"Risk"
"
There's a fine line between persistence & pathology. . . . ."j
If my dreams were to "come true", Winona and I became "an item", and I was to find myself a wealthy "waysted white boy" in a trans-futurist "Celebrity-style" suit in the pages of "People", there would come others. . . . . and others. . . . . and others. Once you give the public hope "that the average fat-ass" might have a shot, "then that's when it gets crazy".
The truth about the general public is, obviously-- that they must be both educated and disabused of their notions. . . . . the difference between what's possible and improbable or even "all that likely" upon the dancing, Satanic glees within our "Hellespont of hellish infernos" known as "wishful nibbling" that needs a punch or two to the head or at least "a security man to chase out the curious". Back on one of Winona's miscellaneous alt-movie runs, the director set up a message board-- anyone could sign up-- in which fans could post questions to the cast. A certain very leggy, attractive woman who had once been "a comic book goddess" in a series of recent super hero movies answered a single question and pandemonium broke out.
If you had ever watched the scene in "Apocalypse Now" when the USO flew in some "dancing girls" for the stranded, strung-out, homesick, sex-starved soldiers pumping their fists and cheering in a thunderstorm and how eventually "it all got so out-of-hand" the girls had to flee to the helicopter as the men charged the stage and rioted in an orgy of lovesick horniness as they screamed with their faces to the sky in the pouring rain.
(-- Presumably, they went back to the bunk in a depression "to eat candy & whack-off" because that was "the only affordable substitute" down in the jungle)
In this life, if there are not "perfect solutions" we must find "a stand-in" and what I would tell to everyone out there. . . . . fan, stalker, geek, internet junkie alike, is that you will eventually find out "through sheer trial & error" there are appropriate and inappropriate substitutes, and it will cosmically dawn on you "that there ain't no short-cuts".
You might bluff your way in "through bluster", but if you sit around too long "over your stolen meal" eventually someone or something will mount "a counterattack" and drive you back with far greater losses "than what you had in the beginning". That's why most gamblers end up "in the gutter", Napoleon on "Devil's Island", Donald Rumsfeld hiding out in an undisclosed bunker with the toxic spillage "of bad feeling". Because they "didn't know when to quit" and eventually were playing "a reactive game" when everyone banded against them "and kicked 'em the hell out".
One cosmic sin is that of "emotional projection", or presuming that you and someone else "are on the same page". A spy may pose as a friend, a journalist as a confidant, "a squire" as "an innocent", and turn around and be your worst teeth-gritting enemy as you recover from "the fall-out". Appearances can be deceiving, and if you're ever outside a Walgreens and someone says they want to run back to their car "to grab their camera", that's when you get out of there because they might be coming back with a weapon.
Many times I considered what it would be like if Winona "threw a party" for some of her fans, the ole' gang on that ever-reliable, ever-dependable, ever-steady message-board. But how would such a venture work? Would the fans have to pay for their own transportation to a cordoned back area of a restaurant or nightclub? Would hysteria break out under the pressure of that moment? Spikes of jealously, violence. . . . . all competing for her limited attention?
And the awful truth of it-- the more apparently scarce "an oasis", than the more desperately men will fight for survival. The biggest lesson I ever had to learn is that desperation is counterproductive and makes one far less worthy in the world of status and hierarchy, much less "managing what you desire". To truly "win", you must rise above "the fray" and see not only see ourselves "as actors on a stage" but "the great silence" that exists, over, above, and beyond them to make any kind of reasonable character judgment of assertions and shimmering life energies.
And the rest, speaks for itself. . . . .
-- "Thank you for your input, Ms. Buxbaum".
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"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!'
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(Rheeee of Crickets)
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("I heard that, Missy!")
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