Lost Joy
Page 7
The only films that should be allowed anymore are those which can be caught in small unplotted segments and left for us in our minds to finish, those which inspire self-gratifications and cost just a quarter a minute, naked bodies watched and honestly excited, prancing on that small blue electric screen which goes at all hours—not just teasing but always always delivering (unlike the Romanovs who tease us but never give us so much as a drop) all the way through the abandoned dusk and the longing lunches, their video-ed bodies relentlessly pushed to places none but Boom-Boom Mancini can fathom, points which can no longer be called “acting”: screaming, ecstatic, drunk with it gleefully, visibly wide-eyed to find uncharted terrains inside here, within the frothing sea of their own passion, and the sounds of it, the sights of it, even them ordinary pleasures of being taken advantage of, or of taking advantage of someone who so desires it [small wonder that with each passing day we live less and less like the previous generations].
DO NOT FEAR US!
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As I do not respect movie films anymore I want it known that I too have many movie film thoughts (last count: 947!) to give away free. Please do me common courtesy of bringing up to famous cinematic personalities my thoughts for movie films about plight of Spanish Civil War’s Lincoln Brigade in which two American brothers (one fierce, other wary) protect one another from world’s hypocrisies, or my movie film set in smoggy gross future when populations have grown so dense that murders are roundly applauded which tells how accolades of world pursue particularly sadistic serial killer (Keifer Sutherland) so that it might pay homage to his genius, another sports comedy/cop thriller (Kuffs and Ducks) in which amateur hockey team of off-duty police folks bring in well-intentioned but oafish ringer for big match against crosstown rival but discover wacky hi-jinx when they can’t find cop job safe enough for ringer, yet another Merchant-Ivory character tale which dramatizes nobly mannered balloon contest of early 1800s when proud determined gentlemen manned primitive floaters to see “who coulde sail highest” (all emerged either dead deaf deranged or distraught), and one (Dirty Dozen and Commando) in which beautiful but bedraggled Italian peasant refugee Natasha Richardson trapped between German and Allied lines in basement of Benedictine monastery in Monte Cassino undergoes blissful epiphany with passionate mute monk Brad Pitt amongst ruinous bombing raid of Valentine’s Day, 1944. I have million of them like how about Mr. Bob Dylan glibly played by Luke Perry who gives us under-reported tensions and furies of Mr. Bob Dylan waiting out 1960s writing Self Portrait and recording basic tracks for his eponymous album of covers or you’d prefer maybe terrifying flick (Invasion U.S.A. and Red Dawn) in which inoculation designed to counteract space-borne allergy brought to earth by massive meteorite has unintended side-effect of turning whole cities into hardcore fans of pretentious wanna-be Jim Morrison pompous poseurs Dead Can Dance, who suddenly emerge to world domination when—during supposedly “mock” duel conducted mostly in virtual reality—band slays Bill Gates (Matthew Broderick), but also keep in mind ecologically minded animated classic (Hello Kitty and Jurassic Park) in which one rabbit, handsomer than rest, leads friends, relatives, and other small furry things to freedom by retracing what once [before devastating industrial accidents of 1997] used to be “mighty” Mississippi river, and another movie film entitled The Bubblicious Movie Film (computer-animated spectacle) in which all the many gum flavors use their voice-over’d idiosyncrasies and distinct superpowers to defend the galaxy from a proliferation of inferior Made-in-Korea candies and Pataki and a washed-up forgotten playwright Jacques Levy played glibly by Luke Perry tirelessly seeking to revive his long-abandoned friendship with Bob Dylan (30th Anniversary Concert and The Buddy Holly Story) in efforts to kindle anew the songwriting collaboration which rang down Desire on unsuspecting world while Alicia Silverstone (in arty black-and-white role as Princeton student whom Einstein always secretly adored) calmly completes Unified Field Theory in nothing but brassiere and panties and stepping outside boards hovering spacecraft and portals into seventeenth dimension with heavenly whoosh! There’s more: that kid with that leukemia and his gently wise-cracking grandfather (Jurassic Park and On Golden Pond) searching to uncover truth about their haunted grand piano which was said to have once been played by Rachmaninoff and the true story from my own experience how one day great gobs of people were hit with a debilitation like amnesia (Jurassic Park and Being There), each day it spread until we were a planet of strangers who remembered no movie films and just then a great winged messenger dramatically descended from the heavens to liberate our vacated souls. These provide just a small sampling from my box of hits-to-be, I tell you all—shoot these movie films please and there will be others I’ll donate to you when the time comes! You’re welcome, Hollywood.
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Down below me the world tries to appear ecstatic but nobody trusts it, nothing can convince us, neither the sun burning high in the branches nor the lovers scrunched together kicking through leafy piles, neither is true, not Justina wrapped in her loud colors, not the children prancing in the hydrant, not the athletes in their devotional ways, none of this could be! Which is not to say I am happier than I have ever been (I am) but neither so far from despair. You wonder sometimes, can I ever get enough, when one drug has barely concluded and already you have ordered three more, when there’s no celebrity death you do not envy, when the waiters move to take away your empty plate of sadness, and you wave them off—“Not finished yet, pal!”—when falling-to-bits gargoyles high on the facade close up your throat and drag tears down your cheeks—make the world how I want it, I cry, dammit! I once said I loved Kurt Cobain then he forgot how I loved him and stopped his own life—so be careful who I claim to love next for they are doomed! And this is why I worry for today I think I love you all, you ridiculous people, who are so good to me.
“Be My Baby” by the Ronettes
“Oh, won’t you,” she said, “be my baby,” said it frequently and with such ambulance urgency I was captivated—capsized—no doubt about it, this crazy sandwich of a girl was ordered up especially for me. Ah, the ways we found to speak our love, those bawdy afternoons, bodies tasting of maple syrup, she and I, blithely dancing between the April raindrops with policemen nipping at our merry springtime heels, tea cups and forklifts raining down upon us. [My girlfriend is so great she lets me write on walls. My girlfriend is so great!] She confessed she was unhappily betrothed to an enigmatic enfant terrible with a penchant for pistols and sunglasses. (He was famous.) Every time he snapped his fingers one-two-three she had to go, “Oh won’t you please . . . Be my . . . Be my baby.” Her name was Ronnie, his name was Phil, and how we three howled and threw our arms about each other forgivingly while bellowing “More lime gin for my friend’s rickey, gents!” and bragging of feats performed on grass-covered squash courts and croquet yards and of our casual run-ins with Beach Boys. And we were aware of these as the gayest of times, she was from Philly, I think his name was Ron. (Oh, they looked identical and as to who-was-who I couldn’t’ve cared less, they both called me by my name “Joy” they called appreciatively “Joy” and I bounded over to them, barking and wagging and terribly in love—the specter of bliss passed into me via these Spectors.)
And now you want that I should weep at their absence, at the death of innocence and Ronettes and young presidents, but at least I have my memories of how swell it was then, and you, you—you impossible person—what do you have that makes you so all hell-fire certain of things (when you have never even met Joy face to face)? Nothing, that’s what you have, nothing, except a worthless old scratched-up 45 by Ronnie Spector’s pop musical band: you have nothing.
I Need My Mommy
O! Ms. Madonna! Here winter is upon us and I remember yet again I have no children, no little ones to roast open fires for. Here the Millennium’s cold corner has almost been turned and I call out for my kiddies to gather round me in the featherbed—but no one comes. No chuckle-faced young’uns to stir me awake! And though
I am much too large for my treasured swing set yet I cannot bring myself to toss it out. I admit now (with all the splashy ker-plop of a submarine breaking surface): I NEED OFFSPRING. Any takers? I saw in the paper where you—Ms. Madonna—are to begin soon advertising for a father to put a little Hansel in your oven. You too, Ms. Madonna? I toss my anchor to famous you. Madonna with child for this X-mas, right on!
You claim to have trouble meeting men who “are not a*****es.” Amputees? Is this what you mean? (Will Hangman be on your test? I excel!) Amputees are so prevalent in your glittery scenes-à-faire? Well then: Here I am. All limbs present and accounted for. Pick me! It is true I made this self-same offer to Patty Hearst—did she listen?—do not repeat her snobbish error, opting to marry within the entourage. No one you’ve met is father material (because, I know! I actually had a father once). None but me can name Red Red Meat’s releases in order, can get free quarters out of a Konelco change machine, can wring music from a gas pump—
I am so qualified for this, Boss-girl, it is ridiculous! I once heard one of your record albums! I saw you in Visionquest! I even find you attractive! Ah babe, how’s about you and me take down a pair of winged creatures via the utilization of a single weighty object! I mean: two birds! One stone! Those of us on disability have always felt you were one with us, that you too did not appreciate their signs every five feet saying “Wet Paint,” their demands to us signed “The Management,” their corner payphones always ringing, their deceitfully priced lunch specials, their things they claim to “know nothing about.”
Forgive me my blathering, darling, I am dizzy with passion at our pending prospect! Sleep with me by New Year’s Eve or my heart will be reduced to a size no bigger than your period at the end of this cycle. I will retire, I will jump off City Hall and I will meet John Doe no more forever—I am serious—and the world will lament the loss of Joy this holiday season.
Flat Old World
The whole world stinks to high heaven with the bands I have loved and lost (began with the Band, the Beatles, the Burrito Brothers, and then got stinkier from there) and now: more stinky news: the country musicale outfit Flat Old World is surrendering to the lack of hype which attends their every single move and will play no more forever post-Jan. 1996—what? Who will lend these days their necessary focus if not our flat old friends, who will speak to us of relevant historical antecedents (without actually speaking at all)? Who else cares enough to tell the small tales of towns like Two Blades, Jubilee, Lost Falls, to evoke heroes and villains with names like Haddy Mae, Sir William, Jigger Statz, Jenny Pretty-Eyes? Who will remind us of ancestral longings—conjure up antebellum britches, failed campaigns, Wilson-era lullabies, teapot domes, salvation armies, angel voices, weeds and dirt? No one—that’s who—and that’s why this stinks.*
Have you ever seen them, all the group’s characters belting out their theme “It’s a Flat World (After All),” crammed like canned cherries onto the disreputable stage of some firetrap? THERE is the honourable Tuba Jones, who donates all his proceedings to widows and builds orphanages in his spare hours (while the rest of us selfishly sleep), having brokered peace accords through the holy oom-pa-pa oom-pa-pa oom-pa-pa oom-pa-pa of his blasted instrument! THERE is that percussionist fellow, what’s-his-name, who drums like he sings, stumbling, stammering, a faltering shiver of sound, arriving in the middle of words as if by accident! THERE is the strawberry-topped member who has been known to bellow with such breadth/width/depth that—as Hurricane Nancy—she steers weather, knocks down houses of detention and sets the captive free! THERE is the robin-larynxed golden girl, that facet-heavy ukelele-ist, bearing so many shades and talents she can play any position from halfback to goalie, from safety to guard, from slugger to reliever, and always more disguises than Sherlock Holmes, more laughs than Lucille Ball, more cars than American Motors! THERE is that irrepressible Fink puppy (Canis bilious) pawing out single ringing fuzz notes from a Gibson guitar, one at a time, who never quits with the humbleness and the humility! THERE is the sure and able Governour, the band’s governing instinct, always quietly there, she with her stone-steady string section, ever-ready, ever-reliable, who has been known to outplay any player, outwait every waiter, even to outlast the Most Lasting Flavour! And then at last THERE is the one we truly most came to see: V.W.H. Cricklade, Mr. Magnetic South, the show-runner, the preacher-host, the shoe-tree, the reclusive composer extraordinaire Mister World himself, rarely spotted in the daylight hours but for to answer heartsick prayers, mysteriously slipping rooftop to rooftop & shadow to shadow outfitted in superhero colours. . . . Ah! but why even go on and on, why replunge the dagger over and over when the gruesome fact is already taffy-stiff and cold as a corpse: (sad enough words have not been invented) Flat Old World’s final show is about to begin and now is the time, my friends, for your tears.
It’s the end of the world.
Commencement Day
To you—the graduating class—you have not earned these diplomas, but here they are, come get them, but take with you too this warning: do not do as we have done. Take the reins gently; reward only the worthy; please stop scaring me; and forgive us everything! Put a man on Mars—two men! A lesbian (see what I care). Just leave us be before our TVS. . . . Lace up your loose-laced Nikes and take off your Walkmans and those hooded jackets and hooded sweatshirts and hoods and scarves and pullover hooded sweaters and Walkmans and participate in the world and take care of us aged and infirm by taking off your loose-laced, hooded things and showing your face and coming and getting your diplomas and participating and not scaring me in this world anymore with hoods and loose-laced Nikes.
On the eve of this prestigious occasion, presiding over your voyage through the shadows into adulthood, I am at some considerable loss and proffer neither advice nor examples to follow (I have none).
If you ask yourselves, “How can I get to be him, that fellow up there addressing my graduating class?”—Oh, but do not do this! You mustn’t do what we do, you must make something of yourselves, protect the ecology, find peace of mind and world-peace! This is a nowhere gig. I am merely the dupe of that American amnesia Romanovs advocate, and what makes me such an ideal idolatrous consumer (since you asked!) is that almost every day I get boinked on the head and have to relearn it all, the world afresh, anew, each of their bleating commercials convinces me utterly I am the best—the only—the brightest—if only I invest in their items. I am that much-prized eternally promised purchaser from Peoria boisterously ballyhooed but badly bamboozled and then boink it starts all over again.
Now I ain’t no popularly accredited student of culture (like the whole scary hooded flock of you) but I do notice myself growing whole in the bath of commercial television and ripped apart by real life and wonder if I’m probably losing some vital tissues.
So ignore this address, graduates. Just go do your thing and we need help, so take real good care of us, thank you.
* It’s because, you see, sometimes the trend seems completely this way or that way and rejectful of anything that seeks change or don’t fit, like all we ever thought once was “Doc Holliday, Great Gunfighter Hero Guy” and now it’s “Docteur Jour de Fete, le coupable sauvage,” now the world defiantly represents itself as round and big and glistening new and not at all “flat” or “old,” this contemporary Fed-Ex planet of ours delivers to your door with all its might in Tyvek toughness to quash the flat old sentiment but one day I know the world will kick itself in the head for having missed yet another broadening opportunity (they didn’t get Van Gogh or V.U. during their lifetime either so it’s not unprecedented!) and being forced to enjoy the Flat Olds solely in retrospect—as an extinct bird of pray not at all in their present-era modern state of living aliveness.
THE LAUNCH OF THE MJ-97
(12/22/93) RAN INTO DAVID of the twenty-fifth floor, recently demoted, who now programs the network committee’s nightly back-ups. Okay guy, rather short. Mere hours from the launch, but David bore it well. Per usual, he and I spoke
as buddies, reasserted our mutual desire for “hostile grasp” and “ruinous bonds” such as are delineated in the adrenaline and mead bouts of Beowulf. He hinted at continued fallout from foul-ups associated with the debut of the MJ-96 model, asked what I’d heard. I expressed noncommittal support, though I had been BCC’d on the committee’s electronic chat and in fact worried even now about being caught in David’s company. But he had recently incorporated a new look into his repertoire, a look close to tears, and was (I guess) determined to perfect it on me.
Grave issues relating to the “dimensional verisimilitude” of the MJ-96 had arisen upon tight tick-clocked reevaluation of the prepared segments from the 01/31/93 halftime and the 02/10/93 Oprah telecast, and David—involved very early with the axonometric blueprints—was clearly at fault.
My own comprehension of the concerns was limited: I was a Floor Twenty-Two man, strictly dataflow compilations, timed publicity summations. To me, as to the rest of the world, the MJ-96 had appeared in these broadcasts as “live,” even “engaging.” I had conveyed such, in a subcommittee FYI of 02/16/93 (which likely fueled David’s assumption that we were buddies), but my layman’s views were held to be of marginal significance.
For those upstairs involved with the model’s transformation matrix, the programmers and animators and such, these events spelled disaster. Abrupt tessellations (attributable to basic format incompatibilities) within the upper mid-quadrant of the mesh density had created the hint of an MJ-96 third eyebrow (visible for no longer than 0.01 seconds) when the model was manipulated against both environments, the Rose Bowl and the intimate Winfrey setting.