"Bo-ass-ho State Religion"
Note: Satire was once described "as making fun of everything" except for being able to look in the mirror & wink, but I ain't exempted either!
That January back in 2001 was bitterly cold, the winds of nature like the flight of a mythical creature with the breath of predestination's wings chilling the pulse of one's stubborn, ebbing life-force like Chris Farley hitch-hiking. You couldn't help but think a little bit of "Tim Burton suites", the camera sweeping over faceless moon-blue granite of morbid loneliness "where there sure weren't no magical girls like Winona around" nor the headlights of "magical mystery limousines".
Creatures with rib-like arms ready to ensnare, to ingest. Silent poets giving inspired dance to their shy, delicate, spindly night-time existences beneath the damp kiss of cool autumn leaves. . . . .
Eerie statues loom out of the icy darkness to our howls of laughter. A ghostly Danny Elfman score intones the whirl of lost forsaken snowflakes. The camera soars beneath the limbs of what could only be a misunderstood arachnid: timid, graceful, jerking along the autistic darkness as guffaws erupt through our fingers.
It was ludicrous. . . . . it was obscene. . . . . it was "The Michael & Jesse" show.
Two bright, intense brothers who had perhaps been "overly mislead" by the mysterious perfumes of flashy things they skipped after "a bit too avidly", but then again conflicted with the dog-eyed 1960's "can-do" mugglewump spirit of their parents winding down a career as social workers as the whole damn mess fizzled and lingered on a flat-note like rotted candy, that didn't clear "the ramp of transcendent faith". Over and over they crashed & burned "with nature's laws" like Rocket-X down the fast-way of young, experiential life, gradually remembering to check off the misguided notions "of their comic-book view of life" box-by-box.
Space blasters and "moon girls". . . . . and Evel Kineval in a full-body cast, no less funny than when my brother was running too fast into the bathroom, slipped, "and tackled the toilet" with a pathetic, neck-whipping "Krrrunch!"
Touch-down!
And an extra point when he had to get a tooth fixed down at the dentist's office "on an emergency basis" for a seven checked-box lesson about the laws of physics and "slippery floors".
Well, I reckon you get what you pay for. . . . . and only get as strong as the weight you press over your head, like relying on a certain aunt up in a neurotic, self-absorbed suburb of New York to do anything towards counseling my struggling writer's skills as a determined, yet soft-stepped amateur holding his hands out lest he "burn his fingers on the stove".
Not able to spare ten minutes this particularly cold January on a visit, the long flight of T.rans W.orld A.irlines to LaGuardia like "A Mission to Moscow" with a sheaf of papers clutched to his chest like the revolving key in the jewel box of destiny (-- though the boy was silently dying inside) and then. . . . . six months later, sending a paragraph of sing-song praise only a daffy, out-of-it Jewish aunt could give as if a cu-coo clock was half-broken in the gliding, limping flight of what passed as the madness of her East Coast existence.
Funny thing about that New York scene, the state religion of the liberal arts. . . . . the moping mind-disease of bohemian bourgeois "cachet". You spin your hand out as if to show obeisance to the established names, the token greats, "the coin of the realm" which "takes heroism & death" for granted, subliminated libido directed into ordinary careers and less-than-fervent tasks with a token feather of "revolutionary flourish" like a gray wall of slime. Yet it cares nothing for the panting "misbegotten" making their way up the cold no-man's trail "to death or glory", when "rebellious quantities" have been bracketed, marketed, sold, and institutionalized into a nightmare of compromised principles and milquetoast "wine & cheese" parties like quiche-eating "sell-out's".
My brother and I would crack jokes. . . . . and it was "as if they didn't register". Carry on long enough with buffoonish laughter and mount a direct assault, they would "burn we heretics" by "looking around uncomfortably" and eventually "giving us the cold shoulder".
Certain institutions last in our culture either by 1) Reputation, 2) Pressing "The Right Buttons", or 3) The presence of a crowd will always draw in a larger crowd. Most people "honestly don't pick up on the difference", and go along with "the fashions of the day" without particularly "knowing why".
And if their are social movements, or attempted "redefinitions", it's only so some "out-of-it" person or group "can feel more attractive". Otherwise, the rest is just peripheral noise. . . . .
(-- And if I wasn't a loser, you wouldn't be reading this)
10.
"Could use a second, or third opinion. . . . ."
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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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