The Moon-shot Scandal
A SIGNIFICANT DIFFERENCE between Soviet and American space efforts has been the constant spotlight of public attention focused on the latter, while our antagonist’s program has been carried forward in relative secrecy. This has presented tremendous disadvantages, especially in its psychological effect on the national-mind, and it harbors a dangerous potential indeed. If, for example, in climax to the usual fanfare and nationally televised countdown, the spacecraft simply explodes, veers out crazily into the crowd, or burrows deep into the earth at the foot of the launching-pad, it can be fairly embarrassing to all concerned. On the other hand, it is generally presumed, because of this apparent and completely above-board policy, that everything which occurs in regard to these American spaceshots is immediately known by the entire public. Yet can anyone really be naive enough to believe that in matters so extraordinarily important an attitude of such simple-minded candor could obtain? Surely not. And the facts behind the initial moon-shot, of August 17, 1961, make it a classic case in point, now that the true story may at last be told.
Readers will recall that the spacecraft, after a dramatic countdown, blazed up from its pad on full camera; the camera followed its ascent briefly, then cut to the tracking-station where a graph described the arc of its ill-fated flight. In due time it became evident that the rocket was seriously off course, and in the end it was announced quite simply that the craft had “missed the moon” by about two-hundred thousand miles—by a wider mark, in fact, than the distance of the shot itself. What was not announced—either before, during, or after the shot—was that the craft was manned by five astronauts. Hoping for a total coup, the Space Authority-highest echelon of the Agency—had arranged for a fully crewed flight, one which if successful (and there was considerable reason to believe that it would be) would then be dramatically announced to an astonished world: “Americans on the Moon!” Whereas, if not successful, it would merely remain undisclosed that the craft had been manned. The crew, of course, was composed of carefully screened volunteers who had no dependents, or living relatives.
So, in one room of the tracking-station—a room which was not being televised—communications were maintained throughout this historic interlude. Fragmented transcripts, in the form of both video and acoustic tapes, as well as personal accounts of those present, have now enabled us to piece together the story—the story, namely, of how the moon-bound spaceship, “Cutie-Pie II,” was caused to careen off into outer space, beyond the moon itself, when some kind of “insane faggot hassle,” as it has since been described, developed aboard the craft during early flight stage.
According to available information, Lt. Col. P. D. Slattery, a “retired” British colonial officer, co-captained the flight in hand with Major Ralph L. Doll (better known to his friends, it was later learned, as “Baby” Doll); the balance of the crew consisted of Capt. J. Walker, Lt. Fred Hanson, and Cpl. “Felix” Mendelssohn. (There is certain evidence suggesting that Cpl. Mendelssohn may have, in actual fact, been a woman.) The initial phase of the existing transcript is comprised entirely of routine operational data and reports of instrument readings. It was near the end of Stage One, however, when the craft was some 68,000 miles from earth, and still holding true course, that the first untoward incident occurred; this was in the form of an exchange between Lt. Hanson and Maj. Doll, which resounded over the tracking-station inter-com, as clear as a bell on a winter’s morn:
Lt. Hanson: “Will you stop it! Just stop it!”
Maj. Doll: “Stop what? I was only calibrating my altimeter—for heaven’s sake, Freddie!”
Lt. Hanson: “I’m not talking about that and you know it! I’m talking about your infernal camping! Now just stop it! Right now!”
The astonishment this caused at tracking-station H.Q. could hardly be exaggerated. Head-phones were adjusted, frequencies were checked; the voice of a Lt. General spoke tersely: “Cutie-Pie II—give us your reading—over.”
“Reading thpeeding,” was Cpl. Mendelssohn’s slyly lisped reply, followed by a cunning snicker. At this point a scene of fantastic bedlam broke loose on the video inter-com. Col. Slattery raged out from his forward quarters, like the protagonist of Psycho—in outlandish feminine attire of the nineties, replete with a dozen petticoats and high-button shoes. He pranced with wild imperiousness about the control room, interfering with all operational activity, and then spun into a provocative and feverish combination of tarantella and can-can at the navigation panel, saucily flicking at the controls there, cleverly integrating these movements into the tempo of his dervish, amidst peals of laughter and shrieks of delight and petulant annoyance.
“Mary, you silly old fraud,” someone cried gaily, “this isn’t Pirandello!”
It was then that the video system of the inter-com blacked out, as though suddenly shattered, as did the audio-system shortly afterward. There is reason to believe, however, that the sound communication system was eventually restored, and, according to some accounts, occasional reports (of an almost incredible nature) continue to be received, as the craft—which was heavily fueled for its return trip to earth—still blazes through the farther reaches of space.
Surely, despite the negative and rather disappointing aspects of the flight, there are at least two profitable lessons to be learned from it: (1) that the antiquated, intolerant attitude of the Agency, and of Government generally, towards sexual freedom, can only cause individual repression which may at any time—and especially under the terrific tensions of space-flight—have a boomerang effect to the great disadvantage of all concerned, and (2) that there may well be, after all, an ancient wisdom in the old adage, “Five’s a crowd.”
Red Giant on Our Doorstep!
IDEA FOR A MUSICAL COMEDY
With title and credits we hear theme-tune “Fiasco!” (using the tune “Fiesta!”) sung by Mexican guitar group in a tinny crooning style:
“Fiasco! It’s a holiday for everyone!
Fiasco! Bringing happiness and joy!
Etc.”
The principal action takes place at Camp Trax in Guatemala where the Cuban invasion force is in training. Cuban invasion force is played by hundreds of midgets—with PETER LORRE as their leader—the midgets dressed in big Boy Scout hats, big guns, big packs, fierce mustachios, and mucho high-pitched gibbering (they’re small but tough). The head of the CIA to be played by SLIM PICKENS, with aides WILLIAM BENDIX, HOSS WILLIAMS, and DAN BLOCKER. Also featured, GLADYS GEORGE, or similarly brittle slattern type, as the Red Cuban temptress after CIA data. And LENNY BRUCE as the friendly Camp Surgeon (ostensibly friendly, but actually in Red Castro hire) who receives large drug shipments by night—which he injects into the midgets’ heads in a diabolic attempt to cripple invasion strength. None of the island Cubans are shown, except Castro himself (played by GROUCHO MARX OR ORSON WELLES) in fantastic orgy scenes. Action begins in Miami, at recruiting station, and ends in Bay of Pigs, with BRUCE (wearing two-way wrist radio) receiving direct instructions from Castro as to how to sink the supply ship. Midgets have become addicted to his drug, and constantly seek him out gesturing frantically at their heads. He continues to give injections even after they are in the water, often having to lean far out over the side of the ship to shoot the dope into their heads. A documentary type film, with SENATOR DIRKSON narration, DIRKSON concludes: “Well, as we’ve always said down in my home-state, ‘If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em!’ Eh, folks? HAR! HAR! HAR!”
This would be a low-budget production. WILLIAM BENDIX AND GROUCHO MARX are used here merely as types. There is reason to believe however that ORSON WELLES would not be unsympathetic towards such an undertaking and would work on deferment, as would, presumably, LENNY BRUCE. The purpose of the film would be to combat the notion of communism as an absolute, or as a Russian monopoly. Possibly even to suggest that there are instances of worse conduct.
Scandale at The Dumpling Shop
AT THE BEHEST of several irate American mothers, we recently paid a
visit to one of New York’s largest toy stores, The Dumpling Shop, to inspect their new line of baby-dolls—this being the source and object of the petition.
“It is quite unspeakable,” wrote Mrs. Leyton-Reims of Westchester. “My club is taking action. May we count on you?”
It is, of course, a bit off the track for a freethought magazine like our Realist to become involved in controversy of this sort. Still, what’s the use of it all if you can’t take a stand occasionally, at least on matters of cultural importance. After all, these are serious times—East and West locked in dynamic struggle, our own culture faltering, indeed at times floundering, in a sea of cynicism and failing beliefs, youth desperately seeking values—so that it was with a heavy heart that we came away from The Dumpling Shop, after having seen the item in question, namely: the so-called Little Cathy Curse Doll—Complete with Teeny Tampons.
This “doll,” we were blandly assured by the management, is merely a “logical follow-up” on last season’s highly successful Tina Tiny Tears—The Naughty Nappy Doll (“She Cries Real Tears and Wets Her Beddy”). Whether or not it is a “logical follow-up” is, at least in our opinion, not the principal issue at hand; the principal issue is that of taste, of responsibility, and of common decency.
On these three counts we judge both The Dumpling Shop and the manufacturers of the Little Cathy Curse Doll to be in serious default. The lavish arrangements for the display of this so-called doll occupy a prominent section of The Dumpling Shop’s smart fourth floor. Stretched overhead is a huge colorful circus-like banner which features a happy little girl holding the doll and exclaiming crossly: “Why, Cathy Curse, I do believe you’re staining! I think you’d better have fresh panties and a teeny tampon!”
Certainly it would be naive in the extreme to raise shrill and pious protest against the simple abstractions of material greed and commercial exploitation which daily confront us—these are part and parcel of the system, dues of the freedom club and cheap at the price. Surely, however, we do have a right to ask: Have we really so depleted exploitation that it has come to this? And moreover, where then is it to end? One is forced to wonder, even to speculate with dread, What next? Little Victor Vomit? Little Katy Ka-Ka? Don Diarrhea? Silly Sammy Shoot-Off?!!
No, we cannot, will not, buy it. Our answer to Mrs. Leyton-Reims: Yes, you may indeed count on us. Our presses and our staff stand ready to shoulder a man-size burden in carrying your cause forward, which, by our lights, is also the cause of every right-thinking parent throughout this grand land.
Terry Southern Interviews a Faggot Male Nurse
LARRY M., 34 YEARS old, white, born in Racine, Wisconsin, has lived in New York for nine years, and is presently employed as a ward attendant in one of the city’s largest hospitals. The following is a verbatim transcript of an interview recorded there on March 7, 1965:
Q. Good. Well, let’s see . . . now you’ve been a faggot male nurse for what—nine years, I believe?
A. Well, now, wait a minute! Ha-ha. I mean, look . . . well, I don’t know what this magazine is you’re from—the Realist, you said. I mean the copy you showed me and so on, but there was nothing about that kind of thing . . . I mean, ha, I’m not going to go along with that kind of thing!
Q. Oh well, listen, I didn’t mean to be . . . well what do you say—“gay”? “Homosexual”?
A. Well, gay, yes, I mean gay is all right. Homosexual—yes, I’m not ashamed of it if that’s what you mean.
Q. All right, now let me . . . well listen, what do you mean, “faggot” is . . . I mean you think “faggot” is what? . . . derisive?
A. Derisive, yes, it is derisive—I think it’s derisive . . . I think it’s derisive.
Q. Well, I didn’t mean it that way—I assure you that . . . I was just trying to use words . . . you know, words of “high frequency incidence,” as they say. I mean, semanticists and so on, that’s what they say—that that’s the word in currency—“faggot.”
A. I know they do, I know they do, and it’s probably . . . well, they’re probably right, that that is the word they use. But, well, I didn’t know, you know, exactly how you—well, you know, ha-ha. . . .
Q. But you really think “faggot” is derisive.
A. Well, I think . . . well, I know, I know for example that it’s used that way.
Q. What, derisively?
A. Well, derisively . . . maybe not derisively, but patronizing . . . condescending . . . yes, condescendingly. Well, it’s that . . . that kind of tolerance . . . you know? I mean liberals use it—the worse kind of so-called liberal uses it!
Q. Is that true? Well, what about a word like “queer”?
A. “Queer”! Oh well, ha! There you’re talking about, I don’t know what . . . I mean nobody would use a word like that except some kind of . . . of lizard or something.
Q. Yes, well I wouldn’t use a word like that, like “queer” . . . or actually I wouldn’t use a word like “fairy” either, or “pansy” . . . they just seem, I don’t know, archaic or something. But what about “fruit”? I mean I think Lenny Bruce has made “fruit,” you know to use the word “fruit,” okay, don’t you?
A. “Fruit”? Lenny Bruce used it? Well, Lenny Bruce . . . I mean Lenny Bruce uses these words and . . . well, what, you mean he used it instead of “gay”?
Q. Well, he used it, I don’t know, he uses it some way, and . . . well, you know, it seemed to make it all right.
A. Yes, well . . . what, you mean he used it instead of “gay”?
Q. Yes, instead of “gay,” instead of “faggot”—he uses “faggot,” too, you know.
A. Yes, well some people, I mean some people can do that . . . they can do that and it isn’t offensive.
Q. Yes, well that’s the point—when I said “faggot” I didn’t mean to be offensive.
A. Oh I know that . . . I know that now, that you didn’t! But you see . . . well, the thing is you’d be surprised at the kind of people who do.
Q. What, here at the hospital?
A. At the hospital . . . well, everywhere, everywhere . . . yes, here at the hospital, yes, this is a kind of . . . of cross-section I guess you’d say.
Q. Well, listen, let’s . . . I mean I’d like to ask you some questions about your work and so on, so why don’t—
A. Well go, man, go, ha-ha . . . or baby—I don’t know what to say . . . I mean you’re not going to use our names or anything . . .
Q. Well, I’m not going to use your name. I mean, you know, isn’t that the–
A. Well, that’s the thing, yes, I mean I can’t do that—you have no idea, I mean this is a very tough state, you can’t just talk about these things with . . . with immunity . . . impunity? which is it? You’re the writer. Ha-ha. Are you a writer?
Q. Impunity . . . you can’t talk about them with impunity.
A. You didn’t answer!
Q. What, about being a writer?
A. Yes! What do you write?
Q. Yes, well, listen, let me interview you, and then . . . you can interview me. Isn’t that good?
A. Oh, ho-ho-ho . . .
Q. No, I mean what I’d like to do, you see, is be able to just put this straight down off the tape, without any editing or anything like that, and, well, if we get, you know, side-tracked . . . well, it’s going to be all mixed up. You know what I mean?
A. Chrysler wouldn’t like it?
Q. Chrysler?
A. Chrysler? Didn’t you say Chrysler? Your boss!
Q. Oh, Krassner . . . yes, Paul Krassner.
A. Krassner! Yes, Paul Krassner—what’s he like?
Q. Oh, well, listen, we can’t . . . well, I’ll tell you one thing about him, Paul Krassner, he’s got this thing about format . . . you know? Tight and bright. “Let’s keep it tight and bright!” he’s always saying . . . and that’s why we’ve got to stick to this one thing—you know, like your story . . . or I’ll be in a real jam with Paul. Dig?
A. Do you call him “Paul”?
Q. Yes.
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A. Ha-ha.
Q. What’s wrong with that?
A. Noth-ing, noth-ing! Don’t be so touchy!
Q. Well . . . let me ask you now what attracted you to this sort of work?
A. People! I love people—I love to be with them, and to help them. That’s what hospital-work is—helping people.
Q. What about being a doctor, did that ever—
A. Oh no—no, no, I don’t have the patience for that . . . for that sort of training. It’s too . . . technical, and too, I don’t know, coldblooded. No, my approach is different . . . it’s more intuitive, more instinctive, and more direct, much more direct—you see, I deal directly with my patient, and all the time . . . the doctor sees the patient, maybe five minutes a day—I see . . . well, I don’t see, I’m with, that’s the difference, I’m with my patient, all the time, as much as he needs me. The doctor has no . . . no relationship with the patients. I have close . . . warm . . . wonderful, wonderful relationships with my patients! They all love me, all of them—not all, no, I won’t say that . . . there are some who, well, you know the kind, they don’t want help, they don’t know what love is—they can’t love, well, you know the kind . . .
Q. You think they don’t love you due to gayness?
A. Due to gayness? Ha, ha. Due to my gayness? Yes! No, I say yes and no! They don’t like me . . . it’s true some of them don’t even like me—some of them hate me, and the feeling is mutual . . . well, I won’t say that, I pity them—they don’t like me because they’re afraid—they’re afraid of love, and they’re afraid of themselves—and this is especially true of the doctors.
Q. The doctors? The doctors don’t like you?
A. The doctors, ha, ha . . . well, I don’t get along with the doctors too well—our approaches are different, you see . . . I mean, they don’t really care about the patient—and they know that I know it! And they’re afraid—they know that my power . . . my love, is stronger, and they’re afraid . . .
Red-Dirt Marijuana: And Other Tastes Page 22