I was ooze. . . . I was gray, snail-eyed slime leaving a slick as I trailed along my undisturbed little life like something warm, gelatinous, and sluggish. . . . .something spoiled and stinking like woefully shaking death-glop. . . . . you could say, a ghoul with his fingers extended like a shroud of fanning "death" out of "Tales from the Atari-Democrat Crypt" of mouldy, wet Styrofoam and the groaning death-drone of a B-52 bomber whose unlucky parachutist's pack would not open with the rot of bad gear and cheap-ass bargain-basement parental values.

Yes, an orb of time revealing in its misty wings "a beast" only speeding up when its instincts wanted something, "glorping" after it like a bouncing seal pup across the beach of whale shit and sharp pebbles. . . . . as gulls cawed with nature's irritation.

My parents tried to set up a wall, but the loathsome little punk would ooze around it-- or better yet, hurl itself at the barrier with so much force that it fell over with a "foomp!".  Not unlike a slightly-remorseful tidal wave of bad feeling as "the natives" laid down offerings on a plate of palm-fronds to appease this half-human" force of nature" preposterous with the blindness of the universe, like either a pulsing pink anus of "the wretched spawn" shorn but for his eyes pointing the other direction or a soft-serve ice cream machine spurting out dubious substance in a cone as Michael roared like a Tyrannasaurus-Rex.

If this so-called wall was firm, the behemoth could transform itself and ooze through the cracks in the façade and ultimately get its way, like a junkie manipulator that begged, borrowed or stole to get exactly what he wanted. Yet it had a disgusting intelligence that could rationalize anything. . . . . even using jingoism or patriotism to play its slick, grandiose hand.

"Morning in America". . . . . "Standing proud & tall again". . . . . a shaft of sunlight shining through the windows of "Air Force One" and glinting off a carafe of freshly-squeezed orange juice like so much radiance in the American character, that the lil' shit didn't have. . . . . . yet wanted to scoop up to his credit while presenting his case of why his mother should invest in his promise to rake the leaves if she took him down to the flashing, plug-ugly arcade of marauding street-fighters, a promise as good as a government bond as G-men saluted and "The Secret Service" patrolled around like slabs of muscle in black suits ready to machine-gun down hecklers with fascistic force.

Reagan, the genial, grandfatherly cold warrior-- backed by his loyal lapdog of a lieutenant, Bush-- promised to mow down the poisonous mushrooms of "National Malaise" and economic downturn by ordering more cops on the beat with one massive messianic scything that "took out the trash" and burned it for good with the crunch of street-side finality, the click of bottles and slapped hands with law enforcement applause like beating back the hordes of liberalistic decay.

Was it "tying up loose ends", or sweeping deep-seated problems under the rug and keeping one's fingers crossed that the blind forces of the universe wouldn't assert themselves? By throwing your hand out over the television, it theoretically might somehow "magically hold" like a workman pounding down a wrinkled carpet with a mallet on his hands & knees and pretending not to notice as it curls up on the other side and bumps up against his shoes.

And the masses wanted to believe "that all was well", that all could "be well".

If anything defined the era stretching over a decade and into the early '90s, it was "comfort food" ordered up for the masses (-- chop! chop!) to stave off the wolf of crime, crack, AIDS, and homeless Negro drifters in stocking caps scratching at your door with their gold teeth gleaming evilly, lustfully, in a sweet-breath of wine and dirty goat-scruff and trying to get at your oaken Norditrack, IBM personal computer, and collection of Disney VHS tapes, if not at your helpless wife & daughter while you were bound up with your Armani neckties, gritting your teeth and rocking forward in twerpy, clarinet-voiced anger as the unspeakable unfolded like a confidentially-whispered nightmare whether in yachting club or bowling alley.

Not a pretty fear, so the media ordered up more comfort food!

And here I was oblivious to such "Willie Horton" subcurrents, "living off the fat of the land" like someone's overfed, gruesome pet like a slobbery beetle that had no concept of work, capital, division of labor, and investment that gave rise to "these treats" that I enjoyed so, watching television, if not "The Wonderful World of Disney" in a Mickey Mouse 1980's "after-school" universe and being somehow convinced that a better world existed out there someplace where there was no sickness, death, hunger, fatigue, toilets, and every show ended with all the loose ends tied up with a satisfying conclusion. . . . . usually a picture-perfect dad on a well-lit television set raising his finger and imparting the clear-cut moral lesson to errant youth whose shenanigans fell neatly within a 22-minute, 5-act show like the clean sweep of the clock's hands, the arc of time like sands in an hourglass with smooth, magical fixation.

However, being a child caught in the dualist world of television and real life I was conflicted between the rift of ideals and the real article that tantalized like broadcasted fantasy he could not explain. Because deep inside, I knew exactly what I was and ran from the loathsome realization with only more escapism that avoided the ultimate issue. . . . . that worthwhile things took work, oftentimes taking more discomfort that I was willing to endure when you could always shortchange yourself with something EASIER and far more pleasant as the magical box catered to your lower instincts like drug dealers who never found fault with your assholery.

That you can't have everything at once, in one fantastical starburst. That you have to wait. Nil on "instant gratification" though I threw a tantrum at what I saw as "The Vending Machine of Life" that wouldn't accept my dubious play money. Other people would stare at the fat, little boy crying and cursing and stamping his foot when "his kingdom" was usurped, especially when his parents wouldn't part with real money to fix it.

Michael in Hebrew means "he who is like God?" with a big, fat question mark, and there was an anger, stubbornness, and vanity within that would crush the cosmos without like an unlucky blackberry that had fallen to the stones in the backyard of our home, a victim of pique.

But what could always calm me down, and civilize me, and make me charming-- was the sight of a pretty girl-- bright-eyed, pretty girls with 10,000 watt smiles-- trotted out on the television screen. Somehow, I saw something of the divine reflected in them that left me staggered, and practically speechless as I stopped what I was doing and just stared.

In other words, something that played into an aura of perfect completeness, a golden unity that money or tantrums or thievery couldn't buy. A holiness rose inside, that made me forget about my troubles and cares and fetid bestialness. For this special person, you would climb mountains-- you would cross seas-- you would crawl across deserts-- just for the privilege of sitting by her side in the palace on the other side of the screen, wherever in God's name that was. . . . .

A hero, a conqueror, or if maybe fate "let you off easy" you wouldn't have to work very hard. But life isn't a garden for those who don't plant flowers, or don't know how, and things can get pretty damn stark when the cupboard of "comfort food" runs bare and times change into a parsimonious, bitchy age of hand-flapping irony and dashed magic that is about as filling as the postage stamp glue you lick and place on the envelope to send to those in power who stubbornly disregard the roar of the T-Rex, the slime creature "that time forgot". Through pure effort and will power, you must learn to "burn away that slime" and become that hero, that conqueror in control of their own destiny who isn't a slave to his base, crippling appetites nor delusions of grandeur.

And who knows? By the time the last word has been written, he might bring home the girl he remembers from his youth that made him feel like a true king so long ago. . . . . like Solomon sitting upon all the gold in the world.

*******************

"You want a-nuther song? Well I ain't plain' one mutherfuckin' note until someone comes up here and puts sum money in my god-damned tip-jar! You know I only came here for one purpose. . . . . to take yor fuckin' cash! Why, I could make more profit puttin' out my meth-head neighbor's asshole and ringin' a bell, hollerin' 'Man for sale! Man for sale!'

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

(Rheeee of Crickets)

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

("I heard that, Missy!")