There was a strange red sandstone rock formation in the vicinity. One that though it was not as remote as the decidedly more extensive rock bound canyons of the Southwestern region of the nation, it still provided a distinct flavor of their strange magnificence. A large prediluvian portion of sedimentary accumulation of ancient riverbed dating from eons back that had congealed into a solid mass before the advent of mankind and mammals. A stretch of rocky canvas that was slowly carved by successive assaults of restless wind and water into eccentric meandering channels and Cul de Sac’s. The adaption of their odd geography to some purpose beyond eccentric paths indeterminable save for that of a robber’s roost. The implementation of human habitation being more reasonably ‘in line’ with a day’s outing. Or in the case of two specific sections further along the tunneled passageways, a natural dome ending in a sky focused occulus. Further on, a raised platform of solid stone resembling something between a dais or a lily pad. Somewhere along the line within this tiny approximation of a Roman pantheon it was planned to camp for the night. The ability to star gaze given the opportunity afforded by the weather revealing a rare glimpse of the heavens above within tight shelter at the end of this same Cul de Sac. But much to the general disappointment it turned out to be occupied. The next opportunity in the vicinity was to nestle into a sleeping bag upon the dais further down from the intersection. But in the final approach as all had been diverted by the unsuccessful expedition to the first location by the time it was in sight others were in the process of claiming it for the evening. The last opportunity remaining was to trudge forward and hope the find some other uncharted natural feature that would afford a place to rest. After hiking onward for indeterminable amount of time the end of the rocky channel came into view. Expanding from a narrowed tube to where flat land and foliage was once again visually in force. There indeed sat a small cabin. But the sign beside it revealed that we had somehow breached the Canadian border? All one could think of is how everything could have gone so curiously gone awry? The last degree of pleasantness realized when one of us had leveraged their way skyward up over the channel where it had narrowed for a handhold so that they could see the magnificence of the that strange mystical hidden landscape of those larger formation above that had enigmatically transported us a thousand miles in one day.
Does the light as opposed to the dark cleanse your mind of the past? Its deeds and emotions, the recollections of attempts gone sour to achieve something of note in society but always fall short. “If I were a king old I would knight you both!“, he said. The two young boy’s enthusiasm in the play of their chess pieces interrupted by the old man’s folly.
Somehow fortune had smiled. Or had it? He had secured a job in an elite ad agency and had arrived to show his manifold talents. A chance encounter of sorts had presented his name to this agencies’ head. A madcap individual who embed with an honored reputation in the industry careened about the floor of his own shop like a Caliph eyeing necks to cut. The young man felt that eye lurking about ready to smight his own hopes and dreams and struggled for something he could do. A reason to be in that place and excel in a manner that he assumed his destiny would lead him. But there seemed nowhere to sit in this fast paced environment? And worse yet, he was unable to recall any exact instructions given by his new employer or anyone else. And so he wandered from desk to desk. His physical being actively ignored viewing pile of work and all manner of pads, and paper and drawing instruments but afraid that if he disturbed the wrong chaotic pile that it would lead to his instant termination. Anything vaguely useful to the cause of providing a creative platform within the dust and jumbled on the floor. All the while the presence of that owner’s watchful eye wondering in disgust why he had invited such an incompetent into his midst?
Late that afternoon in a palatial hall at a gathering that had the dynamics of a large gaudy overstuffed convention the young man was equally surprised that he was allowed entry and with a temporary companion who had no stated identity that could be recollected swept through the echelons of seating surrounding the speaker’s dais. Both looking for something close enough to hear their big boss who was being honored as an honored guest speaker having taken the microphone. His voice boomed about the Baroque columns painted in exotic greens and gold. Emblems of filigree enigmatic but providing greater beauty through their intricacy evident in every direction. The bleachers at the far corner where the young man briefly took up station being so remote that he thought that it was actually upon a street in the worst part of town. A black face opening up a window on the second floor across peering out to their street engaged by foreign revelers of the very same class that oppressed them. Every corner of the auditorium filled with troublesome angry looking rivals their facial expressions ever at was with the other. The man eventually taking cover beside a twin sculpture of two figures that had been temporarily covered for the event with plywood and a faux grill. Their matched pair of hands entwined in some arcane significant unconscious embrace. He studied this jewel of aesthetics of the past as he heard his boss’s world pounding down from above.
Feeling that he had hit on something elemental suggesting the creative solution to his ongoing dilemma he wandered off to the back of the hall to find his fellow. The hallways was as much a garden marked by rich growth of luxuriant species of plant life. Ever the dreamer had he not been in a hurry it would have become evident his had wandered into his own thoughts. A wedding party, its member’s richly dressed lingered about the men sitting and conversing in a manner that suggested the ceremonies aftermath. Though he was in no way dined, the young man felt that he needed to return back to his own party. That in some way it might end and he not be part of the throng to be counted as faithful. Swiftly heading back but down the wrong path confronted by some strangely configured varieties of birds that by their haphazard physical construction seemed more the pets of demons from another world than species resident on earth. He took the hint and retraced his steps staying just ahead of their flamingo-like communal gait. Back in the entryway lobby heading back to his starting point.
But exchanged for the old reality of a formal ceremonial meeting was another experience completely different. One composed of facsimiles of the same characters yet more in the setting of the lecture space of an auditorium of a college that had been sequestered by rambunctious students hell bent on frivolity of their generation. The mundane uniforms of the grouped young prevailing up the steps in chaotic repose. The young man having been brought into this amphitheater taken by the hand of a comely sylph that had instantly enchanted him. The lingering promise of her equally prompt disappearance being that if he old discover he whereabouts amidst this throng then she would be his. And so he began his performance trying to stay in character without he classic heroes of old. Traipsing up and down the stairs making overly theatrical motions and gestures at every despoiled, “Ahha“. The sly artifice of the moment summoned only to buoy his own quickly deflating hopes of a fading solution. Defeated evermore until out of desperation he grabbed a hose and sprayed the entire assembly dousing all. To equal measures of his shock and surprise lay an old maiden laying unconscious upon her front under the full extent of the flowing carpet of her own long auburn hair. A love of old turned sour, decades past the age of any other in the room. That fairer sylph long gone and his apparent prize subsumed within the indignity of this more ancient example of womanhood. His own shock leading to the fact that he like she was in fact too old for these games of frivolity. The two of them now fully revealed as being many decades advanced beyond that of all the surrounding audience.
Ralph thought to himself as his eyes stared over the rim of his foam charged beer glass. “I am empty.” A cotton sports shirt sweat covered mannequin bulging bulging out below him balanced on top of the bar stool. “I feel empty and am in an empty place.“, he declared solemnly with much theatrical gravity. This is not what many others around him currently experienced in their Saturday night revelries. A solitary Ralph looked down the line of stools beside him at the bar. The row of gesticulating puppets swinging back and forth upon their seat in-between their string bound limbs hoisting glasses in a precarious remote controlled manner. “So I don’t expect many others to understand. Nor would they want to!” His own glass hoisted up in toast but then slammed back down onto the messy counter with a sharp report. Bushy brows settled hard pressed into the top of the bridge of his nose. A continence bespeaking emotional waste surrounding his corner of the world leaving little, if any, hope for possibility of a mutually shared immediate future. Humans as waste being a metaphor inferring a different dimension rather than a more literal form of same. An attitude appealing to an extremist. But, then again, not offering promise.
“I’m caught up in blessed ignorance of doing good.“, said some character named Larry. Ralph’s glass once more airborne. The crowd behind him rambled on in droning nonsense of the simultaneous collision forty or fifty voices. All totally nonsensically incoherent to the ear and devoid of offering any ability to be decoded in the rational sense from a collective mis-understandability. “And you are caught up in the folly of your own opinions!“, said the now disembodied voice of this Larry. Ralph swinging around to find its source bestride his back. The chorus of conversation rising up into full beehive buzz. “It is like you and all your kind have gone mad!“, the haranguing voice blurted as the waxy face behind it moved its lips out of sync. “Mad with your own crazy opinions so virulent and vexing that no one will be able to ever talk reasonably sane with you ever again!” Ralph thought for a while at what was quickly descending into poorly veiled attacks of pseudo factual psychological vitriol. “Tiny torpedoes of verbal venom!“, the little voice inside Ralph’s head spake at half-volume stating behind the numbness in his ringing ears.
It seemed to be a very unfunny joke. At a corner coffee house table way back before the most forward corner of the room’s partition commanding a stage sat a small group of locals. Ones that if anyone else happened to be a frequent customer of this establishment would be familiar with their longstanding status as regulars. Two males taking center spotlight. One quietly passive aggressive while the other evidently too loud and ostentatious by comparison. Both holding court this day before a diminished roster of pre-menopausal females. The loudest talker, an outwardly extreporous orator making snide self-depreciatory quips bearing superficial similarity to his own appearance with that select membership evident in other members of his group. Something now trended popularly and termed as ‘white’. The ongoing conduct of his bile-soaked jibes loosely overflowing inclusive topics of blacks, women and Jews. But with this speaker underplaying his own part as an ignorant specious white buffoon. Someone too easily singled out as the ultimate butt of every one of his own jokes. A mirroring of one or two choices of the polar opposite energy levels publicly afforded from the immediate vicinity of supplicants to embrace. The initial process to obtain membership within this clan requiring the prerequisite of being Liberal minded by default and well-schooled in the Post-Communist tradition of ‘reeducation’ by mental self-incarceration. An egregious sense of irony if seen from afar by those few other objective parties that sought to remain well out of range of the larger arguments. It’s very public demonstration serving as an overbearing social monitor following the model for sanctimonious public behavior in the contemporary Western world these days. The fat man’s face was accoutered in a typical ‘agent provocateur‘ style beard and mustache housed by a dark complexion that might have qualified him as being from any number of perpetually discontent extra-European groups. Perhaps a mix of Italian and Ashkhanism?
That companion sitting next to him being a ‘graybeard‘ more typically rabbinical. The vibes that this character had been know for in terms of this locality over the recent past being aloof and quick to dismiss any and all others that might overwhelm the basic fact of his silent but domineering presence. Something not unfamiliar to those who had grown up around third generation communities of Jews long ago transmuted from the Pale of old Poland. Their halcyon characteristic being a chameleon-like ability to dart in and out of the easy cloak of White American Middle Class to that persistent misunderstood pogrom victimized identity of Orthodox Jewry. The transformation almost instantaneous sometimes as it suits purposes of the moment. A neutral calm masking that bristling sense of ever fractious impulse to seek out ultimate retribution upon the assumed identity. An eye for an eye! And then some! This well-implanted rational of alternatively fostering mischief through customary deceit and then enacting the perpetration eternal violent vengeance always justified in their minds for the destruction of these ever holy second temple. Something more akin to a real estate claim than any real issue of religious fact. The most immediate visual evidence apparent in that characteristic lean hungry meanness ingrained about the eyes categorized as an expression of perpetual discontent. One that simply suggests an ingrained very genetic form of lifelong cynicism. A classical Cassius from the ilk of a Shakespearian play. Or perhaps an Iago?
On and on, the fat man’s un-humorous gibberish paging through lexicons of role reversal’s of white scapegoats painted as straw men and polite European society as the source of the worst of all evils. A further irony arriving a little later in the guise of a winsome young maiden who sporting a thick volume Christian community bible settles down a safe distance away at a side table to study text that might be considered the anti-venom of the diatribe of the vociferous others. Her encampment quiet and undisclosed yet potentially in danger of summoning the Judas Maccabeus in the less than dynamic duo continuously exhibiting their unending tiresome ‘schtick‘ at the far end. A type of patterned response that glorifies massacre of any rival. That long sad road of history of the victor where one group inevitably displaces another after fierce mortal bloody struggles as a matter of human nature by default . One’s own underlying instinct to seek out the safety within one’s own kind, a natural reflex and very rationally reasonable impulse fostering a long term ability to survive. Something now cast a “Politically Incorrect” for access to the European majority population of the nation for Culturally Marxist doctrinaire reasons. The big fat ‘Italian‘ poseur continuing without missing a syllable ‘sans souffle‘ to his small audience of listeners undaunted droning a well-rehearsed morning monologue of supposed self-depreciation in the guise of his diametric opposite. This safe harbor of his didactic ‘pirate’s den‘ prepping more biting comments in order to sail out to raid the ears of the passing commerce of indifferent suburban travelers timidly plying the morning trade of coffee and sweet roll. This current segment on his bandstand rolling the indigestible stone of the Germanic in the tireless guise as NAZI. That faceless white haze of those customers sharing similar heritage keeping their heads down in the public climate self-shaming. The tyrannical Marxist golden rule of “Diversity IS strength!” screaming silently forth as it from stadium loudspeakers. Some sickly white within this ebb and flow eager to ‘rat’ one of their own out in a brief show of public repudiation cast at anyone near fitting the visual description of Politically Correct condemned, “White Patriarchal Culture“.
“Who then? . . .“, might some outward observer ask, “. . . is able to have any respect for those who would shun their own race?”
EPILOGUE: I thought that I lived in a golden age as I grew to maturity yet I could not find lasting pleasure in what seemed superficially so. It eventually became clear that this long lasting impression was simply one of a false Utopia. The unwanted facts pulled over my eyes covering my ears laying claim to my consciousness with lies, lies and more lies daily distributed. Each revealing an ever clearer the knowledge that my time was the time of twilight. My own kingdom becoming hollow and defaulting to an illusion that seems to reign over all those other lesser known unacknowledged truths. Ones that claim to lay open a path to plain sighted’ness of an inequity that has for all time caused death and destruction of my kind since before I was born. I can no longer offer any provable facts to counter the supposed reams of evidential documents amassed by my detractors. Ones who have memorized their parts in reciting heresy as concrete fact repetitively and too well. Nor certainly play their game any longer! The time for fielding this empty rhetoric is over!
I am empty. Bled dry. I feel empty and find myself living amidst an empty place. This may not be what many others currently experience? So I don’t expect many others to understand even the smallest part of this angst. Nor would they want to. Yet the emotional waste of this world surrounding giving one little hope, if any, for a future. Human waste in terms of a way of taking on a different dimension of ultimate disgust. One that appeals to the extremes. But offers no lasting promise beyond the moment. Self annihilation. Do I sit here and wait?
Taking the long suburban road back to the ‘house’ that in reality has become a much smaller apartment through the emptiness of a semi arid landscape escorting my mother. One that is too far, knowing too late that we should have driven. Why we did not was a matter of forgetting for a while that the path back over open terrain always seems shorter than it in fact ever turns out to be. One’s age averaged and divided is occasionally put aside as a factor and the fiction of youthful endurance assumes a greater palpable fiction. A chain restaurant a block or two off the gravel path due east gleams quartz white as if it has just recently been built. A Disney castle mirage in the deep darkness of the mind. Salivation for the hopeful fantasy of plenty and tasty inside crosses the space between my ears within my own empty divide. I have grown up in the postwar age of advertising. The mental Utopia that the worship of everything new and improved allows you temporary entrance within. To conjure the mental picture is more immediate than to test the waters with your tongue and pocketbook. That is the actual realm of scant financial resources and the specter of starvation. The great kings and dukes of old along with their subsequent more modern social warrior imitators having forged a great mental trauma genetically passed on by too often playing too dangerously with the ship of state and so often running it aground. One remains ever mindful of their next meal hoping that if it be one’s last then at least it might be memorably distinctive as the best so far. This is progress.
Ron, the father, ends up on Johnny Carson as a guest. A failed entertainer from the ‘get go’ in his own mind. He rises up from the audience to follow the expected patterns of behavior on stage. His greatest secret dream. To be recognized as talented and out of the ordinary, and loved. What can any self-made man hope to find after he has found a knock off copy of the Philosopher’s stone and a deck of playing cards to gain a sufficient amount of ready cash? Money and all that it can buy is never enough. The ritual of an audience locked in their seats facing East towards the refresh of a hopeful morning Sun of the television is all too seductive. A crowning gift to the man who initially came up from nothing but for whom this persistent sense of the inescapable present provides never ever enough. this is the curse and blessing of his most formative era.
The two of us having wandered, end up waylaid behind a big strip mall on the bank of what is rapidly turning into a raging river rising up. The silt scraped from the bottom being thrown into the air like the froth of a chocolate milk shake. The building flood overwhelming the back access of truck supply lanes subsuming the loading docks. This apocalyptic chaos transforming dazzling cinder blocks from their intended task of securing items within to serve as a retaining wall protecting this unready location. The terror of the unexpected show of force of nature underestimated. A might deluge instantaneously conjured without a single drop of rain. Surely a figment of one’s pernicious imagination?
The awakening of these fictions in that other world of one’s former life precariously rewoven since the night before? Never to be believed but for the hint of a solutions that they pretend to offer? Should one play the gullible fool and volunteer their belief?
This quiet surrounding realm of framed photographs serving as dusty headstones embalming the past. Now long silenced.
The Anaconda had caught him sleeping alone out in the bush. When he had awakened it had already had its coils tightly around his chest and legs. Whatever fear that had been madly exploding within upon the instant of awakening had subsided with what had let like the bursting of his rib cage and the collapse of all the organs within. The sinews of bone connected pure muscle power ever active after the initial horror. Now something worse was occurring. Four major prongs, two above and two below had impaled his shoulders while the blackness of a gigantic crushing grip had forced his head into a wet saliva ridden channel. He was being swallowed head first. His mind was caught in some slow motion fantasy wondering if this was simply an incredibly demented dream so true to life that he was incapable of waking from it. The function of his brain slowly descending to a strange sense of suppressed calm by virtue of a feeling of all the blood in his system being squeezed downward like a toothpaste tube towards his feet. His consciousness demoted to a twilight realm where he figured that death sat patiently upon the prow of its brace under a stormy sky waiting patiently for the agent of natural chaos to fill up all the seats. Was his own soul now an eternal captive within the universe of this fiendish thing that had caught him unawares. What further torments awaited him as he began to feel the outside of his head shoulders stinging from the internal digestive juices as the peristalsis of the creature’s ring of teeth and rhythmically contracted musculature gripped and pulled his enraptured corpus deeper within. He imagined the absurd sight of the head of the beast distended into an absurd all inclusive gaping smile gasping around the main bulk of his body seemingly choking it. The routine task of its life being the worst imaginable fear accomplished in his own. Was he now to disappear as a sentient entity as he slowly was engulfed and digested he wondered? His own torso was engaged in struggling on its own outside of this control. It was odd he thought how he had never fully reconciled it as something completely synonymous and under his full control in what was now the brevity of his existence. The sensation of a growing dissipation accompanied by a dizzying vertigo was detaching him from being the source of that sensation. The stinging had turned to burning as the local acid of the creatures insides was forcing itself into his eye sockets and ear channels. The white hot headache of human flesh being softened into a mushy solution preeminent beyond his own sense of rapidly diminishing contact and control of his corporal self. “This is it!“, some tiny vaguely familiar voice screamed in impotent anger swirling in an unaccustomed eddy somewhere deep within. He was being pulled down into the oblivion of a universal undertow. His mind at last subsumed within the coverlet of eternal darkness.
They say that cruelty is a result of many long years of an upbringing in hateful behavior. But I might add that a more extreme equally dangerous form comes from simple neglect of common sense. This quality would be something quickly shelved in the sunny paradise of any Southern California metropolis on any given day. The easy tempo of existence offers no challenge to the mind and as a result one is likely to encounter all manner of strange circumstances attributed to the lack of any attempt at foresight of some of its citizens. I recollect and incident that I as an average citizen happened to encounter when performing the unimaginable in the grand little perpetual ‘burbs’ of Los Angeles. I am speaking about walking on foot through an old but venerable section of that ever expanding grid of perpetual roadways. Having confessed to this shameless commission on my part to not be at least engaged as part of an auto bus provided guided tour I found myself walking past an unenclosed parking lot fully loaded with vehicles. Each one accompanied by a tall chest high parking meter biding their time waiting for a matron to walk past to wreak vengeance upon those who through mental oversight or lack of ready coin would flagrantly hope in their heart to shortchange the system of its rightful few grams of negotiable flesh. The transgression rewarded of course with a fine and a summons to pay some extraordinary financial penalty that would enlighten the every hungry coffers of the municipality and its officials. While this might have been considered as both acceptable and to be expected the sight that I spied besides one of the older but well-maintained luxury autos astounded my own sense of incredulity. A small Dachshund sat trembling in the sun leashed in such a manner that it was forced to fretfully balance atop a parking meter lest it slip and hang itself.
The car in the stall by the poor creature itself was identifiable to any living locally who had of late been apprised of the latest televised entertainment gossip that a former long forgotten luminary of stage and screen was engaged in what was unfondly referred as a comeback. Their car had even by Southern California standards had been so ostentatiously expensive and unique that its current reputation eclipsed its owner. Something given the fact that the lot it was parked in was immediately adjacent to one of the television studios that daily hosted celebrities that were in some cases caught trying to swim back upstream into fame and the glory of momentary public attention. Certainly one could surmise that such a state of mind targeted mainly on so challenging a mission would be unable to notice anything else in their immediate vicinity beyond the scent of waiting popularity wafting out from the studio awaiting their arrival. How what one could equally assume was her beleaguered pet might have found itself in such a miserable life-threatening physical state is beyond comprehension to and reasonable common sense thinking yet fully in line with the usual sort of antics one would expect from this town of entertainment savvy scatter brains. The poor animal sat perplexed by my approach. Shaking judiciously trying not to wag its tail too much lest it slip off to an ignominious doom. And a bit of ammunition for some celebrity reporter on a slow news day to use to make up a casual news byte headline about a former local great’s plunge into unfogiveable animal cruelty transgression. Like anyone in the news department could give a shit beyond a few extra rating points.
As it was up to me as some interloper still fielding my over preachy Midwestern attitudes I made it my task to immediately rescue the poor beast taking it town from its perch after detaching the other end of the leash. Care and kindness extending to a much needed watering and walk so the little canine do what all of its kind seem most prone to do in any urban setting. My sense of propriety lacking the requisite plastic bag to remove its trembling deposits. Seeing that fate in such a mercurial environment of every imaginable genetically customized show dog might lead to some inadvertent situation of harm to the little fellow by a viscous mean spirited four-legged rival I proceeded towards the studio’s entrance to find out if its owner was in some way prepared to take back custody ot its neglected little ward. I felt emboldened enough to pass a message on through one of the guards monitoring the entrance. something along the lines that ‘Ms So and So’ should be made aware that her beloved little pet was now safe from what I am sure was merely an oversight on her part. And that I would be happy to personally return her little pride and joy toy at her earliest convenience back out int he parking lot by her vehicle when her gala televised appearance had concluded. Some forty-five minutes later a very nervously conflicted but equally disgruntled old dowager waddled over unsteadily towards my direction. No entourage of autograph seekers within a half a mile or more. of the loaded parking lot to accept the rare gift of a small stack of autographed photos in the folder that was in the vise of one of her upper arms. The twin laser beams like fog suppressed beacons emanating from her sunglassses covered eyes as the sight of my leaning against her old chrome and steel warhorse. The little ‘poochie‘ now happily strangling itself on both its hind legs by its leach bound collar with my arm pulled to full extension at the other end of its forgetful master’s approach.
I could tell by the vibe in her immediate vicinity that her efforts at public reconciliation had not gone as planned. Though I was able to confirm the fact of same at a subsequent rebroadcast of a total airtime of some thirty seconds or so she had been handily eclipsed by the precocious interruptive verbal contributions of a much younger talent and soon to be rising star of a new prime-time comedy series about buoyant young lesbian schoolteachers in rural Mississippi in the nineteen-sixties. The aging starlet cut to the quick in quips suggesting that her heyday in the spotlight was a dark era of misinformed and misguided sensibilities that had brought the world as a whole into an age of perpetual political and social despair. The poor old bitch was trembling with wrath on a part that rivaled her pet when I had first encountered it. It was evident that the stored up negative electricity pertaining to her previous experience of the day would find the shortest distance to a convenient pole to arc to. That of course being me. The nebulous excuse being to ward off any responsibility for so ridiculously stupid an impulse as to solve the potential danger of placing her tiny pet out of reach of malevolent marauding canines. Her coolness in confronting me lacking any sign of ebullience in seeing her pet safe and rapidly concluding in a very insincere and terse thank you. The leash snatched unceremoniously from my hand the old fossil bundling both herself and her beloved companion into the equally aged four-wheeled steel behemoth and screeching off into the sunny California haze. No doubt in the direction of some nondescript forgotten apartment block for aging senior has been’s from the former film industry located in a neglected potion of the San Fernando valley. I standing there bereft of the material boon of one of the yellowed publicity photos that had slipped out of the back seat of her in her better days a half a decade before I was born. This thank you possibly an oversight or perhaps of unconscious scorn for some stranger that had seen behind the platinum image? Having pondered the situation later that night in light of the pathos of her overwhelmed by situation of providing fodder for a televised disregard as the butt of attack against her generation I could only feel sympathy. The most hateful and malicious party at fault not so much this fading talent but this damn town and its faux atmosphere of vain complacency that had its own perverse industry to support and maintain the fiction of it. Hooray for Hollywood!
WARNING! – THE FOLLOWING IS ANTISEMITIC ALTHOUGH IT IS ALL TAKEN FROM A REAL LIFE PERFORMANCE!
The setting twenty-ninth floor o the Palmolive building in Chicago! We’ve just aken a very hip nighttime ride down Lake Shore Drive tagging along Playboy owner’s Hugh Hefner’s Mercedes-Benz 360 SL Gullwing Coupe. The elevator buttons kight up one by one twenty eight floors to the last button witht he Playboy logo. The gig, Playboy after dark without the many hipsters of that bygone nineteen-sixties era. The Jewboy Sy is at the piano banging out one of his oldest most popular standards to his credit. Then after humbly delivered precocious explanations about his career, whips out another re-penned reprise to the same melody with a new verse. As if it was the the latest invention to get men to the moon before the end of the next decade. An addition to his masterpiece that could have taken but five minutes or less to reconfigure on the potty after a heroic dump? But Hef loves the Jews. And the Jews love Hef. The drinks are always on the house after dark! Especially if you went to Columbia in NYC and wrote something and kept typing the word ‘fuck’ in it a million times like a Ginsberg or Burroughs. Or at least the opportunity of schmoozing with all the ‘young stuff’ tottering around on five inch high heels sporting big knockers in over stuffed white strapless sequined gowns. all of them looking to go ‘downtown’ with any literary luminary having a current book on the NYT’s best seller’s list. Their ‘nana’s’ nice and tight and pointy snuggled in those ninteen-fifties torpedo bras. And the action is freely available to all cumer’s! Both high or very definitely down dirty and low! That is, if that dirty Bruce known as Lenny who keeps pouring out Hef’s champagne like lawn water between giving himself fixes in the john, doesn’t get there first! Then those gals will be on the flat of their backs just after midnight with their legs held high and their panties flying from their ankles like pennants at the annual Burnham Harbor yacht club regatta. Man, they’re all swinging even though know one knows anyone enough to stop using their last names and simply refer to each other by a first name. Not as of yet at least.
Hey! Did you notice that everybody’s wearing the very ‘in’ skinny overlong black bow ties on instead of the boring old verticality of ‘nine to five’ businessman cravats! Didn’t Norman Mailer write something about that concerning a description of one of his characters in his last book? I hope I’m not confusing that with talk show host George Gobel? Leave it to Hef to be ahead of the crowd! Oops! Song over! Don’t clap too soon before Hef! “Hey Sy remember! You wrote a song about me! About me! It’s all about me! Hey! Ain’t that hip?” It hasn’t been recorded yet. But, hint, hint, he intends to record it, if someone will come up with some scratch for the recording studio, more hint, hint. Just like that stageplay idea that went straight down the stand pipe about an old broad who was fucking with ‘big macher’ Robert Moses’ super highway plans for concreting over half of the ‘Village’ in New York! The grand design of indifferent urban planning that will get all the big city ‘schicker’s’ out of Manhattan and safely home to their Connecticut based wives by six o’clock. It will never happen man! I mean, haven’t you seen Billy Wilder’s new movie, “The Apartment?” Psst! Billy Wilder’s from Hollywood so he gets the use of his two names. “Hey Sy!” “Play it for us!” “The Best Is Yet To Come!” Cigarette break, so the broads have cleared out to the ‘powder room’! Except for Hef’s latest new discovery of the last hour and a half who is magically back to show off her big knockers to any and all willing to giver her a break in show biz!
So now its time to change up the tempo and so Hef saunters over to the studio built faux Lannan stone fireplace to check on two of his harem inmates trying to look demur upoon very uncomfortably thin cushions set upon the plush of the carpet’s ‘wall to wall’. Something along the lines of what would sixty years later come to be known as human trafficking. Their big and bad of the ‘wanta be’s‘ beautiful’s with their assets hanging out all over the place in static repose. Because Hef knows what his TV home crowd like to see. FLESH! As Hef runs down the list of the particulars mentally listed on each courtesan’s official manifest, the camera picks up upon their greatful and pleasing very appropriate smiles. Each wondering to themselves if their decision to brazenly show off their most pleasing parts ‘Être désintéressé’ is really going to get them a meal ticket to Hollywood, like Monroe, or a Broadway show like Liza, or possible six figure divorce settlements from some nobody in Hef’s coterie of well-fixed private gentlemen, of a more discrete, ‘who’s who‘. Of course all the boys back home in Waukegan think that they are just gold digging sluts! Hef cuts in to say that ‘We’ like to feel that that becoming a Playmate is just a beginning!” Translated roughly to, ‘Ending up as just a receptionist on call for an additional late night shift to personally deliver a cold Pepsi and a hot ‘schtup’ to Hef on his big round rotating bed!‘ The big German blonde with phenomenal tits abruptly intercedes to tell her recent life story. Hef is thinking to himself, “Go ahead you dumb broad and tell me how it got you the opportunity to meet Frank Sinatra to get a small part in his “Hole In The Head“, movie and of course get ‘schtuppe’ by ‘Ole Blus Eyes‘!” I wonder if somewhere in the room off-camera someone wonders what Italian penis tastes like after hearing the remark? Ask Lenny Bruce! He’s made a business out of sucking the dick of anyone who can get him someplace more important than the cheap dive he’s been living in lately. “More Champagne?”
“So girls come over with me to see what we featured in our last issue which has a portable kitchen posing as a HiFi cabinet!” Like good little concubines the two trot willingly over like two trained poodles pretending special interest in this high priced ‘boat anchor‘. Like it’s some lame hint about the last thing they each want in their lives! To be locked in a ‘hip’ kitchen somewhere as just another ignoble ‘hausfrau‘! “Not with those boobs honey!” “Hey!, isn’t that the phone?” No one heard a ring. “Hey it’s Ella Fitzgerald’s coming over!” Sorry girls your seance is ‘termini’. “Why don’t you girls go in the kitchen and fix us something to eat!“, cajoles a now very disinterested Hef. Here comes Lenny stubling down the stairs all doped up in close pursuit after two dames in slinky evening gowns who are trying to find any part of the room that is without him. Fucking Lenny, “Hey Hef, gimme a taste of your drink to wash the taste of your ass out of my mouth that I keep kissing!” Hef grabs for the back of his own neck to intercept the pain from this ‘schnorrer’ parasite leering too bombed out of his mind to give a shit about anything or anyone standing bleary eyed just before him. Hef is thinking to himself, “Keep the glass Lenny!” So now Hef sits down with Lenny who is slurring out some babble about how he was ‘kinda rude’ with the two girls who are half way back to their own part of Waukegan. These girls scattered out of the picture like scared rabbits. Very smart girls!
Now Lenny is going to pitch some dull-witted spur of the moment ego boosting self-serving project scam that is nothing more than a barely concealed dig at Hef’s own pet project that, not ironically, Lenny is now currently live ‘on air’ and very much amidst. “At first I thought it would be a typical artificial TV fake party but it has something good about it, pretty chicks being a good composite!“, drunkenly spiels Lenny! Some people have a built in self destructive death wish. Maybe after this, he won’t be back next week, or next month, or maybe next year, or ever? Hef’s ‘hip’ reply most earnestly being his own underlying secret in the decorum behind keeping this artificial madhouse rolling revealed by saying, “Well, we provide girls and we serve real liquor and it does the trick!” Hef’s stone-faced pipe puffing expression silently conveying, “Ring A Ding Ding you fucking ‘kike’ asshole, I showed you!” So now Lenny starting to get the message that once more on God’s green earth, he is no longer wanted nor his candor appreciated! So what does he do but put the deepp dig in about Hef being so ‘hip’ to be drinking on his show during the late night. Like this backhanded stab in the back is going to put Hef on the hot seat with the FCC the next morning! ” Fucking ‘kaker punum nafke vantz’!”
“So Lenny, let’s now dig our own grave just a little deeper!”, a silent self-destructive voice coos in the comic’s befuddled head. “You’ve been draining the man’s liquor and chasing the man’s harem and now let’s see if you can add some real insults to injury!” “I wondered about the show’s sponsor if they would condone you personally drinking on your own show?” If this is a Goy heaven for the late night suburban TV crowd, then Lenny has just made it his own private insight into Jew Hell! [C.U. shot on Lenny says the show’s producer in the control room] as the ‘schmuck‘ so earnestly rambles on, “Playboy is chic, and as you say sophisticated, and the magazine is full of car coats and sports cars and there is a prospective sponsor out there do figure that your viewer out there supposing he can’t afford that car coat and sports car!” His red bleary eyes captured in glorious black and white signaling that he might hopefully pass out at any moment, he continues on without interruption completely wired with even more venom,”I’m glad that you have some guts and are not interested in someone who’s got no money!” So then this little ‘schmendrick‘ turns to the camera and begins to berate the television audience, “You people out there are going to have to wait until your own magazine come along like Reader’s Digest or Field and Stream!” That’s right Lenny! Shit on all the Goyim! Those straight assholes that the Chabadnik rabbi taught you to revile in Hebrew school. They’ve all got day jobs unlike you who is usually past out on smack till your local connection shows up with another fix to get you functional! So now let’s really play out the most extreme cliche Jewish stereotype of critiquing the man’s magazine. The ‘bread and butter‘ of your current host’s existence and dismiss everything inside it. The same one that bought all that liquor that you personally sloshed down your nasty little hole. Let’s spew some more venom like an ungrateful guest! “Gee! How hip!” Now that the bourgeois bashing is momentarily left on hold for a moment as someone else less consequential can get a word in edgewise. Lenny continues on miffed and not quite sure if he is reflecting upon his own thoughts or just talking saying something completely nuts lost in his own alcoholic drug ridden fog. That’s right! “Let me give you another false double-edged compliment Hef, because that is what I do!“, Lenny thinks to himself. So then this little shit heel begins a diatribe of self-psychoanalysis about his own so interesting to the outer world shortcomings, ranting saying that it is, ‘just him coming across as exuberant’ he offers another extremely solipsistic insincere apology while trying to ‘play’ his wholly indifferent victim. Hef dryly counters, “You work areas of comedy that are considered pretty sick, do you onside yourself a sick comic?” The audience that hasn’t by now hasn’t gotten up out of their own late night boozy fog to turn to another channel screaming “Duh!” Or they would have with that particular worked if it was fifty-five years later like it is now!
So for those few TV land types not snoring away completely dead asleep or busily honking hard on their honey’s ‘hiney’, they get to hear this POS’s relevational foray into modern bathroom bound personal existentialism declaring that there is no such thing as a sick comic! Further declaring that its a ‘writer’s device‘. You mean like Planned Parenthood’s yanking a fetus out of the womb in the ninth month of pregnancy? My God! How erudite and ‘hip’ you are young man! Tell me that I just spent twenty minutes of watching you trying to destroy this TV show in every way possible! The criticism about your own culture now artfully demonstrated to be undeniably true! And you really expect anyone to believe any of this shit? Now that is truly sick! It would be ‘anti-Semitic’ if you weren’t a Jew, being such a bad Jew! So now what sort of ‘double entendre‘ can you come up with to top this? Well then leave it to Lenny! Ever mindful of remaining the center of attention as long as possible if you have anybody still looking in your general direction, you threaten to blow your snotty nose into someone else’s borrowed handkerchief on live TV! Whoopee! If it was the age of Cocaine that followed in the decade after we know it would have been fraught after the fact with the powdery white residue of Coca! Where’s Art forum when you need them? So now Lenny pulls up his own coat sleeve to reveal a needle pocked arm. And he shoots up with his forefinger to show a tiny little tattoo that is going to keep him out of being buried in a Jewish cemetery. “Oh poor Lenny!” Castigated and shunned by his own kind! A hapless victim! To quickly wind up this now overlong diatribe upon the doctrine of nineteen-sixties late night hipness, the final dig is offered to future generations of social media bloggers to whom Mister Bruce rails on that, “Anyone who writes letters to the editor much be complete far out wacko’s!” Say hello to the Millennial generations Lenny! You may have been way too ‘hip’ for me! Too ‘hip’ in a really ‘hip’ place! But tonight on this tape when you were alive you have proven that you were a real piece of shit!