility too. They obviously have unsupervised time and they can go anywhere they want with it. There are still many places to hide in Propicio if one looks for them.”
Baseball hat called out; “Like where?”
Vincent was on a roll and went with it; “I don’t know. I have nothing to hide. Ask a teenager. Seriously, there must be plenty by the river and Federal Statutes preclude us from draining it. But, what I will do is increase police patrols on
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Calle de la Congelacion. Now, if your kids wind up being arrested, don’t blame me. Now, regarding the opium den.”
Ty said to Cindy; “Now that’s something I want to know about.”
Cindy deadpanned; “It’s not good enough over the internet?”
“The occupant of the house in question has been investigated before and has been found not guilty. If there were an ongoing investigation, I would be legally precluded from saying anything about it. Suffice to say that Propicio’s finest are aware of past allegations.
Lastly; junk cars. You have my word that I will personally be looking into what constitutes junk. Insofar as it probably is not limited to cars, the rest of the town should be put on fair notice that their lawns will also be under scrutiny. That four year old plastic slide with the improvised, wooden base may also be subject to fines. That woodpile supposedly slated for the fireplace may be the perfect home for vermin.”
Baseball hat said; “Wait, wait, wait. We are not the ones under scrutiny.”
“Are you above the law?”
“May I approach the podium?”
“Please do.”
Baseball hat shuffled up and scratched the back of his neck in an attempt to get blood flowing uphill. He craned his neck
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around surveying the rest of the room. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I have some reservations about depriving a man of his livelihood.” His mind visualized the pile of broken pallets strewn about his back yard for use on a rainy day. He took another survey and saw a number of faces pointed at the floor. He decided to take a chance and said; “If there are no objections I propose to support the residents of Calle de la Congelacion to continue their economic pursuits. I mean, really, the old cars are not their as lawn decorations. They are repaired and sold.” He took another look behind; this time directly at Patricia; who shrugged in acknowledgement. He continued; “I propose that Propicio not bog officers down pursuing the business inventories of the people. I further request that any allusions to junk on properties be stricken from the record.”
Smiling Vincent said; “Any arguments to the contrary?”
Seeing no clamor to speak, he said: “Meeting adjourned.”
On the way out Baseball Hat and Patricia had a mutual need to privately converse. The Sand Duners had no idea what to say.
They just hoped that the whole thing, whatever it was, was concluded.
A good night’s sleep did wonders for Jack. His memories had gone back where they came from and his only thoughts were of the
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big dog sleeping next to him, the warmth, and the light which was working its way through the room. “Yesterday” was just something for some morose star to believe in and moan about. He got out from under the blankets, drank some coffee, did the obligatories, and went back for Justice, wanting an accompanied walk. The German Shepherd showed little inclination to move.
After Jack gently coaxed him through the removal of his blankets and pulling on his paws, Justice decided to be accommodating; though his eyes said; “What the hell are you so excited about?”
They went out the front door and hadn’t gone more than fifty feet when Yesterday showed up with little Andy and big Charlene in tow. Apparently, Justice’ day wasn’t made upon their sighting as he remained alongside Jack. Maybe he sensed something, but didn’t say what it was.
When they were ten feet apart Jack chirped; “Hey, Beth.
It’s been a while. How and where have you been?”
She rolled her eyes and in a desultory tone said; “How?
Fine until now. Where? Here and there. Trying to find a private spot.” Andy showed his teeth and directed a “grrrr” in Justice’
direction.
In a socially acceptable, bogus outward display of what Jack wished to appear as undaunted, Jack replied; “Still a fan of the Cher sense of humor, I see. Me too. So glad you asked.
I’ve been spending a lot of time with a new book. It’s a
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complete change for me. I got very tired of doing a masked version of stuff I’ve already done.”
“I guess the last one didn’t sell.”
“What a cynical little girl. ............ Woman, sorry. The last one just came out a week ago. They take a while to get going. You know. Buzz and Salon reviews. All that crap. For whatever its worth, the internet reviewers chime in later. They can’t possibly risk losing some of their three hundred followers by going on record about something until those at the zenith make it safe by telling them what to say. No surprises. Kind of like everything else.”
“So, don’t tell me. You’ve temporarily abandoned the world of bitter reality and parked your car on Fairy Tale Street.”
Jack forced a chuckle and said; “Surely, my astute and beautiful lady chooses to focus on Patrick and George, while ignoring her knowledge of Godard’s teaching, in deference to an amusing flash.”
Justice made a sound similar to that made by an indoor cat which spies another roaming outside. He subsequently blew a very wet fart, which made a deposit on the last of the season’s snow; magically melting it like the Wicked Witch of the West.
Jack moved a bit quicker than usual and continued; “’The truth is told in fiction and fiction in truth.’ On lesser notes others have said; ‘Tell seriousness in humor and humor in
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seriousness,’ ‘Disturb the comfortable and comfort the disturbed,’ ...................”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m beginning to think that you supplement your writing income by teaching remedial English.”
“Ahem, ahem, ahem. That’s just so banal. It’s what they all do. With joviality on the wane I am compelled to resort to first level subterfuge, played in straight face. I’ve recently become intrigued with mythology. Try this blend. We’re all in Pandora’s Box, including the resident demons. Pandora has learned how to open it. When she does we all fly out. The demons go toward the sun with abandon and come to reside there. We humans cavort in a space outside the box but below the demons, which we come to call ‘Harmony.’ There’s a dividing line no one can see.
Reckless, intemperate, and with a spirit of adventure Iggy flies directly at the sun, and is consequently torn apart by the demons.”
Beth was nonplussed and said; “Maybe suitable for children.
You’ll have to pay an illustrator.”
Jack audibly sighed, and followed that with; “Is something wrong today?”
“I already told you that I was looking for a private spot.
Get the hint, Henry?” She, Andy and Charlene briskly walked toward Propicio Road; while Jack and Justice followed the path to the river.
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It was such a warm, beautiful morning that Jack found Beth’s backbiting comments comical. Unheard by Beth, Jack mumbled; “Thank you. Maybe now I can have my home to myself.”
Justice woofed twice, though not in complete agreement. He was trying to say; “Ourselves.”
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#17- Drinkin’, Superficially Thinkin’
It was eight AM. The bugle time was played with the untalented, militaristic redundancy of the incorrectly set, electronic wake up alarm at the Lawson residence. The sun-teased, morning air was shattered by what could reach Carnegie Hall, only after everything else was buried. Richard III was, as usual up earlier in a yet-to-be successful attempt to hear the quiet. For a short moment he broke his gaze from the programmable contraptions which had overtaken the kitchen and looked through the cat pawed marked window. “Must have been some night birds around ........ more likely bats,” he smirked as he shifted his not-yet-completely-inconsequential carcass to high chair left. The view of the surrounding dirt piles did not aesthetically improve the quality of matters at all; only the quantity of eyesores. Apparently the lumps were competent in the art of illusion; as they had a nasty habit of seeming larger with every passing day.
“If only I had not taken ‘the deal of a lifetime’ and sold off the land I’d be seeing well-tilled, winter traces of the fall harvest; eight foot corn stalks working their way into the
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ground, preparing for the next season. Instead there are barren piles of dirt; begging to be flattened by the backhoe’s chilly apathy.” No such luck. The building boom had ended, just after the builder dragged down and piled on the field. Its demise served as a contrast to the hidden, wrinkled and cold pieces of paper in the garage safe, for which it was sold. The documents were now museum worthy remnants of booming America.
The gray sky was either an instinctive choice of color change or it was due to the invasion of one big, texture-less cloud. It had its advantages. Though it was difficult to generate any kind of excitement while looking up, the mass kept the heat in overnight. While usually at this time of year the overnight lows dipped to the middle teens, this year had not yet produced anything colder than the refrigerator’s main compartment. Sunny days provided the heat and evening clouds held it in. Rick went to the window to more closely eyeball the devastation. The ignored overhead light backlit him and he saw a reflection of something that looked a bit like himself.
“Damn artificial light,” he thought as he flipped the switch off. The window commenced operating like a window and Rick clearly saw the mounds of dirt and the heavily tracked land; the footprints of the dirty sallow backhoes departed with the housing crash. He remembered the days when his father cleared out paths through the tanning cornstalks just before
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Halloween. The family put a sign on the road and despite doubts, the moms and dads brought their kids to walk and more often run through the maze. Rick would play and run with the other kids all day long. The stalks were over their heads and they’d bump into each other when they turned corners and laughed as they continued on their journey into the hidden depths.
It proved to be so popular that it became a Propicio tradition. Every year the sign would go out and the kids would come, laughing as they thought they were on their way to an unknown adventure; and they were. One time, little Michael Wingstop upset everyone when he didn’t come out as dusk approached. Everyone was worried that something might have happened to him. But, no, he was fine. He had just gotten off the paths, and ventured a bit into the stalks themselves to get a better glimpse of the rabbit family which peeped out of their burrow at him. Richard thought; “Now all that is gone and it will never come back. Just because I got lazy and wanted some lousy paper.
I’d love to go back. But, that’s not allowed. Maybe in my head ................ Renders possible institutionalization. No good. Have to deal with the NOW. Have to? What if I don’t and just not tell anyone? A twist on a Clintonism. Ah, they’d soon figure it out and have me checked for Alzheimer’s. ..........
The experts wouldn’t find any evidence of that. Or would they?
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They like those automatic credits from drug dispensation. An ecclesiastical dispensation and a tithe. Terrestrial lobotomy.
An unwanted temporal part with little practical value, anyway.
Ha ha ha.”
In the morning breeze the spaced out, ornamental, un-covered, poplar limbs attempted to sing a song not yet put on vinyl or CD by Columbia. The valiant attempt was a blessing. Its artistic fruition needed a partner.
Rick thought; “Suitable for some New Age shit. They can dub in the faux exultant, studio tape-generic bells. Not a chance at balls.” He laughed at and enjoyed his “joke” and the lack of his face in the kitchen window. He knew that that was where the hidden reflection was most warm and comfortable; an ecstatic shut-off; erasing pain and doubt. He was positive that was how it once was, until the two-decade-schooled devils created the concept of false memory.
If the “brains” knew how to remove the bad memory storage units, they might be worthy of some attention. Yet, to a certain extent, good or bad is determined by future events and thoughts.
Prediction of what will come is a high bar to set for one in school only twenty years. Their unwarranted arrogance is annoying on a good day and meritorious of destruction on one bad. They are easily outdone by burgundy or sangria in one season. Not too impressive.
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I don’t presume to judge. Conveniently, perhaps. I’ve been worse. The land where the children once laughed and played is gone forever. My doing alone. Alone. Alone with the stock certificates. My sorrow has no relevance to those kids who now exist only in my mind. False memory is now welcomed. Maybe a burgundy flood will make it all right.
Stephanie softly, yet detectably entered the kitchen, eyes still bleary from a ten hour respite under warm blankets. Before retiring she had turned the thermostat up a few notches. Hope?
Dream? What else could it be? The result was another stuffy headache. Her weathered, light green robe was carelessly tied at the waist, a tad open; perhaps unconsciously, or more likely uncaringly, revealing the nipple of her right breast.
She mouthed an inadequate attempt at “Good morning;” the
“good” part indecipherable, hidden and unintentional in that lack of effort. She went to the coffee pot and poured. She took a sip from her mustard colored, “TEACHERS DO IT WITH CLASS,”
gift mug.
Wary of being officially put on notice of the advent of a
“good” day, Rick verbally returned the muffled entreaty with a mellifluous groan, after the fact hoping it was not heard as some sort of disparagement.
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However Stephanie’s heart may have clanged, her chosen outward demeanor was that of a wary, but antler-less deer. “Up long?” she inquired with no detectable interest.
Richard III was a bit thrown by an opening devoid of a stock market report. He considered the possibility of Stephanie’s utilization of a Bobby Fisher type of crazy ploy.
The co-dependency attached to the word “long” gave him pause, pragmatically overcome through his recognition of his nerve induced, likely disproportionate attention to correctness at the expense of geniality. Much consternation generated in the coming re-warming hinted at from across the room; a logically induced likely oxymoron; at best only worthy of one of the three stinkers discarded in a five card draw hand. “Up” seemed too complicated to even consider in its myriad of possible ramifications; at one level recalling a Richard Pryor comedy titled; “Which Way is Up?” and at a presumed other level a divergence to wishful thinking. He realized that he was fucked up, pitifully with coffee the only potential, lame excuse this time. He attempted a response, with some luck, indicative of understanding from both spectral extremes. He mistakenly said;
“Much longer than you.” Intended to be cautious and conciliatory, Richard III heard the sound as being perceived as contentious. Not wanting that he nervously improvised; “Lost track. Just waiting for you, babe.” Richard III immediately
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glimpsed the possible interpretation as a spin doctor might, and depending on benefactors certainly would. He made infinitesimal shrugs and smiles while looking at her, trying to see her eyes.
Stephanie’s weary head still felt that she could best use a removal or at least an incapable abstraction of the weight imposing itself at the very top of her torso. She’d have gladly traded the encumbrance residing above for any possible tiresomeness which chose to take position below; however that option seemed nowhere in sight; her black coffee in desperate need of microwave services. She pushed the appropriate buttons, tabs, and plastic strips with no regard for precise parlance. As the thingy hummed she looked through the stained window observing the light’s seasonally indirect attempt to illuminate the plundered and abandoned field surrounding. “It was Richard’s doing,” she thought as she stifled a scream, which coerced and simultaneously constrained everything in her. Categorically not wanting to be possibly construed as aloof; yet with an uncontrollable need to communicate her feelings, in her drowsy perspective, Stephanie reluctantly adjusted her night clothes to an old Sinclair’s “Babbit,” an appropriately bourgeois standard of correctly preposterous, but advised necessary decorum. In the crisis dictated by the duplicity of an erratic in kindness and cruel in practice sun; she knew she could always count on the predictability of the artificial, microwaved warmth of the
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thick, mass-manufactured, yellow cup holding her coffee. The automated, programmable, droning buzz almost soothed her in the otherwise silence. “Someone else, a friend, is here, finally, I know.......... she thought in a systematically necessary denial and mockery of demonstrated reality, quickly deferring to the socially acceptable, witty one-liners of the sophisticated; an effort in the negative; to appear not innocent; the systematically credentialed resplendent with their egocentric prognostications and calculations of full understanding,
‘coincidentally” remunerative, opting for the hell of a logic and as worshipped by those badly hurt, yet to be proven as anything more than a visually provocative, self-serving bluff from the purveyors of hard headed lies. Stephanie, in the space of a second of reality and ensconced in their always effective, yet absurd imposition of a western concept of imprisoning
“science” removed the doctored cup from the GE, white affordable, center of kitchen, easy convenience. Stephanie had heard the rude beeps, not recognizing them as such, pressed the correct button, knob, fastener, switch, whatever worked; and now, once again, held her cup. It’s warm and temporarily consoling; better than most. ............... Solace; epiphany; a wish; more likely just a happy dream; awakening a curse; a temporary, plasticized, un-recognized deference to the judgment of hell. Yet, to a shy observer; frightened, removed and
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enthralled with her innocently nuanced, brave approach no resistance is possible; save that of those severely sick and hurt; in sad recognition that we all fit the definition.
Stephanie had no easy, American defined, cheer with which to couch her experience. “Yay, yay, go all the way” was a once disdainfully recalled memory of the disdained high school cheerleaders of her time; maybe appropriate in their good will at the secondary football game; but not understood in the banalities of their “rah, rahs.” Despite true lies to the contrary, a stupid denial or more likely ignorant and innocent, embarrassing word of the past, best forgotten, in its exuberance, she is now desperate for that which has been long gone. Proms. Nervous and scared. The in-crowd which never sees you, maybe an improvement over those who overtly laugh. “He doesn’t only want to hold your books and walk you home. That’s OK and welcomed, but ...... but ... but ....... but ...... but
...... but, it’s all right, but can’t there be more. It was so close, a form of torture. An un-constrainable wish to forever hold the one, and only one she needed and loved. A lifelong belief rendered a stupid dream only. Her hurt and inability to understand that which seems now so far from her perceptions of the beginning. It doesn’t make any sense. You’ve seen the horrible ugliness of me at my worst, and I, you at yours, pointed it out, to which was the hurt and sincere desire of a
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killing dagger; so hurt, my proudest moment is that when you laughed at me and thereby momentarily one self-flatteringly with you; an Eden most bragging; in an unsuccessful, retarded effort to touch. And this thing put us here. We, I want, out there, in an effort to so much help to easily make it wonderful, as it was intended to be, to escape the Tower of Babel and the easily ignitable fire; deemed, in its construction with rhinestones, the height of brilliance by the deniers with the NY Times writers at their piece evocative submissions to the editor in compliance.”
Weird morning. Just got up. Head hurts more the more I try to think. Best to stop the delusions and inferred permutations.
This thought process must have been lengthy and as taught by slickly irrelevant as the main-stream performances purporting nightly, news allowed by Murdoch, in a lucrative, though quiet Salinger-typed redundant despondency dismissed as a gullible minority; effectively handled decades prior when the last of the reported, “confirmable” horrors of the yet unprovable, non-people of 2016 in the US sorts are still incorrectly considered the epitome of abomination within the idea of outdated patriotism; kind of Renoir 1930’s stupid; un-recalled or irrelevant. A definite infliction, but no competition for a beached holy grail. With the odds way against me, I hope that waverings are not only a punished impediment to those merely
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condemned to feel. Thoughts, sadly, no matter how well of intention, never magnify or touch.
Stephanie, in her drowsed radiance, felt unduly deficient, needed a friend and responded with a now clichéd, declaration of love from another time which said; “Only the beginning,” her suppressed prelude to the memory of something which simultaneously feels desirable and plodding.
Richard was smitten, perplexed and encouraged by her seeming placidity and “cheer,” unaware of the hidden turbulence below. He ventured a tenuous; “Looks like it’s gonna be another warm one.”
Stephanie first considered the possibility of facetiousness, secondly the possible innuendo, and third, the likelihood of banality. Innocuous entrée is a not a prospect after having experienced the decade deluge. She sharply countered; “Can I ever get this place to myself!” immediately realizing that what she really wanted was company.
Richard responded with; “I could say the same thing!”
immediately realizing that his combative retort negated his momentary wish for a pleasant morning.
Stephanie sighed and for a second reflected on how easy it is to destroy what is truly desired. In a desultory manner she intoned; “Sorry; I just need a little space this morning. Okay?”
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Richard appreciated the new sound, but also is cognizant that the relative pleasantry has the same effect as a flat out shriek of; “Get out of my face.” Duplicitous tactics masked with pleasantries is a game which has been perfected over the prior half century. Done well, any refutation gets bogged down in the placement of the impossible irrefutable burden of proof on the fool. He was tired and bored at the prospect of spending another day trapped in a Machiavelli by way of Kafka descent into hell.
He said a conciliatory “Okay,” hoping it was not read as a possible surreptitious appeal to the calculable benefit bestowed on the “good” guy. He added; “I’ll go for a long walk. I just have to dress for it;” his envisioned walk directly to a stool at the Propicio Bar and Grill, making no use of the grill aspect.
As eyes-on-the-floor-Richard III proceeded back to his bedroom, Stephanie was un-focused. Her eyes darted back and forth from her kind as vague; cruel as fading, tongue-tied echo in the kitchen window to the corpus of Richard III’s reluctant departure. She yearned to be able to come up with the right words; shackled in the most severe point of view; hampered and gently distracted in her own. Her false memory of Kurt Cobain came to mind; “Smells Like Teen Spirit;” hello. She sipped her now lukewarm coffee and looked through the window, in vain,
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trying to avoid the inadequately displayed, yet persistent reflection in the bullet glass.
Richard III is drawn to the comfort of his well-worn, gentleman farmer jeans and his turning-up-at-the-pocket-edges, denim work shirt, but is deferential to his perceived view of the tastes and tendencies of those more current. He donned his lightweight, mall acquired attire. It was once a “gift” from his son who thought that Dad should at least appear to be a part of the new, relevant world. Richard III found that to be practical advice; as he had discovered that when he stumbled home drunk in his stone-washed, denim antiquated duds, he inordinately attracted the attention of quota-seeking cops, looking for a defenseless target. His former mayoral credentials spared him any trip to county jail and even arrest, ticketing, or whatever the unbridled “Princes of Propicio” had at their commanding disposal today. He knew the game, but found it personally repugnant to be compelled to play it with those perfunctory kissers of the not so grand ass. The Hilly’s polyester imports in derivative and un-definable, changing with each wash, colors; coupled with the imported material’s, delicate deference to the slightest of winds, relieved Richard III of the distaste of playing with those on another wave length. He grinned, first derisive of his own cowardice, then personally complimentary at
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his adaptive capabilities; recalling that some forgotten, radical, scientist of whatever ilk, stated that mankind’s survival was primarily a function of its easy acclimation to adaptation, that skill being beyond that of any other species.
He somewhat corrected himself, as he thought that his un-credentialed foray into the world of theory contradicted his simple need to get by. Worse, his presumptuous expeditions into personally-wished enlightenment resulted in years of failure and academically sanctioned excuses. ................... All this shit to put on a pair of fucking, Hilly pants; a likely definition of mental illness or a kind view of inadequacy.
He sat at the edge of the double bed; sadly, no longer able to perceive the scents long gone, doubting his memory, and with a bit of better-not-thought-of reluctance conformed to Hilly and its currency, as opposed to their aficionados waiting in the packed parking lot.
He thought; “I don’t understand. Never will. Just let me get my proper fucking pants on.” He was rewarded in his unconscious prayer and his left leg went easily in as he mercifully lost all other thought. The process seemed to be much too rushed. The end insisted in a manner deceptively confident, yet with the audacity to pretend to be just another ineffective opponent, trying to convince him of the relevance, inevitability and wisdom of its desolation. Misery loves company. He
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desperately wished to stay; as he recalled staring into her eyes so beautifully revealing a seemingly welcomed surprise; or long forgotten expectation. To Richard III, an opportunity to be condescendingly maudlin or revelatory within the constraints of a chosen, Hilly’s right leg was right in his hands.
Richard’s left leg, now well ensconced in the fashion of the day, he put in his right. The adjustment seemed so effortless that he got up and walked; overconfidently ready for what was to come. The savage duplicity used its only and overused asset; an ability to derive and thwart the currently-seen-as, naïve, stupid wish from times gone. It hurt, Richard accustomed to fancying himself one who might overcome, but the youngster’s views were so ........... un-characterizable for him, yet so inexcusably sad. He sometimes thought that he understood and loved them for not only that. They needed help; as did he; but no one has an inkling as to where that help might be. His right leg’s comfort told him that it was time to get up and get on with the apologizing at best, embryonically to be determined, lost in an irrefutably “factual” long day; its most convincing when it demonstrated the inevitability of outcome, no matter the path.
Richard III walked through the kitchen on his way out. He saw Stephanie’s head involuntarily twitch at the sound of his footsteps, her concentration on the window suddenly broken. He
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sighed and said; “On my way out, girl. Be gone a while. All yours.”
She was compelled to be polite; at the same time intending to not sound discouraging. Her voice faux lilted; “Taking the car, honey?”
Rather than seeing her attempt at spur-of-the-moment civility, he took the question as a gambit which really asked;
“Are you going to drink like a fish?” as he standardly walked when he intended to get loaded, to avoid any DUI complications.
He considered making a sarcastic reply, but settled on; “No. Its warm out and the fresh air will do me good.”
She thought that he was making an inadequate attempt at glossing over his intended indulgence. However, rather than comment on it, she sought to avoid potential conflict as she felt a bit guilty over having chased him out. She said; “See ya later,” and heard the front door open and close.
The half mile to the Propicio Bar and Grill was as usual, eerily quiet at the outset, though he seemed to be noticing it at full strength for the first time. His Roderick Usher degree of awareness was un-settling in its suggestion of a less than satisfactory outcome. “Ah, just the depressed mindset of an alcoholic writer on death’s door; a blue version of the story; with its attendant market share;” he thought as he stifled a chuckle observable only to the hidden cameras. The un-attended
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brown mounds in the barren field which he exchanged for paper silently and stoically watched. After the damage was done and the construction crews departed in the economic downturn they seemed to have taken up permanent residence. The mirage of a few tiny green shoots got Rick’s attention. When he stared he saw only abandoned and disheveled brunettes; but when he concentrated on his own path, the corner of his eye was inundated with the natural, immature, emerald progressions.
“Very strange,” he thought. “When I overtly look they hide. And when I don’t appear to pay any notice they make themselves known. Must be passive-aggressive, couch potatoes. ....... Ah, it’s more likely my misunderstanding. Despite the warmth, the irrefutable fact is that it is still winter. ..............
Wishful thinking, no doubt.” Rick, of undesired requisite, adopted a Salinger and focused on the extensions of his feet; the dirt road flattened by vehicles; easy to traverse in the ruts; but, challenging at the bounding edges and center.
With furtive glances he pretended to ignore the land to his side thinking he caught some sight of the shy, wild greenery’s hidden cheek. Disinterested in the seemingly demonstrated bore of a continuation of pre-pubescent games, he paid lip service to the developing phantoms, muttering a guttural, humming tune derivative of Tom Waits, at his most hopeful; an oxymoron to the majority. Rick’s mental machinations provided almost sufficient
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diversions which enabled him to reach the main thoroughfare; Propicio Road.
He got to the two-way-single-laned-blacktopped height of local activity while it was still rush hour. Glazed faces sat in the pilots’ seats and endured the bumper to bumper onslaught.
Thirty-five mile per hour tedium belched gray pollution into the temperate morning air and Rick’s lungs. He appreciated not having to attempt to cross the busy thoroughfare, recalling the long gone days when it was populated by infrequent tractors and horses. The gnashing tires pulverized the well-defined paths into and out of town in a subtle show of confident authority over their black domain, crumbling at its edges. At the push of a button, windows slid open; some occupants thirsting for the fresh air their engines had already fouled. He picked up his leisurely pace and, with some difficulty walked on the patches of rubbish marred, sunburned grass between the commercial establishments and the plodding armies of the latest morning.
Without sidewalks the differentiation between public and private byways blurred. A quick succession of honks bore no resemblance to that of the former, seasonally resident, winged cranes; escapees to other Southwestern fields not yet suburbanized.
Startled, Rick twitched and looked behind him hoping that none of the rolling fog machines had gone off track. He needed a fix and the Propicio Bar and Grill loomed just ahead.
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His pace increased building up of a forehead sweat. He thought; “Early heat inhibits the required social skills in boom town; heat welcomed; boom rejected.” The streaked, purple entrance door acted, as best the handyman interpretation of age induced integrity afforded; a cutesy invitation to the marginally pre-pubescent and an ingratiation to the out-of-date.
With an adaptively conditioned sense of relief, his shoulder swayed open the hinged portal. Rick’s indispensable view of the luxuriant interior sanctuary served to relax his mind; his moist forehead still requiring refrigerating armor. The sought bastion was evocative of a degraded past performing as a false promise of a future; insistent on having its cake and to eat it too; much as forgotten Empire Americana subsequent to Duncan Phyfe; done in one acre “ranchettes.” Rick’s attempt at escapist diversion were only hindered by his predatory, un-wanted thoughts of a mis-remembered past and a future which seemed forged on a criminal printing press. Bottom line, Rick felt that any attempts at capitalizing on the self-aggrandized, supposedly impending and inexpensive duplication was preferential to the rot, imposed by mere phase; or perhaps more accurately a complete dismissal of that which has been superseded by that which has “obviously progressed.” “Progress” was too old a story to make another attempt at regurgitation in chunks. It was less laughable to go with the flow of the managed and depleted river
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to the damned north. Beaver obstacles were natural and a necessity for their survival, but the barricades engineered by geeks in command of steel, purposely and with cruelty, complicated things and inevitably did their damage.
Richard III attempted to hold the door open, desirous of a gentle finality. The un-explainable subtlety was at DFW level, just another post or post-post-modern frigid, emotionless game.
He entered as the temporarily piqued returned to the flavorless solace of their otherwise, clear, glass containers. As best as he could, which was relentlessly propelled by a desire to eternally entangle the merciless joke; scientifically postulated to the bewilderment of any detractors; on some “modern”
mechanism shutting behind him as if there was a hope of rendering mute its closure, the purple door finally closed without a thud. The fatigued, disillusioned, thereby popularly seen as so sophisticated eyes of the early patrons looked up in a conceivable display of the faith they had sought but not found, despite all the allowances made in desperation to the next, yet to-be-discovered and religiously hailed, spiritually deficient, yet worldly compelling replay of “Elmer Gantry.”
This was not a happy series of thoughts for the man who once wanted to live in the simplicity of “Rick.” The controlled, measured solace was un-definable to him; hawks or under-flipped as opposed to under-handed seals, previously heard and
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ultimately rejected; in stupid flaunt of a deprived consciousness or a wished ten black inches; the latter so transitory; the source appropriated from the real spoken; interpreted by the intelligent watchers as compelling to the NY
Times as another failure and accepted, but inarguable derision.
After the door firmly met its prescribed place there was a discomforting silence. The front-of-the-room tap dwellers retreated into their succor, some still capable of a concentrated, early-pube passion; at a decades remembrance of a smile, pretending time was still.
Richard III, with a deference to possible hubris, easily concluded that all of his soft meanderings into a world he may have imagined rather than have taken part in was one he experienced mentally and maybe, in a self-congratulatory, hoping to avoid derision and inadequacy taunts; self-misunderstood; error upon error. He knows no answers and seeks a place where it would just stop hurting.
He enters and to the left is a confident, bearded, with the smallest showings of gray at the edges, man who, without regard to old time civility or modern day money flaunts his Dali-like dexterity, popularly playing into the polar stagnation of 2016.
He pays no bar tab and flips his old coin in the corner. He surreptitiously owns the fucking place and can do whatever the hell he wants; with total disregard for proprieties; social or
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legal. He seeks not whatsoever to engage you. From an eternity of repetition he knows that you, in desperate moments, will seek him. His coin has been through all the slots, plots and polyglots, and is still here. Another executor to the bleakest of houses, Dickensian, economically proficient, paltry estate; an irrefutable and convincing logic; except you know that, despite his physical frailties, Tiny Tim wants something more to the detriment of those who bargain.
The relative tranquility of the interior’s un-recognized, somnambulatory attempts to shuffle and perfunctorily, once again execute the commercial necessities on the one hand and the convivial superiority, chic and aloof deemed necessary on the other, made Richard III’s desire for serenity segue into the position of yet another biased and guilty aspirant of impending peace. His pre-collective-coarse-water-hole-escape to the surface, cosmetician-interior-designed, replete with spiffy, gray, easily movable, six foot partitions, for the benefit of those in need of “special” treatment-for-a-fee, seemed to Rick to be currently demi-monde in its self-aggrandizing insinuations and falsely far-reaching, un-witting deference to ancient classicism; and prone to the safety of the half century old, Warhol duplication and a century of anti-Freudian, Jungian archetypes; un-provable to the scientifically stalled, painfully
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obvious to the fully conscious occupants of this room; if yet any had not yet succeeded in washing the joke away.
Rick was still in possession of a level-headedness capable of traversing the given road, desecrated in part and cost-effectively, roughly and nearly efficiently, un-breathable in the exhaust of the oil consuming populace of neoteric and swelling Propicio. He had back-burnered any notion of anything more relevant than the neon assault of night-time, garish, blinking in its defect, un-natural color in their “welcoming”
invitations to “bar and grill.” In the dark of night they advertised a flippant and functional, fractional, marginalized, down-to-earth acquiescence in a flashing, possibly fuse-deficient, seductive come-on; a clouded, perhaps mercifully so, the least averse to the acceptance of the ultimate reason’s best proffered definition as that of Sartre’s innocent expectation of a benign neglect as the lowest of common denominators. No wonder Simone loved him.
Richard III was expecting to be relieved to enter the twilight of the “Propicio Bar and Grill’s” knowing, veiled with shutters perennially closed to any possible light, fortified with tin casements establishment; and he accommodatingly and desperately was. The inordinately vociferous, conceited and heavy door had shut behind him. He was finally in.
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The malodorous cacophony of the most main, currently construed as the most germane of streets, formerly and innocently vainglorious, now sarcastically, in the most
“exalted” of privileged toddy time profundities referred to as an archaic, presumably un-informed and gauche play at the absurd; as if in their most Narcissistic of feverish and hallucinatory of immature hopes, their misunderstood DFW
dalliances to the regaled, not understood, irrelevances were perceived as “Calle de Elysgar a un Sitiuo,” now bedecked with the less-than-convincing, advertisement of government imposed tin plated and hard-to-miss Propicio Road signs all over the mass thoroughfare; perhaps a belated and more studied “1984”
like deference to a struggling and youthful strain for more than a mere existence in the previously defined as sad, logic-inevitable nothing not obliged by the rulers; to the
“coincidence” of their cruelest of interests; 1969 “Village Voice,” articulated at the whim of the wishes for the financial remuneration of Mailer’s search for consequence with the black, laughing, light heavy. Instead, it was just another field of massacre; an un-respecting diversion into what Rick has commonly seen as that which could exist only in the worst of dreams.
Blindness is an obscure benefactress who has already been there and promises to be his caring future; though sometimes she lies.
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He had remembrances of the former cutting edge, now restricted to absurdities defined by the defunct Europeans; Hardy, indecipherable Joyce, to the hilarious point of the non-point of Beckett; updates inconsequential, invariably a course of irrelevant “social” discussion. Collette and Cherie revel at the margins and often in between. Warmth? Love? Redemption? Ask them. They are the ones who feel it. Alas, they are not standard. Like soldiers, they choose to risk being bravely hurt in their fanciful visions, knowing that they will soon be subjected to the inevitability of the hawk’s accepted brand of recrimination. Is this any way to spend the long day’s journey?
“No, ....... no,” they say in unison. “It cannot still be.” No, backspace to infinity; please stop the cries of Eminem.
The trifling door disturbance seems to be a contradictory impropriety in the early, shockingly hot morning. Now, securely sequestered amongst the raconteurs of new Propicio, Richard III surveyed the place in search of a private seat. He had options.
His side glances indicated that the coin flipper actually grinned as he got another head. In a foolishly optimistic moment, Rick thought it possible that the flipper wasn’t very bright. Though he took initial solace in that possibility, he quickly abandoned that thought, seeing it as much more likely that the flipper continually rejoiced in predictable perversity.
The closer scrutiny dismissed that damaged and faulty initial
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view as a testimony to wishful thinking. Richard kept the thought to himself for a few good reasons. On a practical level he had no audience and thought it wise not to be seen talking to himself. On a philosophical level his immediately retrievable thoughts seemed anathema to the very popular American slogans of
“Hope springs eternal,” “Have a nice day,” “Keep your sunny side up” and a host of other bumper-sticker-popularities available at Wal-Mart at a supposed discount due to Chinese printing.
Little Eva’s “Locomotion,” had long ago been re-named and re-worded and considered an antecedent to its current Spanish derivation of Calle Ha Ido; once a paper street; now in the center of town. If that was not sufficiently detrimental, it was replaced by the bar-room-stereo-system’s incongruously adjusted-to-damn-near-mute, homogenized mix of Coltrane’s wordless version of “My Favorite Things;” the perception available only to the jazz aficionados. In the moment the traveler was again the “Rick” of antiquity, oblivious to the commonalities of the reality defined by authorities, easily-deferred-to-one-line
“rationalities” acquiesced to by those used to taking the punches. He opened his coat and took his choice of seats at the bar; a wobbling, precariously high stool. Though it wasn’t the least bit comforting, through his long experience, he saw that that the unstable high ground was the best offer imminently available.
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Behind the counter, Mary’s tired eyes broke from the comfort of her rag moist, systematized-to-appear-busy counter wipes and sighed when she saw Richard take one of the traditional paying patron’s positions, joining the sparse early morning “crowd” on one of the conventional concoctions of faux wood. Her savored and fading recollections of something less predictable and humdrum were abandoned with the rag she left in the steel sink. She has gone on automatic pilot. She wiped away the unruly bangs, did her best to imitate a smile and said;
“Double Jack?”
Rick was immediately again converted to Richard III. He was fortified by his realization that he was paying the tab and was again in charge of the minutiae. He grinned, similar to the sight he had of the coin flipper and droned; “As usual,”
immediately feeling some sense of indefinable guilt and consequent embarrassment. His diversionary attempt was to say the banal; “Warm outside today, isn’t it?”
Mary couldn’t help but awkwardly render a smile as she mixed the drink. She mumbled; “Is it? I’ve been here since well before sunrise.” The audio system abruptly changed its repertoire to something that sought to resemble Billie Holiday’s
“Don’t Worry ‘Bout Me;” this “artist” making the effort in braille.
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Rick thought he understood the old game; feel sorry for little me and little me leaves a big tip. No one had yet found a way to break through the line without being seen as the “bad guy.” And hell, maybe it is true this time. He looked into the mirror above the bar and saw an aging Rick face above the multi-shaped bottles. Despite the obvious departure of youth, he also knew that this dim light would be most conducive to him. He diverted his eyes from himself and saw the four other grim night-hawks on stools. Through the mirror their eyes seemed to catch his, and he averted them, in a personal shyness, or maybe the modern, un-observed aspiration, not to appear rude and intrusive. He focussed on Mary’s upper thighs, well displayed, as she made the slightest of required efforts to bend over the sink.
Mary brought over the diversionary, well mixed, diluted milk of honey; the miniscule accretion a positive attribute which allowed her to pay her gas bill; warm water a necessity in the morning. Rick strived to get out of himself; or at least give the appearance that he had. As Mary sighed, adjusting the coasters designed for marketing purposes, thereby emblazoned with “Propicio Bar and Grill” in a calligraphy someone once must have sold as artful, she silently plunked the discolored water in front of him; and he said; “In case you didn’t know your uniform is stuck halfway up your behind. ...................
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More than all right with me. Just sayin’ in case you just got stuck in an accident.”
Mary adjusted her “outfit malfunction” with her left hand; her eyes steely and incongruent with the possible invitation solicited by her lower attire. She said; “Fucked up already?
Ever hear of Mr. Coffee?” She walked back to the stainless steel sink, turned on the cold water, and glanced at herself as she pretended trying to remove stains from clean glasses. Her old thoughts recurred; “After he has a few belts, he’ll be all right.”
Temporarily capable of enduring the social farce with all of its Twit induced, inconsequential tweets, Richard III or Rick, lowered his head and gurgled the preliminary glass contents. Partially through, his eyes elevated to see that Mary had moved elsewhere. That perception made him feel a need to suck at the glass in a clandestine effort to get her interest.
Her job required her to fill an empty glass. The Jack hit his head in waves. He was not sure of a tranquility dreamed; she afraid, necessarily sober, still alive, yet somewhat interested in making the slightest of commitments to another game playing loser. His relief-excitement-hilarity-passion-heart-soul-eyes widened more than he wanted. Previously disappointed, the third of the clan was only half surprised as that his attempted-to-be-
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conveyed thoughts were again taken as a bad word by her. He thought; “No, no. Not again. Please not again.”
Mary turned her back, choosing to face the more convivial others. Richard thought he understood another pop rejection, to the best of his knowledge, first articulated by the forgotten, un-rewarded Camus. For the briefest of moments, the illusion of her face boldly flashing in the morning sky provided Rick some compensation; hope; dreams; Eden; something long gone.
Abandoned in his precarious seat Rick took a long distasteful swig; then another to convince himself that he could stand it. It seemed another social obligation; the mock staunchness a requisite obliged in conveniently un-recognized, contorted face. Which deficiency is laughable? Extremely limited point of view? Singular surety? Rick didn’t care one way or the other, but Richard III brooded.
The contortion transformed into a manufactured derivation of a warm glow, which gave perfunctory heat like a partially malfunctioning baseboard system. He tried not to think that this would be the best he would feel all day. He remembered the opening lines from Lynrd Skynrd’s old song; “Whiskey bottle.
Brand new car. Oak tree in my way.”
After another less frantic swallow, the warmth seemed to have spread out all over his body and head, bringing the relaxed feeling that everything was absurdly funny. He stood from the
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stool, which he thought was only minimally useful, as all it supported was his butt. He thought it amusing that the one part of him which needed no support was the one that got it. He got a more comprehensive view of himself in the funhouse mirror.
His glittery leatherette, black belt was, of necessity, positioned below, and was seemingly supportive of his bloated belly. Bellies were admired and oft-self-palmed status symbols among the bulls of Old Propicio, possibly because a fat one inferred the luxury of not having had to spend much recent time in the fields. However, they were now relegated to the you-can-never-be-too-rich-or-too-thin culture of healthy lean and mean.
Rick felt incredibly out of style.
“Belly up to the bar boy,” was the new refrain. At this age Rick actually liked being thought of as a boy, perhaps reminiscent of when he and his cadres were called “good old boys.” He thought; “Okay. I’m going to fool the regulars today and not do my usual show. I’ll show them how this place used to be before suburbanization turned it into puce. But after downing his second double he still had no idea how to do that. He crossed his arms on the bar and rested his chin on them.
Creativity lacking he stared into the mirror and saw the furtive glances and smirks of the others, even Mary, the bar maid. She walked to him and said; “Need a nap or another double?”
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When he was rational, Rick was well aware that his stature had declined in all respects other than his belly. But after a few shots he usually regained his kingship. Right now he felt more like the court jester; a valued position when one is endeavoring to be comical. His eyes darted upward and his lungs filled with sufficient air to unleash a flood of venom and instead he coughed, hoping to retain his lungs. As Rick bowed his head and spread his legs in an effort to ensure that any matters brought up would hit the floor, he felt a hand patting him on the back. He glanced into the mirror to see Joshua Marshland at his side.
Simultaneously Josh and Mary said; “Are you all right?”
Rick said; “Do I look all right to you? ......... Shit!
That is the dumbest question anyone ever asked me. .......
Fucking shit!” He remembered he was in a “proper high class”
establishment and found that amusing; though he looked toward Mary intending to proffer some sort of apology and succeeded in coughing out something which sounded like a bullfrog saying;
“Ibrakuhemenhloop.”
Josh sat on the closest stool to Rick’s left, slapped his back one time and said; “Not to worry, partner. I’m here to fix you up. Mary, just don’t stand there. Get this man another drink. Can’t you see he’s dry? Me too; the usual.”
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Rick stared at his would-be benefactor for a second; then choked out; “I didn’t remember you having a mustache.”
Appearing sincere except for the cow eyes the thin man in the black and white checkered sweater uttered “Thanks would have done fine.” His facial expression quickly reverted to blank disinterested and he declared; “Do any thinking about what we spoke about last time?”
“Didn’t have to. You’re wrong.”
“Wrong about what?”
“That I need you.”
“Oh, wad some power, the giftie gie us.”
“What?”
“Nothing. ........ Okay. Okay. You don’t need me. But you OBVIOUSLY need something and I can help you get it.”
Mary brought their drinks and placed them on the Propicio Bar and Grill emblazoned coasters.
Rick said; “Thanks Mary. This is what I need.”
In a dismissive tone Josh mumbled; “Thank you.” Mary returned to the group at the other end of the bar.
Josh took a quick glance at his watch, clinked glasses, took a belt and declared; “Listen my friend. Got places to go and people to see. So, let me talk quickly.”
“Didn’t your Momma teach you any manners?”
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“Momma’s dead and the world has speeded up a lot since you last participated in it.”
Rick shrugged and made a half nod.
“Okay. I know that 10 years ago you were a well-liked mayor and gentleman farmer. I know you sold the farm, taking unregistered stock which is as of close yesterday worth roughly two-thirds of what it was at transaction date.”
Rick interrupted; “That’s none of your business. How can you be so sure?”
“Ever hear of computers and the information age? There are no more secrets. You want me to tell you your birthday, wife’s name, bank balance, value of your house, credit card numbers
..............”
Rick interrupted and said; “All right. All right. Damn things are an invasion of privacy. They ought to disallow
.......”
Josh interrupted and said; “They’re here to stay and they’re only going to expand. That’s the way it is, so deal with it or bitch irrelevantly.”
Rick knew the truth of that one all too well; his current irrelevance. He had been feeling it for some time, but, up until now thought, maybe wished that he was hiding it in drunken bravado. To see it so openly stated was embarrassing; but contrary to that also some form of liberating. Rick looked at
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Josh sideways and saw him agitatedly looking at his watch. For the first time he admitted to himself that he could use the help of this nervous little man, who he didn’t really like at all. He also knew that if he truly wanted to be Mayor again he would need the help and advice of this little man, or one of the many like him, and this one was right in front of his face. He wasn’t one hundred percent sure if he wanted to again be Mayor again; but concluded that it was preferable to be the harassed man-in-charge than be the drunken laughing stock of the Propicio Bar and Grill.
Josh interrupted his silent reverie saying; “Hey, hey; still here pop?”
“Vague response called for. Ever hear of a diode? Or can you merely detect on-off. They invented that only 142 years ago, hotshot.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about; other than that it’s not a no. So, before I leave let me lay out the simple facts of life for you. You’re at a severe disadvantage being Richard Lawson III everywhere you go. Nowadays people make heroes just to tear them down with the quick flip side. So, the trick is to provide only a moving target.”
Rick- Richard III was far from totally misunderstanding. He had been a politician. So he took a swig and made the semblance
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of a half shrug, meant to indicate; “Similar viewpoint. Tell me something I don’t know.”
Josh recognized that and continued; “Okay. Bottom line. The ten year garbage contract is up for renewal a few months after election. There will be more money kicking around than any of the local big-deals have made in the last three years. Seventy-two bucks per month per house; under $10 cost with illegal alien labor. Add it up. More profit per year than AmawayOnSteroids has made in twenty.”
Rick winced, showing only diodal interest with the spark at the short end.
Josh sighed heavily and said; “All right. Gotcha. Above money. Got a theatre production for ya, your name already on it.
Here’s step two. The current mayor; Pig something or other; isn’t a made man; only a fringe player, and can be easily taken out. The ‘good people’ of Propicio, under the banner head of some gardening society have already stirred up sufficient and growing discontent to dump him. They just need an alternative.
Elms on Calle de la Some Shit are messing up their gardens.” He couldn’t refrain from snorting some kind of amused or derisive nose maneuver, mercifully free of any out-of-hand, lasting sign.
Rick used the small break to take a gulp.
Josh deadpanned his continuation; “The ‘good’ gardening society, on their one acre plots, fancy themselves the
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descendants of a Propicio past rural heritage and see the ‘Elm people’, who have been here for generations ones who are taking away their birthright. Typical suburban takeover. Happens all the time. Ass backwards joke, I know. But, there’s the play.
They will elect someone who evokes a tradition they must be fully Xanexed out to see themselves a part of, who will be expected to kill the little that remains of Propicio’s true tradition, which they see as a weed to be sprayed. .......
Simple. This is where you come in. Tradition.”
“I’ve always been a straight shooter. The people know that.”
“Maybe the ones who were here ten years ago know that, if they haven’t yet gotten Alzheimer’s. Irrelevant; crooked is the way of the day. Look, it’s easy. I handle the campaign through the internet. You make a few; very few appearances. You point out your heritage and you say you want to bring back old Propicio and get rid of the elms on Calle de la Congelacion.”
“Even if I were willing to boldface lie that doesn’t even make any sense.”
“What world are you living in Ricky? Okay, okay. If you’ve got a problem with lying, then you say that you’ll do everything in your power to get rid of the elms. You don’t have to mention that you don’t have the power. And regarding sense; damn man.
1984 is 32 years past. You make them temporarily happy by
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telling them what they want to hear, win in a landslide, hand me the contract, and then either quit or give them the old song and dance and hang around.”
“.........................”
“I’m not one to make value judgements. Presidents get elected promising peace and then as quickly as they can find some excuse to fund the war machine and get their cut. But, if you need some ‘moral’ shit then consider this. You didn’t make the playing field. You’re just obliged to play on it as the rules have been handed to you. If you don’t run some crook will win and likely do more damage to Propicio than you could imagine. You’ve got only two choices. One is to again become Mayor, be a big man again, and do good things for the wonderful people of Propicio. Or you could continue to come here and be nothing more than a ridiculed barfly, get cirrhosis of the liver and the DT’s.”
“Can’t I do both? .............. Just kidding.”
“Glad you got your thinking cap on pops.” Josh squinted at his watch, stood, patted Rick on the back, and whispered; “Gotta git. More business. I got faith in you buddy. Pignatelli is ripe for the taking. There’s probably a few who can do it, but not as easy as you. I like to bet on sure things.”
He offered Rick his business card. When Rick hesitated before taking it, Josh pointed to the man at the door and added;
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“That man has been standing there flipping that goddam quarter since I don’t know when. How many consecutive head outcomes do you have to see to make the brilliant deduction that the coin is fixed?”
Richard III had been around long enough to have a good idea of Josh’s meaning. He audibly sighed and raised his eyebrows.
Josh said; “Ciao, baby. Call me. ............ Soon.” He raised his voice a few decibels and called out; “Hey, Mary. The tab’s on my friend, Mr. Mayor,” then hurried out the door, exchanging grim nods with the coin flipper.
Rick thought that a bit nervy and eyed Josh’s departure in the mirror. He called Mary over and said; “Have a drink with me.
I’d like to ask you a few things.”
She said; “The working girls aren’t here yet.”
He said; “I know, I know,” though he didn’t. He thought;
“Hooker within walking distance of my house. Jesus. Things sure have changed around here.” He said; “Gimme a refill and pour one for yourself.”
She did just that, though her vodka portion came from the vodka bottle which contained water.
“Mary, how well do you know Josh?”
“Not at all.”
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“Oh, okay. I understand. This is just between us.” He pulled two twenties from his wallet and put them on the bar, keeping one finger on them. He asked; “All right?”
“Yeah, all right. ....... I wish I knew somebody named Josh.”
“................ Umnnn. That guy who just left and told you the tab’s on me.”
“Oh, you mean Boyle?”
“I’m not sure what I mean. That guy who just walked out is named Boyle?”
“That’s what he told me. He’s no youngster, so I didn’t check his ID.”
“What do you know about him?”
Mary gently tugged at the two twenties and Rick let them go. “Says he’s a patent attorney, but I think I know more about the law than he does. ............ I don’t think he likes girls.”
“Any friends?”
“Always comes alone.”
“Live around here?”
“Don’t know. .......... All I know is that he doesn’t stay long. Talks to me about being some big deal attorney with all the details until some guy walks in by himself. .......... Hit on ya?”
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“Hell no.”
“No big thing nowadays. ....... Then why do you care who he is?”
“He was talkin’ about some kind of business deal. Hey, I’m asking the questions here. How long has he been coming here?”
“Less than a month. ....... Kinda irregular; mostly around sunset though. ......... Switches around with his drinks.” Mary chuckled and Rick didn’t know why.
“Who does he talk to?”
“I told you. Guys who come in alone. I don’t know their names.”
“You’re not being much help about this Boyle.”
“If I knew more I’d tell ya.”
“Aaaah, thanks Mary. I deserve an extra, though. Who’s that guy flipping the coin?”
Mary put her arms on the bar, leaned toward him and whispered; “He owns the place. Thinks he’s real funny. Got two coins; one rigged for heads; the other for tails. Does a good slight of hand. He gets some bored drunks to bet and he always wins.”
“Always?”
“Scientific fact until the next discovery.”
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After three double Jacks Rick decided he needed to do some thinking in private. He briefly considered the Propicio Bar and Grill bathroom, but quickly determined that home was preferable; an olfactory thing.
He paid. When he walked by the coin man Rick derisively said; “I know your old game.”
Presenting a facial expression reflecting abject boredom, the coin man didn’t bother to look at Rick, preferring the shiny coin, but, in a low voice said; “Congratulations. Everybody else does too. But, it’s the only game in town. Scientific fact until the next discovery.”
Dumbfounded, Rick watched three more consecutive heads decorate the tiled floor. He half stumbled his way back the way he came. Rush hour traffic was over and all he felt was the stillness and all he heard was the blare of sunlight. The ancient golden boy was continuing its recent, early season penchant for full strength. Any cloud with an idea of participating in the blue thought twice, remained hidden, watched the glow and was content to have felt the heat for now; further sensing the experience of gigantic, imminent, celestial foreplay; with much more to come.
As Rick passed through the property which he and his family once owned he was startled by the sudden screeching arrival of two robins; ostensibly not operating by calendar and not paying
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attention to the computer aided weatherman. They landed and hopped around the dirt piles, looking for the worms which were not there; and through the efforts of the half-assed construction crew, may never be there again. Richard III got another glimpse of how his lazy, paper denominated, action or in-action had had its effects. The robins; always the first sign of spring and a source of joy from the time he was a little boy would no longer have any reason to come near him. The land was no longer anything which bore a semblance of the natural. It was dead.
The robins took to the air. Rick watched hoping they might circle back. Instead they disappeared behind the two storied, faux Southwestern styled houses to the north. No longer constructed of expensive adobe they were stick built to provide a bigger bang for the buck; and their exteriors were covered with stucco so no one could tell the difference ..........
unless they went inside. The robins sought elsewhere. This was especially disconcerting to him as he knew that the red breasted announcers of warmth and taste always flew in pairs and frequented the same places every year of their journeys. Of necessity, they had abandoned their instincts to find a suitable place. That was no longer Propicio.
He tried to shut off his thoughts, attributing them to inebriated flights of nonsense, in-explainable in sober moments.
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With head down he continued on the dirt path leading home; a one story adobe with a flat roof. The exterior tan stucco was now un-matchable. It got that way from years of sun bleaching. Any needed repairs now necessitated a total re-do or an eyesore. The only sound he heard was the dull hum of the cars on Propicio Road, which got fainter with each step.
In an effort not to annoy Stephanie with his early return, he went through the garage to the back entrance. When he gently opened the door he sighed heavily as it squealed against the brick step, making him cognizant that it was coming apart on the left side; the tongues no longer in the grooves. He pushed them back in place in order to be able to close the door; knowing that a more permanent repair would be required.
He removed his shoes and gingerly tip-toed through the house. He was relieved to see that Stephanie was back asleep in bed, her head buried in the pillow. He got to the living room containing his laptop and turned it on. He felt happy when he was welcomed. It was his first true greeting of the day. His joy was short lived when he saw that the news provided by his search engine was that of a female Palestinian suicide bomber on the Gaza Strip who had killed herself, eight Israelis and two American tourists. Israel had already fired rockets into Lebanon, taking out, among other things, two hospitals. An
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Israeli spokesperson emphatically stated; “That is where the radicals hide.”
Rick had a cheery thought; “This is old news. Nothing worse had happened. Same old shit.” He had heard that suicide bombers go to heaven or something like that and are given fifty virgins.
In previous cases where the suicide bomber was male, he wondered if there weren’t some devilish trickery involved. They did say virgins and strongly suggested eternity. Ah, perhaps the prizes were skilled in other arts. To take that in a different direction he imagined what it would be like to have fifty women asking you; “Like this?” “Is this what you want me to do?” or
“That thingy is going in there?” Might be okay for about a week and a half, but after that ....................
But now there was a new twist on things; a female bomber.
Would her virgins be male or female? ............. Or an assortment? And if any of her virgins were male, how could it be proven? And where could you find one, never mind fifty guys to admit it? ............. Equality and all that, sometimes biology presents problems.
He thought; “Enough frivolity. I’ve got serious things to work on.” He searched for Joshua Marshland and couldn’t find any such person. He tried Boyle and found about eight billion of those. He figured the best thing he could do was to cease being a risqué comedian and computer maven. With minimum skills
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YouTube could get him back that old country feeling. Rick played Lynrd Skynrd’s 1976, black and white, live version of “That Smell.” When it ended, he put his head down and fell asleep.
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#18- Beth III
Jack’s last brief meeting with Beth reminded him of the dangers of irrational, hopeful love. It was akin to taking a protracted solo ride on a roller coaster while believing that there will be no vertical loops or scream worthy dives. While he would not allow himself to abandon long, ice free, Calle de la Congelacion walks with Justice, especially with temperatures setting records for late winter highs, he had a plan. It was so easy to come to his conclusion that a child at a third grade math level could have done it. Over the long haul he had spent about fifty times as much miserable time agonizing over her than he had spent happy time with her. His decision was that he would be better off staying away from her or the person who may or may not be her.
This approach worked well. It was a success; but, of course it was an un-tested one as he did not see her. Jack began to think that the two recent times he did see her that it was the result of some sort of wishful thinking which had manifested itself in his now largely voided mind. The majority of people he had known had spoken of wishing that they could quit their time consuming, hated jobs if they could only afford to. He did have an affordability issue, but he also had a new theory. A mind is
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determined to be occupied with something. If it no longer has its chief employer to ponder, it will fill that space with something else which could be a lot worse; like this bi-polar Beth apparition.
Justice took his time in their walk toward the river, as he kept stopping to investigate the “new” scents which the warm weather was bringing forth. Jack ambled along thinking about getting a regular job or a hobby; preferably a two in one deal.
His writing would fill the bill nicely; but it seemed an unlikely source to pay them.
All in all it was a very pleasant day filled with pleasant thoughts; and in the matter of an instant he saw that it was to be put to the test. From a distance of approximately one half of a mile he saw the apparition, Andy and Charlene access the road from what seemed to be the Dietrich property. Intending to turn around and go toward Propicio Road, Jack clapped his hands, getting Justice’ attention and with a head movement and a few steps back, the Shepherd became aware that Jack wanted to turn around.
Justice took a look toward the river. He made an unusual, low pitched “yeow” sound; something like a questioning kitten.
He turned around and moved slowly while he looked at Jack. Jack was disappointed; in that he realized that it was likely that if Justice was seeing the same “apparition” he was, it was not an
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apparition at all. Though it was a disappointment, it was not a disaster for him as he still had a Plan B which he had already put into effect. He and Justice were going the other way. They were leaving in the opposite direction. Justice dawdled, much as he did prior to the sighting, as presumably, there were “new”
scents worthy of his investigation on his backtrack. Jack noticed that Justice was furtively glancing toward the river with each stop, and suspected that he was allowing time for the trio to catch up.
Jack took a few steps ahead and said; “Come on, man. Let’s keep moving at least a little bit.” Justice seemed to understand and fully complied the first time he heard the exhortation, for a few quick stepped jaunts. But, then he would stop at another irresistible scent, and was a lesser degree of obedient each time Jack did the “Come on, man. Let’s keep moving at least a little bit,” routine. Jack suspected that either Justice was an extremely smart dog with no tolerance for re-runs or that Justice was an extremely smart dog who was quite adept at giving the impression of compliance while facilitating his own agenda.
In either case, Jack had not even made it back to the path to his own house when he heard; “Jack, Jack. Wait. I have to speak with you.”
He cringed and slowly turned back around. In that everlasting second Beth was upon him, accompanied by Andy and
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Charlene. She was wearing a tightly knit light blue sweater. She seemed extraordinarily large and not in the mood for the restraint of a brassiere. She took his hand in hers and said;
“I’m so sorry about last time. I don’t know what was wrong with me that day.” She let go of his hand as she staggered back two awkward steps. She giggled and added; “I do like my wine sometimes.”
Jack’s thoughts bounced all over the place. He looked down and saw that Justice was cautiously approaching Andy and Charlene. Charlene seemed to be receptive, while Andy affected a more formal posture. He leaned the slightest bit away from Justice; kind of saying; “We’ll see.”
Jack realized that he had not yet said anything to Beth.
Initially, he didn’t want to; but he had already slipped from his firm resolve; and thought that it was impolite not to.
Besides, she looked so damn good; and it was so warm; and
........ So, he said; “Are you all right?” and was immediately embarrassed for sounding so lame.
“Yeah. It’s just a little difficult to keep my balance when I’m standing still. Let’s walk.” It was more of a slow crawl than a walk. After a couple of silent steps they both started to speak at the same time, and then they both stopped at the same time. Beth found that amusing, and said; “You first.”
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Jack had his half lie ready and said; “It’s okay. We all have our bad days.”
“What’s okay?”
Jack stared at Beth and she seemed sincere. “.......... You apologized for last time.”
“I did?”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No.”
“.................................”
There was an uneasy quiet, which Beth broke when she said;
“It’s really great that you can write like that. Though I read a lot I’ve never written one word.”
Jack found that sad for some reason. Maybe it was her tone.
Maybe it was the way that she had slowly emphasized the last four words. Maybe it was just a commonly used phrase which he was making a big deal about. Maybe ......... He wanted clarification, so he said; “It’s really easy. I could show you.”
It was even more drawn out when she repeated; “Not one word.” She turned her head away as if she had found something interesting in the elms on her left.
Jack was unsettled and sorry that he had pressed the issue.
They approached his driveway, and he tried to impart a more jovial note. He said; “Come on in for a while. Sometimes I like my wine too.”
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She confused him again. In a haunting, hollow sounding voice she answered; “Oh nooo. I’m not ready for that .........
yet.”
He didn’t know what to say or think. As they continued to slowly walk toward Propicio road, he started to babble. “I once had a dream about you. It was a long dream and you were only in it a few seconds. Weird, right? I was at your parent's house.
It was a very expensive, though not huge, California contemporary near, but not on the water. Your mother looked attractive and when I said something to you about that you told me that she took a bath in anticipation of company. I spent most of the time with your family maid and don't remember much from that other than worrying about looking presentable. I did spend a fair amount of time with your father, ersatz or not and it was pleasant, until I incorrectly noted that the only kitchen was miniscule, using some other word, and then making the observation that in modern times many don't care much about the kitchen. Despite my clumsy attempt at an apology he got all pissy faced, but attempted no physical vengeance. I was thankful, as I didn't want to get smacked by a behemoth. When I looked behind me there was a large kitchen, the entry to which was ineffectively blocked by hanging strips of fabric. I think that was the end of the dream. Before that I was looking at the interior of the house. It was obviously decorated by a
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professional with a penchant for the use of contemporary, subdued, texturized, color fabrics. But, now it was in a meaningful state of disrepair. Pieces which were inches wide were completely worn away at the edges. I wondered why the owners of a house worth $10,000,000 had not yet invited the decorator back. Weak possibilities were entertained; none compelling. The multi-acred property was surrounded by a solid fence of indeterminate material. The grass was well mowed and the lawn had many full sized, perhaps ‘ornamental’ trees, spaced sufficiently apart to not hinder walking. When in the yard I saw you watching me through a ground floor window, and I got the idea that I had only assumed that the water was just a bit down the road, and that maybe it wasn't there at all.”
“Hey, you know, I like you,” she said touching his cheek.
He touched hers and said; “Remember ‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds?’ It was your favorite song.”
She moved away and plaintively said; “That was a long time ago and a lot of things have happened to Beth since then.”
“Oh, sure. Everything has changed. But, we don’t have to.
It can be like that forever for us. The rest can kill themselves any way they’d like. We’re not like them and we’re not obligated to be their keepers.”
“You can be so sweet sometimes.”
“So can you.”
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“We’re too old now! Why do we have to get old?”
“I don’t know. Chances are that we’re going to get a hell of a lot older. Why not do it together?”
“My mother was dead by my age.”
“My mother is 83 and still doesn’t have anything life threatening.”
“Stop it! Come on. Just stop it.”
“I can’t.”
“Do it for me. I’ve lived through two decades worth of shit I’m doing my best to forget. But, something won’t let me forget.
....... Remember how you used to have that horrible dream every once in a while? You’d cry to me and I’d lie and tell you that everything will be all right. Multiply that pain by more than a million. That’s what I feel every lousy day.”
“Beth, please tell me where it hurts. I’ll kiss it away. I know I can. It can be as good as ever. I know it; I know it; I know it. Give it one more chance.”
“I don’t want to think about all this stuff. If you really love me, just go away and make it all stop. ......... No, don’t.” She turned around with tears welling up in her eyes.
Jack thought that she didn’t want to be seen crying. She dropped her two leashes and ran toward the Dietrich place. Andy and Charlene ran with her, thinking that this was a new fun game.
Jack didn’t follow. He couldn’t imagine anything more to do
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or say. It was not the most difficult of decisions to make in the moment. The dream had returned; a dream he saw as paradise.
He also knew that her current contradictory, secretive and changeable behavior was not only the cause of contemporary pain, but also jeopardized his sustaining remembrances of things past.
Justice woofed twice, a probable indication that he sensed danger. He bolted away, but stopped five feet ahead to look back with worry in his eyes. Jack said; “I’m with you, pal. No worries.” Dylan’s “Visions of Johanna” played in his head.
Jack walked on, just once turning his head back to say;
“Keep on playing crazy, contradictory and suicidal angel. It’s irresistible.”
At the Woodson residence Cindy was unusually distraught.
She said; “I’m sick of this attempting-to-be-social shit. Every time I leave the house some toothy face asks me about the elms and I have to say something they want to hear. The result is that I cringe every time I go out the door. The truth is that I love those fucking elms and I hate everyone who wants to hurt them. I thought we came here to get away from all this shit.
But, no, you have to be social with these pieces of shit.”
Ty put his arms around her waist.
“Don’t touch me.”
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She broke away and put on a CD. She played Pink Floyd’s “Us and Them.” As she listened she stared out one of the windows which faced the elms, while Ty sat and watched her back, which shifted from side to side, when she moved her legs.
The song ended. Stillness prevailed as Cindy did not move from her window vantage point.
After a minute Ty said; “Wow, you’re really bummed. Let me do one.” He put on Steve Miller doing a live version of “Space Cowboy.”
Cindy kept her back to him while it played an Ty wondered if he had made a mistake in trying to abruptly change the mood 180 degrees. He kept staring at her trying to pick up some sign.
When it ended he was elated to see that she evinced the slightest of smiles, when she turned to him and said; “Great, great, baby. Just what I needed to hear. But, for once I’m going to have the last word. This isn’t aimed at you. It’s aimed at the elm hating whines who live in this fucking place.”
She opened the windows. When she got the last one open she yelled; “Hear this, all you crimes against nature.” The Replacements did “Never Mind.”
At the end Ty said; “Of course you’re aware that nobody else heard it; and that even if they did, they’d have no idea what it means.”
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Cindy had 60 percent re-established a joking demeanor. She deadpanned; “I know. It’s petty rebellion. But it feels so good and you can’t get in any trouble because of it.”
“Think you can handle one more dipshit meeting?”
“Just one ................. and only if you set off your fart machine.”
“My pleasure.”
Cindy had to hear Patti Smith do; “Summer Cannibals.”
It was also one of Ty’s favorites and he followed it with Laura Nyro singing; “Stoned Soul Picnic.”
They drew the blinds, shut off the phones, and followed each other’s choices until they fell asleep; Ty on an avant-garde and surrealistic pillow.
Jack and Justice dawdled outside, taking pleasure in the early balmy weather. Not to impress this crazy lady who called herself Beth, Jack decided that he would attempt another book just because he felt like it. He typed.
“Quotes from Chairman Bow Wow”
“If you can’t do it, review it.”
“There is no doubt in my mind concerning mankind’s greatest invention. We’d have killed each other off long ago if not for the relief provided by laxatives. ........ On second thought, maybe laxatives are the epitome of evil.”
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“People who live in glass houses should erect a tall, sturdy fence, while they consider re-modeling.”
“Fall seven times and stand up eight; or else on the eighth stay down for the count and take the low end money.”
“Don’t be sad that it’s over. Be sad that it ever started.”
“We didn’t start the fire. We just do fanned friction. Really.
It can be quite lucrative.”
“Speech is free here. ......... If you will be so kind as to agree with me.”
“The lady hath not protested much since 1972. But she does have
‘issues,’ and if you stand still too long you will hear them.”
“The fabrication of a sense of propriety is nothing more than a corruption of a sense of the proprietary.”
“It is no accident that God made love and sex two different things. If love was required for procreation the species would have gone the way of the dinosaurs.”
“What happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object? Merriam-Webster calls David Foster Wallace and engages him to re-define the terms.”
“Fifty acres and a musket.”
“Many people find Pynchon and Wallace similar. Yes, I agree that they are both excellent twenty-first century writers; one of whom is a prisoner of length and the other one an occasional jail visitor; both difficult for many readers. One uses up-to-date, bizarre symbolism in a covert attempt to disparage it; this, inexorably a surreptitious ploy for a return to the traditions of the Mayflower; presented in a Chaplin-esque motif.
The other uses up-to-date, bizarre mixed with traditional symbolism, in an overt attempt to suggest the inevitability and infinite feasibility of change; presented in a Hicks-like motif.
In an age submerged in and fascinated with deception, it is obvious which one receives the “highest honors,” as they are bestowed by those well advanced in age; if little else.
“To be able to put down words, the single most important thing a writer who believes that they have something important to say is to forget that absurd notion.”
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“The best writing is that which communicates on at least five levels; mine and uh ..................”
“Any personalized search for ‘completeness’ is an obvious, though not overt, testimony to the searcher’s luxury of free time and a grand self-image. At any given point, a person is a manifestation of a few of the many shifting attributes or personae, sometimes called nafs, which they have continually adopted at will; while they have simultaneously discarded others. It seems so simple; ‘One cannot have their cake and eat it too.’ For others, it is best to avoid the ones who will never be satisfied.”
“Those who say ‘go for it’ haven’t the slightest idea what ‘it’
is.”
“Those who say Magical Realism is wonderful because it has no limits have a high tolerance for abject stupidity and incompetence.”
“When a ‘reviewer’ says that a book is too long to review, they are confusing the word ‘review’ with the word ‘synopsis’ or just don’t have a clue.”
“When a commentator says that to write a ‘long book’ is masturbatory, they may not realize that the author considers masturbation infinitely more preferable to sex with the jackass commentator.”
“In the year of 2016, and, on behalf of all officially recognized minorities and those yet to be recognized, I would like to thank the many literary mavens who strongly chastise those who make politically incorrect characterizations or otherwise delineate dim-witted hatred of them. As we all well know the situation is not tolerable until everyone uses the appropriate words which will indicate that everyone loves each other. The minorities defended appreciate your noblesse oblige in granting them equal status a half century after everyone else did. I’m sure that the gratitude of blacks, women, LBG&T
devotees, and members of other minority groups is directly proportional to your eternal vigilance. Thank you so much.”
“If someone likes or agrees with everything you say they are either not paying any attention, angling for something, or too stupid to bother speaking with.”
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“In order to have any chance of being implemented the best long term solution must also be made to appear to be the best short term one. If that is accomplished the next hurdle to be surmounted is the inevitable defectors; all well-armed with tons of their heart breaking good reasons and clarifications.”
“You say that I am angry. For the last time, I’d like to assure you that I am not. See Sartre, de Beauvoir, Camus and derivatives for an exhaustive explanation or Franzen for one more concise. I fear that if you persist in your inaccurate judgements, that I will really become angry.”
“Autism is a natural defense mechanism existent in people cursed with high levels of déjà vu. It is a crime for psychologists to idiotically attempt to provide an ‘antidote,’ but they will persist as that is one of the requisites of their failed
‘profession.’”
“Sometimes a Mark Twain witticism is just a Mark Twain witticism.”
“If you think that you have something important to say; understand that you will be merely displaying your ignorance in so doing; as it has already been said thousands of times we know of and likely millions of which we are unaware.”
“For every great quotation there are a minimum of three great contradictions.”
“Indifference is a much more effective weapon than hatred. Not only is it easier on the nerves; it is much easier to employ.”
“Adept prophets communicate wisdom kindly and effectively, until they become confused by their discovery that X=X+1, when written in luxuriant olive. Businessmen and politicians flourish because they stop at the point whereby they know that X=X-1, when written in inflamed ruby.”
“To provide free services to an entity like Goofreads was a heart-warming and noble endeavor. To continue to provide free services to an entity like Goofreads after it has been acquired by an entity like AmawayOnSteroids, is either sheer stupidity, extreme slavish masochism, or is conclusive proof that a person is looking for an excuse to make complaints, to which all will sympathize on the surface and clandestinely revile. That is an overly kind way of saying it, as it doesn’t require a genius IQ
to know that every Goofreads which succeeds in becoming valuable
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through the use of free labor sells out to the AmawayOnSteroids’
of the world every time. Yes, you read that correctly; every time, every fucking time. ............. Okay, you choose to not believe that one 100%. So, how much you wanna bet?”
“Pantomimic, protracted Pynchonic pontifications presume profundity, yet pitifully proffer a plentitude of poop piles prior to every princely, pithy piece of personally protective praise.”
“Life gives you a billion good reasons to quit. All that is required is to pick the one with which you are most comfortable.”
“Let’s not and say that we did.”
“It is certain that if Obama was a white man he would already be touted as a candidate for one of the worst US presidents of all time. The irony is that if he truly was a black man he probably wouldn’t have been so ineffectual.”
“In circles which consider themselves part of the intelligencia the un-written, yet operative, definition of ‘free speech’ is that one can say whatever they choose, no matter how contradictory or baseless, about the US, UK, Israel, Christianity or Judaism. Yet to speak in the same manner regarding Arabia, Africa, Muslims is not permitted. One can only offer one comment and that is just too rude.”
“That the minority of Pit Bulls and Dalmatians have attacked humans makes it permissible for people to say and write that those breeds are best avoided. However, if a minority of Muslims have attacked humans it is not permissible for people to say and write that this breed is best avoided. There is something to be said for one’s requirement to clean up their own house.”
“Unanswerable does not equal indecipherable.”
“Murakami equals almost literary musaak. Maybe the ‘something lost in translation’ stirs idle imaginations into deep, deep thought.”
“If anarchy was brought to the Americas it wouldn’t last a day before the thugs with the biggest guns took over. Any naïve foreigner would save themselves some embarrassment if they lived here a while; and I don’t mean a two week vacation; before they started pontificating about it.”
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“A genius is one step ahead; an idiot is two. (Possibly sic.)”
“Some things just plain stink, but to say that one is treated worse than the stinker. It’s better to stay quiet and hope the inept don’t get insistent.”
“Seek and ye’ll soon be sorry ye did.”
“The black, winter, night sky shines with all the brilliance of stars which died eons ago.”
“When utilizing lyricism, symbolism or allegory it is best to surreptitiously hide that behind literal people and objects.”
“Writing is easy. The only thing writers have trouble with is learning how to spell T-h-e E-n-d.”
“I didn’t break it. So, it ain’t my job to fix it.”
“The price always goes up after you’re dead.”
“Bulls make money. Bears make money. Hogs don’t.”
“Remuneration for an endeavor is directly proportional to the degree of distaste required to perform it.”
“Do not ever give the impression that you think you are saying something new. Its 99.99% certain that you are not; and if the
.01% possibility is the case, everyone will say that they already knew that.”
“If destined and cursed to ponder whether one’s neighbor is a Dadaist or one with a surplus of chromosomes, save yourself the headache. Just give him a kick in the ass and watch his first three steps.”
“Grand plans are concocted by those who have attained the prerequisite of having failed miserably at the small ones.”
“Things are as they are because people want them that way.
Invariably they bitch about it, prior to rejecting any alternative presented. This dynamic does not even reach the stature of petty rebellion. It’s just a cowardly farce ad infinitum.”
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“It is as equally retarded to be anti-science as it is to worship it.”
“In the beginning God created everything. Since then we’ve been complaining about it, studying it, fixing it and ‘improving’ it.
Observe the groovy 2016 results; a nineteenth century Shelley creation.”
“The easiest thing to do when the damn thing stops working is to push the restart button.”
“Popular objections to Joyce’s ‘Ulysses’ actually boil down to an objection to art for its own sake. Joyce was so hurt that, while ‘Ulysses’ provided a framework, his next effort;
‘Finnegan’s Wake,’ would provide none.”
“Most modern ‘radical’ literature is independently provided by bookish kids who utilize their skills in gangsta speech patterns to provide an egalitarian mixture of ghetto and Valley Girl.”
“At its root or lack thereof, socialization is a measured response, calculated by one devoid of a measurement instrument.”
“A Traveler is one with a black witch’s broom placed in the appropriate space. It is fortunate for the others that she has no effect on anyone other than an equivocating Manny.”
“One of the amusing things indie reviewers cannot resist is to re-use and re-use admired phrases copied from other indie reviewers. Today, the most popularly duplicated phrase is; ‘I liked it for the things it didn’t say as much as I did for what it did.’ I wonder if the converse is true. Substitute disliked for liked for one possible reversal. The devotees of this view might do well to stare at a blank book. It could be orgasmic.”
“There is little doubt that dualities exist in nature. However, the currently popular double and triple binds discussed on
‘Bookworm’ and the ilk are most often foolish attempts to reconcile two of the infinite supply of imperfectly defined words. Plato’s world of forms, anyone? The result is useless sophistry, which only serves as an egoistic or financial benefit for the perpetrator.”
“You’ve got to cross all the eyes and dot all the tease.”
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“An incorrect response to an incorrect response to an incorrect response to an ....................... produces a correct response at level 10.”
“When in danger it is always best to seek the highest ground, unless one is at the base of Everest with no climbing gear.”
“There is case law and there is contradicting case law. Idiots kill each other over their ‘ideologies.’ The higher authorities will always make the final decision as soon as they cease laughing.”
“Walls appear to be the best of friends. They have an accommodating habit of showing up whenever you choose to see them.”
“One particularly annoying dichotomy is that humans seek information, but also object to being told what to do. This requires the responder to cloak the answer in competent and popular entertainment, if they give a shit.”
“The quest for knowledge still culminates in the professor’s enlightening innocuous dissertation. Understand that clarity is not an absolute in three dimensions. What is clear to some is unclear to others. Therefore, the pursuit of clarity is a loser’s game.”
“Education is the bridge between impetuous faith and exasperating reservation; joking Wallace vs. joking Franzen.
Yeah, I know that I stole it. But, legally it is not under the
“protection” of the copyright laws. Thank you Mark. ...... Er, Sam. .......... Ah, see. Fuck it.”
“Counter-intuitive becomes a more descriptive assessment when all intuitions are created equal. Until then, “chameleonic”
remains a superior imperfection 6X.”
“Why is it that the degree to which the ending of ‘I don’t know’
is articulated in the most ‘clever’ of terminologies and is directly proportional to the degree with which the postulation is jargon laden; with zero standard deviation? Thought I’d grasped an anesthetized number of hypotheses, but must have misplaced them somewhere in tutorial seminar, where they may still reside, hidden under someone’s fat ass. Please refresh my memory. Enlighten me. ......... On second thought, never mind.
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It had to have been just another one of those yin-yang non-resolutions.”
“Two tiny banalities poorly executed lead to an infinity of complications wrongly considered momentous. My sincere apologies to William and Virginia. I do appreciate the acknowledgement offered by Bill and Gina stating that it was at least a paraphrase rather than an act of plagiarism.
Distillation: Two banalities poorly executed.”
“Censors are the people who tell you whether or not it’s all right to read what you have written.”
Jack reviewed the quotes he had written. He realized that some or many of them just plain sucked; the “S” or “M” word the focus of consideration to most, if not all readers; yet to him just a function totally dependent on his momentary mood. Some of them were so stupid that an intelligent reader would be forced to conclude that they were purposely so and therefore worthy of an imperceptible grin. Some of them were actually good, in the sense that they were no worse than the originals they sought to evoke and simultaneously mock. That personalized opinion was an honest evaluation, and certainly contained as much merit as an honest book review. However, as a matter of practicality, Jack saw that he was having difficulty in coming up with derivative aphorisms after only five pages of them. That would never do for a bona fide, legitimate “book.” So, he abandoned his “fun project” and decided to work on some over-the-top-ludicrous-gross, with absurdism crap. This genre seemed to be popular with
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the growing YA market, ostensibly because they incorrectly thought of it as “new;” it was easy to write and understand; and that it appeared to be something like the short stories of George Saunders, who the New York Times had recently crowned king. Of course, it was only the surface which appeared as Saunders-like as there was no intelligent overview. Easy to do and understand; describe Bozo in words, yadda, yadda. But mostly because the more financially important US market increasingly aped that of a traditional UK market in that “young adults”
spent more and more time under their parent’s roof; and that market was still expanding. Some of the archaic concepts were hidden from popular perception; in that they were an in-eloquent, bizarre in appearance, duplication of seven decades gone Harold Pinter. No big thing. About three people in America knew of the Harry-man. Jeremy just never had the pecs.
So Jack disdainfully wrote. His objective was to write something which no-one could dismiss as coherent, linear, or in possession of a point. From prior experience he knew that he had set a lofty goal. Previous attempts at written pointlessness had always produced an un-wanted point.
But, crafty old Jack had thought of a way to get around that. He would have his fictitious main character deal with it.
The minor nuance would work for the majority of readers. He found it truly sad. So many of them had emotional and-or medical
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problems, they had spent their lives with their noses in identical books or have had their faces in front of plastic screens which, at their best, made a poor copy of the page. Jack pushed the appropriate keys to induce the plastic thing to display;
“Madame Bovary 2016- working title as the fucking computer requires you to call the shit something.”
Sixty-nine year old, post-menopausal as opposed to post-modern and post-industrial, Kathy Acker was feeling as neglected and abused as she did when under the extremely well self-documented lack-of-care given the unfortunate child by her mother and step-father. Kathy had been depressed, not only by her advanced age and lack of a functional thingy, but also by anonymous bullying and trolling e-mails she’d been receiving, which said cruel things like; “Get over it, bitch.” Her prior libertarian posture had become overtaken by her sense of propriety; which actually emanated from other people’s need to exhibit her concept of propriety.
She was further chagrined by reactions from her “Creative Writing” NYU students who saw her as a whiny old bat with absolutely zero contemporary relevance with a penchant for tired classics and woefully passé grammatical considerations.
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She decided that it was necessary to make a glorious, cutting edge comeback; without the self-knowledge sufficient to inform her that any such “necessity” resided full time between her ears, and tended toward reclusion. In an attempt to satisfy her personally un-recognized need for the “love” granted by stardom and success, for the first time in two decades, she started to write a book. As had become her forgotten trademark, she made use of her “creative” juices, and encrusted it with the working title of “Madame Bovary 2016.” She intended to sarcastically update and thereby deflate and deconstruct Flaubert’s classical tale of a promiscuous married woman with no tolerance for the norms or the mediocre. Her first problem quickly flew in her face, as insistently and as provocatively as her memories of a fledgling dripping pussy once did or didn’t, when, through the rings still attached to her parched petunia, she saw that anything she wrote had been previously written, and written, and written ....................
The bubble she had never previously noticed in the perennial mist, intensified by her imperfect vision, which had served as shelter from the banal storm, had now burst as surely as a cracked, neglected, and eroded New Orleans levee. She was as frustrated as she was confounded; as for the first time, it crossed her mind that she may have no more relevance than a member of the worker ant contingent. For the first time Kathy
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entertained the horrific thought that she might be of as much significance as any unpaid warehouse worker at AOS. She shuddered and jerked
Her thought was that the blocking devil resided in her vast knowledge of literature. The impediment just insisted on remaining with her. In an attempt at a quick fix, she e-mailed Benny Pynched and politely encouraged him that he would feel a whole lot better if he would just blow it out his fucking ass.
Kathy’s initial revelry in being a “bad-ass” faded when Benny made no response to the direct statement. She thought that he might prefer something containing a scholarly riddle; but right now, “academically cutesy” was the last thing she wanted to be.
After that irrelevant fiasco, her next approach was to seek familiarity with her young students. She didn’t realize that this was a tepid approach and was likely indicative of her problem. She showed them her labial rings and found that they had more of them and in more categories and localities. She felt as if she was older than Ruth Bader Ginsburg.
She decided that it was high time to let things fly and get really “radical.” As motivated as a Batman with his four incher all the way up Robin’s un-Criscoed, lowest aperture, Kathy engaged the infamous and expensive Ace Hole, P.I., to find the elusive “Man-Woman-Both With No Name” (MWBWNN) for her. Ace was a two and a half foot tall midget who was reputed to perform
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excellent service primarily because of his ability to remain un-noticed and blend in with the crowd. Critics were their customary dismissive and attributed his results to the fact that he had a wide mouth, with a cigar perennially dangling from one side, while he talked out the other; thereby encouraging people to tell him anything he wanted to know, just to get away from the stink. Women liked where his head was at. Ace paid no attention to the analysts. He was too busy finding the wanted, counting the money, and extricating himself from the tangles.
MWBWNN was not the easiest thing to find. The Tri-Laterally commissioned one was a renegade lobotomist, who has been primarily working with political figures; and had spent the last thirty years on both the FBI and CIA’s ten most wanted list. It was rumored that MWBWNN was initially a philosophical zealot who believed that a person had a right to do whatever they wished with their own head; and at some point lost the youthful zeal; now doing it only for the money. Zie had made a name for him-herself a while back through performing the specialty surgery on post-election Ronald Reagan at the request of Nancy; a surreptitious right wing operator. The iodine hair cover was absolute genius. Most recently Zie had been acclaimed for his inventive work with Obama. Since Barak’s hair was closely cropped military style, in order to not tip off the conspiracy marketers, it was necessary to pull out his brain through his
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mouth. Apparently, the experimental procedure worked well as every one of the “new ideas” was flushed down the toilet. As an unexpected bonus, Hillary’s national health care plan was so badly fucked up that every one of the private insurance companies reported record profits; while nobody knew where to go if they experienced chest pain at 3AM.
(Insert a ton of yadda yadda concerning Ace’s appearance, office décor, conversation with Kathy and any other filler required if the book comes out too short. Insert two tons of yadda yadda about Kathy’s appearance and demeanor, utilizing appropriate poetic metaphor to suggest that her true wishes are to get her post-menopausal thingy repaired.) To have any chance of being vital; the way she and eight others thought she was the first time around; Acker’s only remaining hope was to have the inhibiting part of her brain removed. If she could no longer be cursed to remember that what she wrote and said was a regurgitation of the past, she would be able to write and say it, convinced of it being new. Besides, she thought that having a shaved head with prominent stitches would be super cool.
Ace had cited huge personal risk in the project as he emphatically said that to find MWBWNN he would be stepping into areas occupied by the shadow government which was beholden to no one but the Fascist ideology as administered by the clandestine.
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Because of that or his negotiating skills, she has agreed to pay Ace Hole $1,000 per hour. To make sure that she was getting her money’s worth she tailed him. Though initially difficult due to the detective’s ability to disappear into the crowd; she found that she could not go wrong in following her olfactory, rather than visual senses, and followed Ace Hole’s stink.
(Insert a whole lot of stuff describing the Manhattan street scene, the kinds of places where Ace stops, who he talks to, snippets of the conversations. It is tedious, but remember that people like reading descriptions of Manhattan more than they like reading complicated plots. DO NOT SKIP THIS STEP!!!!) Kathy follows Ace onto the B train (Describe, describe again. Especially the passengers who appear to be ominous, homeless, or sleeping.) to Brooklyn Heights where he enters a trendy-bi-with-a-preference club in Brooklyn Heights, named
“Liquid Sky.” (Describe, describe, and describe again. Slick white and bright lights.) City freaks and rich wannabees from the suburbs populate the facility which was previously a roller skating rink. “Liquid Sky” was probably somewhere near their peak in popularity thanks to the resurrection of “cutting edge gay” as LGB&T, the patronage of a few artists and writers no one outside the facility had ever heard of, and, like Kathy Acker, a few old timers who once had modest and quickly fleeting credentials. The constant presence of people who dealt in
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pharmaceuticals with every possible three lettered acronym was an unspoken addition.
The club had just signed a punk rock band named Onanists for a week’s engagement. The group of five loners had the distinction of being the week’s crossover idol, as they satisfied the avant garde, the intellectuals, the slobs, and the traditionalists by having the number one song titled; “I’m a Slave to my Dick,” an extended version rumored to be first un-veiled during their club engagement.
Ace made a bee-line for the co-ed bathroom at the end of the bar and Kathy took a seat at it, keeping an eye on the door.
A group of young women in leather cowboy hats and fur lined boots sat on both sides of her. The one closest said; “Boring as a missionary fuck here. You lookin’ for some girl play? Thirty for one; a hundred for four.”
Another of the young women said; “Hey, that’s so rude. You know who you’re talkin’ to?” She looks at Kathy and added;
“You’re Kathy Hacker, right? Oh, cool. My mother has all of your books. Read them when I was little. Can I get an autograph for her?”
While waiting for Godot on the can, Ace Hole was in his glory when someone on the other side of the partition told him that MWBWNN came around “Liquid Sky” sometimes and had done some pro bono work on a few Neanderthal heteros. The informant
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expressed his doubts that this was done out of the kindness of his heart, as he thought it likely that the cash and cutting lobotomist was experimenting with a new wiring procedure; one which might eliminate the straight neural connections and replace them with something more circuitously chic.(Insert some detailed absurdity concerning the preliminary results and how the informant helped Ace Hole to get his feet on the floor and out the leaded glass, back window because he knew that Kathy was tailing him.)
(Insert more yadda yadda about the bar conversation, how Kathy keeps watching the door until she pisses in her pants and rushes in, and somehow try to work in how MWBWNN is writing a book titled; “Set Your Mind at Ease Through Proper Elimination,”
which MWBWNN’s publisher thought was a book about purgatives, which he planned to market as an eastern religion tome aimed at the geriatric, “New Age” constipated set.
Kathy became a regular at the club as she liked the atmosphere, but more because she was trying to locate Ace Hole, and that was the last place she had seen him. Other insignificant characters she saw there are; A) A 60 year old, senile Johnny Rotten, with spiked orange hair dangling from his nose; who keeps showing up, refusing to pay, insisting that the Sex Pistols are playing here tonight. He
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wanders around calling out; “Sid, Sid. Come out from wherever you’re hiding. I give up.”
B) A 102 year old William Burroughs who politely goes from table to table asking if anyone knows where he can get some “Sunny D.”
The younger crowd does not know him and think that due to his proper suit and hat, most likely he is a poorly disguised underground narc, so they keep referring him to the person they hate most and Willy keeps pathetically shuffling and being polite to no avail.
C) Aliens the size of fleas or crabs have parked their ship on the Upper West Side roof of Kathy’s condominium. They are addicts, and they float all over the place in search of an entertainment that their redundant planet can no longer provide.
At this point they are a minor annoyance to earthlings who merely swat them if they get in their face. The aliens are undeterred, as their intellectual advancement has allowed them to view that as the ultimate high-release; until Kathy’s new one goes movie.
D) Primarily in an effort to avoid any charges of pretentiousness, there will be a 25 year old guy from Georgia, unfortunately named by his slut mom as Rim beau Cracker. He’s kind of always around; seems to be un-noticed, though that is actually an act, has no bearing in the other’s version of the story, especially that of desiccated Kathy.
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(Lots of details about finding Ace, who had become an experiment for MWBWNN. She walks in in the middle of the procedure, and promises not to call 911 if she can get a standard lobotomy free of charge. After a bit of haggling the deal is done when Kathy promises to fork over 25% of the royalties from her new book.)
(Insert more detail concerning the operation itself, where it takes place, what MWBWNN looks like and zie’s memory of a youthful fling with a much older man; Ronald Reagan.) Kathy was feeling great with her fresh lobotomy. Her only writing impediment was her compulsion to continually view her now pear shaped head, decorated with the largest and blackest of cool and prominent sutures. She writes short stories about three characters named Dick, Jane and Spot. Her work was well received by the masses, which was too un-cool for her desire.
Unfortunately for the fleas, many died from the cold turkey withdrawal from fresh entertainment. Some sought and found an alternative existence in Ms. Acker’s middle of the road proclivities and discovered a love for athletics as they learned the pleasures of jumping through hoops. Worse, Kathy started to be stalked by this weird looking guy-gal-both who said that she owed zim a lot of money. Worst; no one was offended by her books. She re-read the books and found the ideas contained in them much too obviously subliminal and revealing. She was
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embarrassed and changed her name back to Martha Baumstein and moved to Queens. She burned her laptop in the fireplace and contacted Ace Hole, as more brain work was required. The visual appearance of the black plastic melt was reminiscent of the Wicked Witch of the West; though the odor was more foul than Ace’s cigar. At least the little demon remained silent.
Jack re-read his draft, and ultimately decided that filling in the blanks was just too tedious, un-rewarding, and plodding to bother with. Besides, he had a strong suspicion that the brainless story had already been done by a funny looking, indie hack who worked out of his mommy and daddy’s house in Boca Raton. The whistle went off. It was quittin’ time. He’d rather spend the day walking the less travelled trails with Justice. He thought; “That dog sleeps like a baby.” He rubbed Justice’ belly furiously and said; “Come on, pal. We’re gonna see something new. We’re gonna drive half an hour to the National Forest.
We’re gonna walk there and hope that our only company is the birds, bears, and bushes. We’re gonna ............ We’re gonna
.......... We’re gonna ......................
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#19- Po Paris (Approximately Imagine Approximately) Stephanie Lawson decided to take matters into her own hands. She had sat through countless Richard supplied, varying financial “reasons” regarding the reasonability of his decisions; primarily that which resulted in the sale of the family farm in exchange for paper which had steadily declined in value, and has left unsightly lumps all over the landscape. She realized that though her financial knowledge was the equivalent of a moth’s understanding of fire, she didn’t need an MBA to know that things were not quite satisfactory. She also knew that to be able to articulate her dissatisfaction and possibly come up with an alternate plan; that it would be necessary for her to at a minimum learn the basic principles and jargon of what now seemed to be a foreign language. She began her “education” on MotleyTrader.com’s site which offered a free study and closed with an “opportunity” to open an account. She read; Brief Notes Regarding a Long Term Study Concerning the Necessity of Exactitude in Accounting Especially Insofar as its Effect on the Standard Profit Dependent Capital Asset Pricing Model Published Posthumously
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“It is all too often that the financial writer engages the reader in sensational abject nonsense. The popularized dictum which states; ‘Truth is told in fiction; and fiction in truth,’
has been utilized, knowingly or not, by every crackpot fiction writer to espouse their personally biased claims. It is a
‘cheap’ method to convey ‘facts’ which have either not been tested or have been ‘tested’ in a statistically insignificant group. It is thoroughly unfair to the reader to be subjected to reading long winded diatribes only to find them useless speculation. It is in their interest that my associates at MotleyTrader.com and I offer the first of a series of thoroughly researched and unbiased studies of a subject most dear and central to our collective consciousness; the calculation of profits.”
“The longstanding general acceptance of the Modigliani- Miller theorem which postulates that, all other things equal, PTP, formerly referred to as NIBT, is maximized through the usage of the LIFO method of inventory valuation, ignores the studies done by the Lepke-Rogers group which suggests that while Modigliani-Miller’s observations are true in year 1, the PTP level may actually decline in years 2, 3 and beyond, in the typical mildly inflationary environment, if the LIFO layers are reduced, either by aggregate or selective count; thereby rewarding growth; i.e.
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I2>I1 and penalizing contraction I2<I1. Of course in the historically small possibility of a deflationary environment the situation is reversed; making Modigliani-Miller correct for the wrong reason.
In addition, PTP is strongly affected by the SOTYD method of accelerated depreciation especially when I>2 and I<10. Despite the acceleration, and perhaps counter-intuitive, while SOYD10
maximizes PTP1-3 it minimizes PTP4-10, but just as in LIFO
inventory valuation the continuing positive effect is dependent upon rates of growth in the capitalized asset sector after YR3
factorial, the degree detailed on attached Chart A. Conversely, you can easily see the effects of a reduced capital asset acquisition program, the degree specified in attached Chart B.
So, the question, even using a rudimentary tax neutral model, obviously becomes one of two independent elections; those elections only being allowed one change, moderation or deviation each, is what decision or series of decisions maximizes PTP, which is dependent upon future decisions and random circumstances, assuming that the decision maker is rational.
That matter is currently under study by thirteen teams of well credentialed bean counters, and preliminary results have been widely divergent. This seems to have a mildly statistically
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significant direct relationship with the text book used by the researcher in their freshman year of college.
Until a consensus is reached we will continue to have a proportionate caveat regarding the all-important capital asset pricing model. For the few out there unaware of this definitively utilized model, it places the value of an equity instrument at the expected profit in year 1 divided by 1 plus the expected risk-free interest rate in year one; plus the expected profit in year 2 divided by 1 plus the expected risk free interest rate in year 2 squared; etc. In practicality, this calculation is usually ended by year 20, as by that time the denominator has grown to a number which effectively causes the numerator to be insignificant. However, in unusual times, such as those current; wherein the risk free rate of interest is historically low, the calculation may well be extended. You will no doubt appreciate the need for a precise income calculation.
You might suggest that a solely profit based calculation of the equity value is patently absurd. It may seem obvious that even if the equity entity had no expected income and was therefore indicative of a zero equity valuation, that the assets of the organization; say a tractor or a fleet of them; could be sold, resulting in the attainment of money. You are far from alone,
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but in the minority opinion group. Your assessment is effectually rendered moot through the profit addition and division approach followed by the vast majority.
So, until the bean counting experts can come to some sort of agreement, we are relegated to attempting to do our best with imperfect tools. Further, if and when the bean counters come to some sort of agreement, we will then be obliged to consult with those who claim to have the ability to accurately predict the future risk free interest rate, recognizing that there are irrational political considerations involved. It is undeniably true that through extrapolating the implied appropriate rate for any given time period from the market based price differentials between US treasuries, US mid-term obligations, and US long term bonds works well. In fact it is uncanny in its logic and consistency which can be measured down to the thousandths of a percent. The weakness of this simple calculation is that the answers provided today will not be the same as the answers provided tomorrow. The radical minority take this as evidence of the fallacy in this procedure. However, this approach provides a market unanimity at any given point; and perhaps more importantly, a professional safety in numbers.
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While the aforementioned considerations no doubt seem banal to the casual investor, we here at MotleyTrader.com, spare our customers the tedium of aggregate considerations, trade balance, marginal propensity to save, invest or consume movements, beta scores, standardized and un-standardized deviations, mean as opposed to average expected divergences, currency exchange rates, oil price predictions and considerations, what George Soros is doing through his sock puppets, and whether or not Kramer’s predictions are a contrarian’s paradise.
We gotcha covered. That’s our job. ............”
Stephanie had made a list. She hadn’t done this since she had read “Infinite Jest.” She flipped to the end of the post in search of a glossary. She was enthused about how simple things were. Sure, she needed further amplification to achieve her goals. But, she was pleased with her start, in the simple realization that “Rome wasn’t built in a day.” She knew not to click on the “Open Account” button.
Things were a bit more dour just a few doors away. There was no particular reason. It must have been something in the air; maybe the elm seeds. In a dispassionate voice, Blondie informed anyone who might be within earshot to “Just Go Away.”
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And in a house a block so geographically near yet so many light years apart, sounds emanated from one of the offender’s plastic deference to modernity. Much too late, “Jack’s Lament”
was extracted from Tim Burton’s “The Nightmare Before Christmas.”
Frank’s Bar and Grill
I heard about it while I was sitting in Max’s back room; feeling so outrageous I must have appeared outré. I had no way of knowing as there weren’t any other people there that day and the bartender wasn’t going to say anything which might screw up her tip. I was sure that I was either starting a trend or ending another. I was thinking about going somewhere else myself. Max must have had powerful butt magnets installed under the seat of my chair, as every time I started to get up something pulled me back down. Spiritualists would probably have called it karma, kismet or constipation; but I think it was the magnet. Hey, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Bob Dylan and Patti Smith might have once had their butts right where mine now was. About ten years ago.
You see, the hippy era had been dead for that much time and even the roadies hadn’t been around Max’s for five. The people on the
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A List were more and more flocking to the discos. I was half out of my seat when I thought; “Holy shit. Sam Shepard.”
Carrying a soft covered pulp book titled “True Tales of the Old West,” he waddled in, sat on the stool next to mine, and said; “Hey man, how ya been?”
I thought; “Sam Shepard. Sam Shepard. The Sam Shepard from
‘Buried Child,’ ‘True West,’ Pulitzer and ‘Zabriskie Point’
thinks he knows me?” About a million possibilities passed through my mind in the space of one eye blink. The one I liked and settled on was the one which said that I was an outrageous, trendsetting dude on the A list. So, I decided to play it cool.
I made a fist and did “bones” with Sam, and said; “Hangin’ in there, man. Lookin’ for a place where they don’t shine those goddam lights on ya all the time.”
“Tell me about it. I’m afraid that I’m gonna get a brain seizure from the blare of the flickers.”
“’Blare of the flickers.’ Love it. Mind if I use it?”
“Hell, no. I’ll probably forget it by the time I get home anyway. What are you workin’ on now?”
“Hard to describe. It’s a little Chandler noir criminal, a little Altman everyday boring, a little Wallace mixed voice metaphor, a little ...........................”
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“Awesome. Far fuckin’ out. I’m doin’ this goof thing. Off-off Broadway stage production. Producer wants a cowboy story mixed with horror. Can you dig that?”
“Luddite.”
“My exact words. Er, word. Bartender, bring me some whiskey.”
Since the eighteen year old female did not know anyone who did not sport a green Mohawk, wear earrings, display tatoos or carry a boom box, she sauntered over slowly and said; “I don’t know who the fuck you think you are; but you’re a rude old man; and I want to hear a polite please.”
He was a little smashed, threw the book at the potted ficus tree and said “Bullshit.”
“Let me tell ya’ about the real old west. Let me bore you for the next six or seven minutes with what I got to make this thing either meaningful or a total loss. I don’t want any middling shit. You know what I mean?”
“Yeah. As a matter of fact I was just tellin’ my agent that
.............”
“Right on, brother. Okay. So can I impose on you to ......”
Taking a cue from Sam, I cut him off and said; “You should know by now that you don’t have to ask, man. I’d love to hear it. Just be aware that I might say something derogatory.”
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“Goes without saying. That nicey-nicey shit is for the flouncing, insecure rookies and it doesn’t do anybody any good anyway.”
“Play on brother.” I was proud of that one. I felt so cool that if Johnny Depp was there, I’d have asked him to use his guitar to back up my band. Before I had the opportunity to totally freak, Sam started his story.
“’Frank’s Bar and Grill’ was the name locals had given to a run-down commercial establishment on the outskirts of Propriety, Montana. Little too obvious, right?”
“Maybe, maybe not. Depends on what follows. Keep on.”
“The illusory, former private dwelling of six rooms sat thirty feet from the banks of a rapid section of the Yellowstone River. The constant hammer of the rushing water often drowned out the bar-room conversations, but no one complained. If they did no one heard it.”
“Nice.”
“Thanks. Frank’s didn’t advertise. The house didn’t even have a sign. Some people just seemed to know that it was there.
Any questions about how they knew were answered with a shrug.
The Gunsight Mountains circled around cross river, putting Frank’s in the shade twenty-three hours a day; twenty four when the sun got stuck behind the clouds. The green mildew was in love with the white painted clapboard siding.
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The man behind the bar counter was the same man flipping the grilled burgers, mopping up the vomit, smiling and nodding at the conversations; and his name was not Frank. People considered him a jack of all trades. So, they called him Jack, and he made no objections.
Jack had bigger things to worry about than his name. The stench emanating from the back room was getting bad enough that some of the drunks were beginning to appear as though they had nasal disorders. Being there all day, Jack was becoming subject to periodic gagging fits.
He figured it was high time to dispose of the dead bodies.
Now, this may initially sound like a stupid situation, but Jack had his good reasons. Dimwit Billy Custer started the whole mess. He was a regular, and after he’d down six or seven doubles he’d start carryin’ on about how those damn Injuns hoodwinked his great-great-great-great-great grand-daddy, sometimes having one or two more or less greats in the familial description.
Problem was that Dimwit was always packin’ and sometimes Victorio Bigcloud, an Apache with a temper which only mellowed some with age would be there at the same time getting’ his load on. Dim didn’t know that Victorio was an Apache name and figured him for a short, squat, dark-skinned Latino. Dim didn’t have no problem with Latinos, maybe ‘cause he had a few girlfriends who
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were Mexican. Anyway, one day Victorio had had it up to his tattoo with Dim’s slanderous comments. He got up off his seat, walked over to Dim, and yelled in his face; ‘That great-great-great-great-great grand-daddy of yours was as stupid and mean as you are. I’m proud that my people killed him. I wish they had tortured him to death slowly. Now what the fuck are you gonna do about it bitch?’ Dim pulled out his pistol, fired it, and the bullet came out the other side of Victorio’s head, making a bigger splash than when it went in.
Jack figured that he had a situation on his hands. His clientele had been declining and he needed all the business he could get. He had a dead Native American on the floor which he didn’t want to report to the authorities because the licensing Nazis had already been threatening to close Frank’s just because of alleged unsanitary conditions, the card games, and the undercover agent who claimed that someone lifted his wallet while he was there. He didn’t think that he had a good shot at surviving an added charge regarding violence.
He figured he had one thing in his favor; and one thing against him. The three, arguably now two, were the only ones in the place and that it looked like he was in for a super-sized mop job. The bad news was that he had lost another customer; and the good news was that if he played it right, he might keep the other.
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So, he went over to shaking Dim, put one arm around his shoulder, and took his pistol with his hand kerchiefed other, and said; ‘It’s all right, son. Shit happens. No way to avoid that. Sides, he was in his fifties, and the way he’d been drinkin’ he wasn’t gonna last a whole lot longer anyway.
Probably did him a favor giving him a quick, painless death.
Nuff said about that. Point is what are we gonna do about it now? I can take care of the corpus dilecti, but I want you to promise me one thing. I want you to promise me that you’ll never kill anybody else here at Franks’. I’m not getting’ all preachery moral about the whole thing. I don’t care if you kill ten others. Fucks’re gonna die anyway. I just want you to promise not to do it here. Okay?’
Dim said; ‘You’re givin’ me my gun back, right?’
‘Yes, sir. You steady enough to hold it now.’
‘YES, SIR.’ Dim took his gun and marched out.
Jack figured that the back room was his best option as nobody ever went there. Any good?”
“It’s all right. But, I think you can get more impact if you open it with the shooting and do the reasoning in retrospect.”
“It’s only a matter of a page or two.”
“That makes it easy to change. I wouldn’t have said anything other than ‘good idea’ except that some of the assholes
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today got a thing about chronology. In some circles it’s like if you tell the story in sequence, there’s automatically something deficient. Personally, I don’t give a flying fuck about those circles, but in this case it’s so short it’s easy to fix. More importantly, everyone needs a quick fix. To start them out with an unexplained bullet up somebody’s ass gets their attention.”
“You’re thinking mass market. This is going to be off-off Broadway. You know, like in somebody’s loft with about thirty attending; and each of them thinks that they are the coolest, most sophisticated thing alive.”
“Since the internet the markets are merging, right?”
“Some say so. Some say the opposite. Franzen’s been calling a marginalization for more than a decade.”
“He’s also pronounced the death of the novel, and then proceeds to write more of them.”
“Tricky guy. I’m kind of confused. What the fuck were we talking about?”
“I don’t know. Fuck it. You were somewhere around the dead body and the back room.”
“Yeah, you know like Jack wanted to hide this dead body without getting famous in the process. He could have taken a shot at dragging it outside and burying it, but he was right near the river. Often people walk or camp there and sometimes you can’t even see them. He concluded that it was safer to keep
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the body in this spare room he had, which no one else has access to. He planned to wait for a cold night in the dead of winter to do the hauling and excavation, when no one was likely to be there.
For a few weeks things were proceeding nicely, but then one afternoon the same goddam thing happened. Jack wasn’t paying any attention to the two patrons, until he heard the gunshot. Robby O’Brien was holding his sawed off, and standing over the sprawled body of Nate Page; Nate’s head now pretty much all over the place. Jack knew that he should have been much more diligent in his surveillance as everyone knew that Robby’s sister, Lazy Susan, had taken up with Nate. Even though it was an on and off thing that was no new news, Robby being as white and Irish as Henry McKenna’s Pureblend, he should have been paying some attention; as Nate was rumored to have had some black slave blood in him. His complexion was dark; though that could have been a function of his job. A cowboy is out in the sun and wind all day, every day. Be that as it may, impressions become the reality and Robby had apparently had it with Nate’s comings and goings.
Jack walked the ten feet to Robby. They both stared at what was left of Nate for a few seconds. Jack said; “Don’t think he’s getting’ up again, do you?”
‘Nah, think I took care of that.’
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‘Had to do it right in my place, right?’
‘ .................... ‘
‘I mean I’m not getting’ all kinds of moral over it. Shit happens. It’s just kind of disrespectful to do it right here.
You know, I don’t need to be involved with your stuff. Gives me problems.’
‘Sorry Jack. Kind of lost it when he started grinnin’ and talkin’ about how much he liked getting’ his dick sucked for hours.’
‘He said that to you?’
‘Yeah, swear to god.’
‘Shit. That’s understandable then. Damn. ......... Tell you what. Still got a problem. Gotta get rid of that body and do a major sized clean up. It gets kind of lonely here sometimes. I can try to fix it all up if you can fix me up with Lazy Susan.’
‘I guess I can do that. She’s a nice girl; you know what I mean?’
‘Oh, yeah, yeah. Wouldn’t have it any other way. .......
Sides, you wouldn’t want the lawmen to find this body, I suspect.’
Things were looking up for Jack. He cleaned up the place and threw Nate’s headless body on top of Victorio’s. Lazy Susan didn’t prove to be one of those trophy girls one goes parading
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all over town. In fact her face had a somewhat strangely drawn appearance as she didn’t have any teeth. But, she had the greatest of personalities. Jack had a wonderful spring, summer, and early fall; spending hours at a clip with her; while he came to know and love her face.
All too soon, winter started to work its way into the scene. The coldness seemed anxious to establish its jealous presence. Jack was reminded of the body burying chores he had planned for this time; and was now not looking forward to them.
He delayed his as long as he could. His problem was that the two dead bodies, formerly known as Victorio and Nate, were now so decomposed that they melted into each other and the stench was stronger than an opened septic tank. One frigid evening he attached chains to the clinging torsos and dragged them outside.
By the time he had gotten them to a suitable burial spot the dark sky decided to be un-cooperative. It first bellowed a cacophony of rumbling warnings and then followed up the threat with shocking lightning strikes on Gunsight Mountain across the rushing Yellowstone River. Then a bolt shook the ground a foot from Jack as it struck the carcasses, illuminating them at the discernable edges.
Jack mumbled; ‘Shit. God must be even madder at me than usual.’
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Victorio’s eyes opened and he said; ‘Daddy?’
Jack left the shovel and hightailed it back to Jack’s, locking the door behind him. Soon there was an insistent knock.
Jack ignored it until the voice said; ‘I can break this down with three hands tied behind my back. So, do yourself a favor and open up. We’ve got some talkin’ to do.’
Jack figured that if the door got broken down the house would soon be filled with zero degree air; and that he would consequently freeze to death. The voice sounded somewhat reasonable and controlled; and since the brain had been dead for a few months, Jack figured that he could fool the monster, if necessary. He opened it and in walked what would be initially known as Vicanate. He walked right past Jack and took a seat at the bar saying; ‘Bring me a double rum and coke.’
Jack walked behind the bar and said; ‘That can be a little tough on the stomach. Yours ain’t in the greatest shape to begin with and I don’t feel like cleanin’ up a mess.’
‘This is all your fault, you know.’
‘My fault? If you didn’t have to go mouthing off at Dim and Robby you’d be fine.’
‘Granted, you’ve got a small point there, but it’s what happened after that which is the source of all my problems; and you’re responsible in entirety for that.’
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‘How the hell was I supposed to know that lightning was going to strike? That’s clearly an act of God. Even the insurance companies get out of paying on that one.’
‘The insurance companies have better lawyers than you do.
Bring me that fucking double rum and coke or you will shortly be seeing another act of God.’
‘I think you have some anger issues to deal with.’
Vicante stood up and Jack said; ‘All right. All right. But, you’re going to be very sorry later and I’m not cleaning it up.’
Jack brought him his drink and added; ‘Mind if I join you?’
‘Of course not. Be my guest.’
‘Does the mean that you’re paying?’
Vicante took a long swig and said; ‘Oooh, that does feel a little strange. And of course I’m not paying. You took all the money out of my pockets. You have some nerve.’
‘Sorry. Hey, you know when you’re one step ahead of the bill collector, you do some things you wouldn’t have otherwise done.’
‘Yeah, cool; I guess. To decide whose fault this whole thing is serves no purpose, though I believe that the majority of the negligence was done by you.’
‘If you’re trying to lead into one of those proportional settlements, just forget about it. I’m not insured and I haven’t even paid for last month’s liquor delivery yet.’
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‘Damn. I may as well turn off the mike. But, I want to talk over a few things. I’ve got some very real problems.’
‘Problems? The world is your oyster, Vic. Mind if I call ya Vic?’
‘Not at all, Jack. I find colloquialisms endearing.’
‘Thank you. But, point of order; I didn’t know that a name could be a colloquialism. A familiarity or a hypocoristic, perhaps.’
‘Would you like to get punched by four fists?’
‘See, there’s that anger thing again. If you’re interested I do know an excellent therapist. But, as I was saying, you’ve got every advantage. You have two of everything the rest of us have one of. .......... Well, except a head. ....... But, that’s the most over-rated part of the body anyway. We might even be better off with none at all. Think about all the female attention you’ll get.’
‘Easier said than done. I’ve been wearing the same unwashed clothes for months. I don’t even know if I can get them off because they’re stuck to me. And I haven’t taken a bath since last spring.’
‘I didn’t want to mention it. You know they sell these extra strength colognes now.’
‘Yeah, and everybody thinks you’re gay if you wear them.’
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‘True. But that’s acceptable now. In fact some people consider it the height of fashion.’
‘Yeah, in the boonies. But, that’s not all. I’m going to get stared at everywhere I go. I’m a sensitive soul, and I just know that they’re going to be pointing fingers and laughing. I won’t be able to stand it. This bullying thing has really gotten out of hand recently.’
‘I don’t know what to say. It’s absolute insanity. They say all these things in the safety of their group. If you say something back, the group says you started it. Can’t win. Want a refill?’
‘Yeah. I don’t know what to do. I’m twice as big, need twice the amount of food, and who’s going to give me a job?
Rents have gone sky high ever since that damn telegraph company moved in.’
‘It’s not going to be easy, I know. Listen, you’re a pretty good guy. If you ever desperately need a place to stay, I’ve got some extra room here. You probably don’t know this, but Lazy Susan O’Brien has been coming around here regularly, and she’s kind ok kinky and not too particular. She’d probably go absolutely wild if we had a foursome. What a sight, huh?’
Vic smiled broadly. He reached his right hand across the bar and Jack nodded and shook it. Vic simultaneously put his other three hands around Jack’s neck and squeezed until Jack
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drooped like a rag. With the storm still raging Vic dragged Jack’s body out to where Jack had intended to bury him and put Jack in the hole and covered him with dirt; thinking that lightning never struck the same place twice. He was right.
He went in and took a survey of his new home. He now had an answer to some of his problems. He wouldn’t have killed Jack for this reason alone. It was just that he was a bit of a sexual prude, and just got totally grossed out by Jack’s idea of a foursome with Lazy Susan O’Brien. He wanted her all to himself and he had this anger issue.
Things proved to work well for him, excepting one. He had a bit of a problem getting used to seeing Sue go nuts over Nate’s dark thingy, but in time it got to be something he really felt good with about her. The patrons took to calling him Frank; never telling him that this was because they thought he looked like Frankenstein. Given all the problems he might have had, Vis didn’t mind at all, thinking that the place was finally correctly named.”
I said; “Whew. Awesome, man.”
“Yeah. Really liked it? How about that beginning?”
“Yes sir; and leave that beginning alone. After I heard the rest it fit right into place. This is gonna get you another award.”
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“Thanks. Hey, you know Lazy Susan is waiting over at my place. Maybe you’d like to come over and get better acquainted.”
This was just too good to be true. It was the greatest day of my life. I proudly walked the few blocks with Sam, hoping that we were recognized by everyone, except Vic.
A Radically Condensed, Post-Industrial Snippet Overheard in a Cutting Edge Artificial Intelligence Research Bastion
“Blank screen. Juice is on, right?”
“Yeah. Checked the battery before this re-boot. Damn thing was working ten minutes ago.”
“Well, ummm. Are we supposed to wait like until it gets in the mood or something like that before it does anything?”
“It was working ten minutes ago.”
“Well?”
“ ............................”
“What?”
“I’ve been trying not to bring this up. But, it’s really your fault, you know?”
“My fault? I haven’t moved any of the cables, nor have I played with any of the software.”
“^%&)#!<&^%”
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The Entirety of an Engine Room Chill
“Fuckin’ pilot went out again.”
“Been blowin’ on the damn thing?”
“I don’t get it. Am I supposed to?”
“Now I don’t get it. Sometimes you’re supposed to and sometimes you’re not.”
“That’s helpful.”
“Whose fantasy is this shit about?”
“Fantasy? I’m fuckin’ freezin’”
“All right. I’ll get one of those long ass matches.”
“You and I both wish.”
“What in hell are you listening to?” said Patricia Primstation as she entered the living room.
“I don’t know. Something out of season I guess.”
“Silly boy. Let’s try the news.”
Shrug.
Patricia said; “We’ve got to get away from this thing,” and shut down the computer. The device with which she replaced it with was the Cable TV.
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The visuals were ones of milling people carrying makeshift signs. The audio was provided by a British gent, perhaps serious and perhaps trying out for the Monty Python revival.
“With great difficulty, as you all know the funding has been challenging at best since Ms. Thatcher’s reign, the BBC has determined that riots; which some have claimed to have been
‘false flag’ operations performed by rogue elements of MI6, and which those same some, perhaps, in the interest of accuracy, one should say similar some, reject as yet another government inspired misnomer broke out this morning in Piccadilly Circus when ‘The Rising Sun,’ now an internet tabloid, which recently changed its name from ‘The Communist Worker’s Party Gazette,’
according to un-named insiders as being done to reportedly avoid further embarrassment, announced that their sole remaining investigative reporter, Reginald Leach, was in the process of finalizing a report, based on his on-line perusal of US Security and Exchange Commission (SEC) files, as well as an interview with rebel CPA Edward Snowflake, formerly of the firm of Lockhart, Dedfield and Rothschild, now at an un-disclosed location; and that that report is alleged to state that the US
based monolith which is ordinarily referred to as
‘AmawayOnSteroids ’ was actually incorporated in the US in 1984
under the name ‘Alpha Omega Syndicate,’ with one utilizing the obviously joke name of Jay Bozos claiming 100% of the issued and
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outstanding common stock, to be soon passed off on the astute investing market, which ostensibly has resulted in the fifty strong carriers of placards, upon each of which has been invariably inscribed; ‘Try Jet,’ ‘Fly Jet,’ ’Go Jet,’ or ‘Was your mother as cold as a Sergeant Major?”
Patricia said; “Rebel CPA? ................. Oxymoronic; no?”
“Yeah. ...... No. ............ Comedy. ......... Tragedy.
You know, it’s just the same old UK trying to sound superior in the country which has owned them since Roosevelt; I’m not sure which one. Shuuuush. Let’s watch some more. I’ve got a feeling this is the Brit retort which they’d like to appear to be a clever reply to ‘The Daily Show,’ but in rude reality is actually a belated copy of ‘That Was the Week that Was.’ What may be unintentional humor disguised as purposely displayed as un-intentional humor may actually be intentional humor or actual news to some. Perhaps we need the elucidation provided by an indie critic. We’ll google irrelevant obscurity later.”
Patricia followed with words which seemed to signal annoyance with the TV, but not her husband, when she added;
“What’s the big to do about a name? A rose would smell as sweet et cetera, et cetera. It has a s much relevance as pointing out on national ‘news’ that my maiden name was Blaze-Provocutress;
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and that my incandescent parents made use of both. I mean really. How absurd and simultaneously boring can things get?”
“Damn, Pat. We missed some. Let the Brit shit go on a bit more. You know that with the push of one little button we can get rid of the lame cuties any time we want.”
Patricia was not certain of the accuracy of the things her husband had said, but at the bottom line decided that what was on screen was done much more professionally and proceeded to focus her eyes and ears on the high definition pixel machine.
On the screen, the voice over the hundred feet trudging through the tundra said; “Yes, you may have correctly guessed it. It has been a slow news day and our writers have once again gotten playful at my expense.”
The camera followed the invisible voice toward the demonstrators. One with orange hair and a reticent tank top, with snot where her safety pin used to be sided up to the camera; with the same overly obvious, attempting-to-be-seen-as-mysterious, facial expression of the tattooed sphinx.
“You are a demonstrator here, yes?”
“What do you mean by demonstrator? .......... Fuck it.
Never mind. Yeah, I guess.”
“Well, whatever. What is this all about?”
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“If you don’t already know, I can’t possibly tell ya. You should be ashamed of yourself. You sound as if you’re over forty.”
“You’re much too kind. So tell me, what is it you want to get out of this?”
“I came here to meet some hot guys, and you’re not one of them.” She skipped back to the procession.
“So, there you have it. The mystery of the Piccadilly riots continues.”
The screen blipped for a nano-second and a reluctant camera slowly moved over the blasted interior of an elementary school in Santa Fe. “ISIS has taken credit ..................”
Patricia shut the TV and emphatically stated; “I don’t care what you say. I’m not watching this. This could not possibly be amusing to even Hannibal the Cannibal. The whole thing seems so stupid and counter-productive. I mean we bomb the terrorists and they bomb us back. Our drones hit hospitals operated by ‘Doctors Without Borders,’ and then our officials tell us that there has been zero collateral damage. Come on now. Independent sources say that the number is 70%. And that ISIS piece of shit takes credit for ‘masterminding’ innocent casualties. The US creates future terrorists through their arbitrary mayhem. And ISIS gives rise to anti-Muslim actions. You know, years ago somebody came
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up with the acronym ‘MAD,’ mutually assured destruction.
However, they thought that we needed to use nuclear energy to accomplish that. The geniuses of 2016 have found an alternative methodology. It just drags things out and maximizes the suffering.
Title: A Brief Obligatory Intense Aside, Chosen for the Restrained Devotees of What’s Not There Complimenting What Is;and What is There Paying Lip Service to What is Not; Routine Unfeasibility, Adorned and Exposed; Also Known As Magical Realism; an Untitled Measured Response to the Dearth Bound Plethora of Abundantly Absent and Silent Interrogations; Suitable for the Rejection of Literary Murakami, Illustrated Gaiman, and Overly Overt Rushdie; Comedic and Hateful in their Seriousness and Love The cool sun was aghast in its un-robotically, requisite, blasé, progressive retreat as it spread its ardent wings over the peripatetic Crimean Sea above it. The socially maladroit maritime fixture deafeningly fired weakly from its rippling interior, the non-resultant smoke incandescence, previously known only in the Arctic, producing no effect on the planet which did not exist below, as it evinced the faintest of flagrant falsetto flags, strongly indicative of the bounty of nothing. “All too obviously fake. It’s all wrong in its correctness,” screamed Orpheus Mictlantecuhtli, as he played a
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lullaby yet another morning with his melodious lack of song. His entreaty of; “Wake up; it has ended,” was not answered with a thunderously diminished reply of; “Go to sleep, dummy. It has started.” Sixteen libidinous vestal virgin sisters who were biologically un-related, were introduced to eight disassociated brothers, and in unison echoed that they knew them very well.
The brothers nodded affirmatively to the lie. The twenty four loners remained together, joined hands and danced off separately.
The Invisible Man was seen as he resurrected from an extended life. His passé attire enlightened the demi monde habituates, resplendent in their well-travelled, Neil Armstrong-Pillsbury dough boy, stay-at-home housedresses. The Visible Man wrapped himself in the covert au natural and effectively rapped out a down ditty in a fashion prophetic of the past thing to come. He didn’t do okay for a white boy from Bed-Stuy. The Japanese audience swooned and clapped in their derision, leaving for an encore.
“What about me?” implored Orpheus Mictlantecuhtli; his face contorted in an agony which evinced a joyful disinterest. The seated Bacchantes made a production of sitting down and made their presence unknown. They spread their un-decorated legs, revealing the hidden embellishment. The chaste, skillful, experienced black one at the center of the eight said; “Come and
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don’t get it. We all misplaced something right here for you.”
They mirthlessly giggled as Orpheus backtracked to get closer in search of an eagle’s long range perspective. His failure was fruitful. As he ate he drank from his black coffee cup and offered everyone tea.
Jack rejoiced in his depressing inability to discover the openly observable source of his loss for words; which he articulated at length for the benefit of catnapping Justice; his alert doggie. Seeing the heat through the kitchen window; he bundled up and went inside.
Charming Antiquity
“Benny P. was all the rage.
Just wait. It’s there. On the hundredth page.
The dead time just stokes.
While the obvious provokes.
An easy turn from the Thompson.
Hidden lust for wage.
The school girls have a fleeting romance.
With a book which won’t fit in their pants.
It was once much, much too rude to point.
Toward the salamander.
Ensconced at the joint.
It all could be too easily dismissed.
As the regurgitation of Bunuel’s ants.
Mr. National Book Award now betrays his station.
With a naïve hood in worship of fornication.
His loud soliloquies are artfully phonic.
It would be much too unkind to say oxymoronic.
It is the edge which does bleed.
Not able to distinguish a need.
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From the sack on the back of a Haitian.”
A Quantum Mechanically Induced Regurgitation in the Key of G
The totally un-disciplined, as that word is defined in the sense of genre, writer has stumbled across a Goofreads Quantum Mechanics thread which has piqued his interest. It would appear that some of the participants are not on the same page of the book. So, in the interest of rational communication mixed with a desire for harmony and personally having little else to do, the writer seeks to instill a common ground through the rationality of being wrong.
It seems readily apparent the thread participants here are seeking an answer to the ultimate question. I will gladly take some time away from my non-schedule and attempt to be of assistance with that matter in brief. The answer is that “Two is true to the power of infinity minus one.”
Mathematically deficient participants may be more comfortable with the verbal description. Two, the duality if you will, is at the core of every thought or action, until at the zenith it morphs into a singularity. I believe that this is the root cause of the confusion.
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Retreating from the world of theory into the world of flawed observations of the physical world, David Foster Wallace depicted this concept in “Brief Encounters with Hideous Men.”
The singularity, which has morphed from the duality at the peak, is the closed window which has gone opaque from the contrast between the heat inside and cold outside.
To be even more “real,” in his personal life he chose to leave the place which bored the bejesus out of him, utilizing a rope; not subject to the possibility of empty chambers and statistically significant malfunctions. His calculations were very likely to have been that through the utilization of the rope he had a 50% chance of entering another, but more personally satisfactory world of “Two is true to the power of infinity minus one.” You will note that the odds are against him, though infinitesimally so. This is a testimony to more faith than is apparent anywhere else. In addition to his well-known library appearances, he spent a great deal of time in church.
On a more biased and personal point of view basis, he was seeking to enter a world in which he did not physically as well
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as metaphorically smash Mary Karr’s glass cocktail table at her feet.
See, this is the shit, man. Can you dig that The Man was cursed with the desire for that one, that fuckin’ MK singularity. We all know he had access to a lot of other bitches, hoes, baby mamas, drama mamas and various sundries; but unlike most indifferent male seekers of any hole, he had a thing for this one.
Hey, who the fuck asked you for any advice, Pedro? Every stupid mofo gotta put their two cents in. You ain’t on the net now, man. Fuck you, pretentious jackass. Sheeeeit. Where the fuck was I? Oh, yeah, Mary Karr. You know this soul sista is an artist with eclectic tastes. All Davey the Walrus wanted to do was be with Mary and dig on her beautiful art, like all the fuckin’
time. Unowhumsayin? The rest of the shit is kinda “take it or leave it,” right? So, like this great humanitarian, tell me what the fuck that means, would give up everything here just for an against the odds shot at something else. Yeah, he worked the odds down as far as he knew how to take them, but still ......
that ain’t any kind of fault. In my dreams I see him with Mary and they were able to work out the fucking details this time.
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Shit man, I’m outta here. Pedro, go bother somebody else, all right? I’m talkin’ some serious shit here. Dummy.
P.S. This shit took me a long time to do. I mean, like I had to re-work it like all morning to make it sound proper and all of that. They censor everything nowadays. But, like okay, let’s get real. I put it down and now I’m relying on my trust in you.
Things are reciprocal or they are not. So, I want you reviewers to say that you’ve read the next book I turn out, if I ever get the time to edit the last 200 pathetic pages. It’s called “Blasé Eight.” It’s a confusing, long assed piece of stupid shit which makes quantum mechanics seem to be sophistry, or not. ........
No value judgements. Nowhumsayin? If you do, please inform moi, as to what that is in your section of the multiverse. I’d like the small courtesy of you saying the eloquent equivalent of the putdown with one little star on there somewhere. See, ‘cause then I’m gonna take a hold of my old lady and we’re gonna trip out into one of the parallel worlds in which your reviews are top notch, five stars and superlatives on the shit, and you got your millions of followers to pay for the fuckin’ mess. Dig?
Yeah, negotiation is always an option. You can have the movie rights on the next one. Hey, you know damn well that the best indication of commercial value is what the last one did. Come on, man. I need this one. See, I ain’t one of those greedy ass
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muthas. If you would just say how awful it is, then Diane and me can get to Carmel and we can spend the rest of our lives in great weather hangin’ with the stars.
Is that askin’ a lot for the answer to the whole fuckin’ thing or more accurately things? ........... Most of the time.
........ Never mind. This could go on forever. Yo!
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#20- Another Sunday Stasis; an Almost Interminable One A Play in Six Acts With Digressions, Asides and Various Inconsequential Forms of Ephemera
“Get up, get up Ty,” The sun is up. It’s Sunday. It’s warm.
No work. No meetings. Just us. Get out from under that blanket.”
“Say no more.”
Jack had been wondering about how the book publishing industry operated. His naïve entry into it carried an unconscious belief that if the book was good it would be found.
Hell, the popular movie said; “Build it and they will come,” and that proved to be true on celluloid. But now, he was entertaining some doubts which his paltry experience had kindled. The more he thought about it the madder he got. Was this noble endeavor essentially different from the worlds of business, internet sales and communications, and police work?
Surely, to openly communicate the personal confessions covered in “Real Cops” had a value not seen since the days of the early episodes of “Barney Miller.” He searched the net for answers and in so doing found a book titled “For Unduly Curbed Kindle Electronic Monographers; a Literary Liturgy,” by one Edward
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Drobinski. Jack sensed that the subject was going to be glossed over as is the norm. However, the price was right. Of most importance it was freely downloadable from AmawayOnSteroids, so he thought; “What have I got to lose?” He quickly followed that thought with another. “Since AOS is the dominant player in the book market, the fact that this book was being made available through them, could well suggest that the book would likely be one which gave the impression of being radical, but would prove in essence to be an apologist for the powers that be.” You never know until you read the direction of the first ten pages.
Unlikely as it was, he thought that it was also possible that the book might have flown or waddled under the AOS algorithmic radar.
In substance the Nabokov influenced title was a modestly sized book which was originally contained within the borders of a much longer one. It was purported to be of some interest to writers and other un-decipherable malcontents. This was appropriate, as he had a minimalistic claim to the former and an abundance of credentials regarding the latter. Jack thought;
“Fuck it,” and tried the freebie.
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FOR UNDULY CURBED KINDLE
ELECTRONIC MONOGRAPHERS; a
Literary Liturgy
By
Edward Drobinski
Copyright © 2016 by Edward M. Drobinski All rights reserved
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Foreword
The opening paragraph to my first “Foreword” which survived two edits said the following, “Anyone not engaged in the writing of indie books will have absolutely no interest whatsoever in this book. In fact, those only interested in reading would likely not want to be aware of some of this. Some might even be offended. In my brief experience in the world of books, I have seen that most aspiring indie writers do not want to hear this either. I am not one sufficiently presumptuous to tell anyone else what to do with their life. However, I find it a compelling urge to inform swimmers of the depth of the pool and where the sharks are hiding BEFORE they take the dive.”
It was during the third edit when I realized that I had unintentionally made a broader statement. The indie writer’s difficulties in the corrupted world of publishing; with its scams, poor information, use of free or below-minimum-wage labor, monopolies, censorship, duplicity, the manner in which it has successfully encouraged those at the lower end of the pay scale to fight each other, and its obscene way of channeling 99%
of the revenue to 1% of the workers is emblematic of USA 2016.
While the specifics of the publishing industry is likely of no interest to anyone not a part of it, some may be able to look at it and say; “Yeah, that’s the same kind of crap they’re doing to
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me at the bank,” or the factory or the store. I grew up during the 50’s, 60’s and 70’s, and if someone had told me then what it would be like now, I’d have dismissed them, perhaps utilizing a rude word. I’m a believer in capitalism; no communist sympathies here. I guess that what I’m complaining about is the quiet establishment of a monarchy in the US.
This short book attempts two things. The first is to be dryly humorous; and the second is to be informative. “Factoids”
which are stated are not footnoted as they do not come from any one source and are not direct quotes. As the book publishing industry is one inundated with secrets and bad information the
“factoids” are the result of 18 months of personal investigation and experience with various people, websites and business magazines. Therefore, since I’ve used a conglomeration of sources; when I say $500, the actual correct number, if ascertainable, may well be $700. Most sources have slightly divergent estimates of this highly secretive industry. In their contexts, I don’t believe that the possible differences are significant in the least.
At this point, I’d like to assure those who have made their own investigations that I have no intention of offering you any fee-based services to help you sell your book, have no interest in doing so, and never will. My personal belief is that with the
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possible exception of formatting help, that none of the book service providers are worth your money or time. Further, I am as lame-o with a computer as anyone can be, and if I can figure out the few things necessary to format a book properly, anyone can.
So, you astutely ask, why did I write this book? The honest reply is that I didn’t intend to. It just worked out that this book is a relatively small part of a larger book which will be a total of somewhere between 800 and 900 pages, and fits a tangent to the plotline for one of the characters. This book is available on AmawayOnSteroids; and will be available for free one or two days every month; corresponding with the five maximum allowable free days per quarter allowed under AmawayOnSteroids policy.
God, I hope the rest of the book is funnier than this opening.
Last disclosure. Dammit. I would like to see even David Foster Wallace try to find something funny in this kind of crap.
Some have heard a few of the things contained in this book and have found them discouraging. I don’t think that they should be taken that way and that is far from my intent. Writing can be a wonderful, fun and occasionally lucrative pursuit. However, unless you have an established, calculable fan base, it ranks next to Bronx gold mining as the worst way to come up with the necessary rent money. At book end, I offer some positive ideas
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you can implement at no cost, which you probably have not read elsewhere, which might help book sales.
I’m a retired commercial banker, having worked in NYC, and I started writing fiction about five years ago as a hobby. I’ve written 20 fictional books and have personally spent some time on AmawayOnSteroids top 20 and top 100 selling author’s lists.
Actually very little time is a bit more accurate; though it is a disservice to one’s self to admit such things in an industry rife with bragging liars people choose to believe. These AOS
best seller lists are updated hourly and if you want to know the truth, I didn’t spend enough time near the top to make the mortgage payment in my best month; though four of them were twice in the top 25.
So, if any of you know how to get books sold and are willing to tell me how free of charge I’d love to hear about it.
Please understand. I don’t care about the money, but I’m married and ........ well, you know how that tune goes. So please, please; you can write stuff in the “discussions” section on any the book’s or my personal AOS page. ............. Ah, never mind. If you knew how to do that you could get a job at The Hachette Group, replete with a mid-six figure salary and the right to make your own hours.
Legal notice; make note. The characters depicted in this book are entirely fictitious. Any resemblance to a real person;
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alive, dead, or somewhere in between, is entirely coincidental and is likely the result of that person’s personal over-estimation of themselves. Likewise; any resemblance to a real institution; alive, dead or somewhere in between, is entirely coincidental and is likely the result of that institution’s over-estimation of its own value coupled with that institution’s knack in obtaining free labor and advertising.
A Monty Python “nudge, nudge” to the dear reader.
Finally, you should be aware that while in the writer’s opinion they are not totally irrelevant, the first thirteen chapters of this book have been occasionally characterized by the “overly fastidious, yet kind-hearted, contingent” as
“rambling” or some other derivation of that term; while the few members of the “vulgar, mean-spirited contingent” have, I believe incorrectly, used terms like confused, incoherent, digressive, and even shaggy. For those of you with time limitations, I direct you to Chapters 14, 15 and 16; which in 15-20 pages tell you all of the potentially useful things I know about selling books and the current market conditions for books in January, 2016. Chapter 16 devoted entirely to little known methods you can implement for free. ............ You may well know that the answers are always in the back of the book. But, this time you are not required to turn the book upside down to read them.
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I hope you have a good time and get a few laughs from the book which never intended to be.
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