A focused communication

Dear diary,

I am the world’s leading antibody analyst. I work in this battle lab, here under the ground. I was born in a big crate of cannabis. My name is Egyptian God. I am 1984 years old. I believe in mummification, the afterlife, and dead people. Today I’m working on a supernatural horror movie. It will be an animated feature for children. I’m thinking of calling it “Antiquated Rationale.” It will be about a thing that goes priming deep into the shell of existence until it meets this girl named Jeri. She rapidly becomes nice toward her visitor. “Ah, we meet again,” says Jeri. “Mess around and pay the price,” the thing replies. They apparently know each other from sometime in the past. (They probably were colleagues in the totalitarian control room.) Suddenly a pizza is delivered. They pay the boy who brings it; then they both grab a slice. Now Jeri’s lady-friend Heidi arrives. She’s like, “Look, I found us a chaperone for the night,” as she shoves forth the pizza delivery boy who just left a moment ago. Heidi was most likely coming up the walkway when she passed the lad trying to leave, and she clutched him by the scruff of his shirt.

“He doesn’t look ready,” Jeri replies.

“Ready!?” laughs Heidi; “look, Jer, he’s got dynamite, and he’s the strongest man on earth, for he was born under this mountain.” And she schools her friend with proofs that she rescued from the memory hole: Boom! Bam! The cave begins to quake.

“We’ve gotta get outta here, or this whole place is liable to blow,” says Jeri.

Heidi is still laughing. They call a moving jam to ooze around the place and get all the personal property stuck to it, so that they can bring it all to safety. The world is counting on them.

“Please, let me go,” says the delivery boy, “I was counting on being able to use this evening to cram for the morning’s exam.”

“Well you should have thought of that before you decided to take the job,” says Heidi. She stopped laughing just to speak this remark, and she is now sporting a mean face. The lad looks terrified.

Why did the leader of their pack have to supersede his predecessor? That is the intimate thought of the thing, who has been observing all these developments from its privileged position. (It has a seat at one of the colleges.) For, long ago, they threw all their enemies into a giant pit of bleeding, where there were demons mashing and punching them. It was a difficult read.

This is the first rap approved by the pope. I’ve heard the Vatican has a lot of money. The earliest Christians, according to one of the old records, did not believe in private property. So when Jeri and Heidi tried to employ the moving jam to transfer all their belongings into their berths on the Christ Ship, the man named Cephus came out and read them the riot act. He said:

“Why, O Jeri and Heidi, did you hold back your goods from the group! We all agreed to pool together everything we have ever owned. And yet you two lied to us, claiming that you possessed nothing, when in fact you possessed all this stuff that the jam has preserved; and everything’s sticky now. Because of your power move, God is forced to do a miracle.” Then he tapped his staff on the floor, and the ground opened up and swallowed both Jeri and Heidi, as well as all the moving jam. Then it spat back anything valuable into the common area.

Now, knowing that this was the custom, back in the day, I wonder: When did the church become such a hoarder of golden luxuries? You might answer: The church does not hoard; it is precisely the same common area as the one that the mouth of the earth spat into, at the conclusion of the above tale of Cephas, yes, it is the zone that currently holds all those golden luxuries of which you speak: they belong to all believers.

To this I say: OK, you convinced me. Your argument is better than average; I would even call it excellent. I think you’re ready to go to the Intergalactic Court and represent our church to the surrounding solar systems. I don’t like to throw around compliments carelessly, otherwise I would admit that you are good at talking. You’re not the burnt-out zombie clown that I was warned to expect. Damn, now where did I place my gun? Because I was intending to go out and shoot pheasants after leaving you today. Did you ever get the urge to shoot at pheasants? It takes real style to do the job right. You must move like a chimpanzee, and have the instincts of a bunny, and evince the type of go-getter attitude that is popular among bees when they tip over massive jugs of honey for bears to lick.

Chapter 2

On the battlefield, it was the celibates fighting against the practicing polygamists. The whole church was there, on the sidelines, cheering for their favored team of priests. You can easily guess who won. There are photographs all over the sanctuary. Now our pope is bigger than a whale. Our savior has sharper nails holding him up, and he owns a new domicile. He sails down the road looking for anyone who will answer his call. He’s a country-western star, and a camouflaged warrior. He’s filled to brimming with what they call “daddy issues,” so stay out of his jungle. There’s a drama there that’s almost ready to show; it’s all loaded up and nervous. We need to check the civil code, like real politicos, and take things personal. Go to Puerto Rico for the festival. Pay someone a dime to act silly for a day. Fashion any of the bones in an animal’s hindlimb and you can take credit for the entirety. I’m the sheriff, he’s the marshal. The main difference lies in the level of government we serve.

Chapter 3

It was Winston’s second year on the job. As I said, he worked in the records division of the fast-food restaurant that is known for flame-broiling their burgers. It’s not fun. The octopus turns red when he’s happy and white when he’s raging with terror. The feeling of fear is the same as the feeling of anger, to him. (He told me.) So you put the patties into the memory hole, and the flames cook them, then you take them out with your hand, and place them on the bun. Sew it up like a burrito. Add some pickles. Then there are squeeze bottles blasting, bursting, blowing out, hemorrhaging ketchup everywhere: everything is red-splattered. Use these to paint your patty. Then lie down on the floor tiles, and cover yourself under the graveclothes, when it’s time to shed your skin. Also, if you’re one of the cephalopods, you can jet your ink blot while you’re down there: form a black cloud, then escape by swimming backwards, until you reach land. Once you’re on His Holy Hill, go sledding. Vanish up into the air. Be corruptly courageous. Use the man named Walking Death to guard your workstation, between comings.

Release from your womb a cool kid with a full bib. Toss carrots to it; tether the warhorse, if needed. Someone should invent a machine that causes items to look antiquated. Father Time should then watch over this process, and toss haloes on his favorites. When the wild otter runs loose in the auto-body shop, let the owner climb out and announce: “I just want another wife.”

Dear God, stop swinging your bloody sword. The otter seems at last to be out of commission. Even though your record flopped, you still think you possess the same rights as a superstar. But these things are not guaranteed.

O Lord, you are as big as a deer from Milwaukee. Dammit, don’t give up. Hit the ground running. Duck and dodge through the woods on the mountainside. Dig deeper in the muck. Invent new types of cells. Make pickle molecules have an improved aroma. Tell salmon to swim the other direction. Give your baby a pacifier. Stop tantalizing Hell. Build a rock that looks too big to hold. Make yourself as sharp as a tack. Instill women with the desire to dance to your music. You’ve got your motor running louder than a train. You can do this, I have faith in you.

Now our World’s Creator is winning the race, ripping through the finish ribbon! The reporters flock God; they thrust all their many microphones in his face and ask him: “Now that you’ve won, what’s next?” Our Lord pauses to catch his breath; he uses the towel to wipe the sweat from his forehead. “Barley and kelp for the horse,” he says into the TV cameras; “but, for me, it’s wine o’clock.” This apparently means that he is planning on announcing his final opinions about all the living creatures, and on reality in general.

Back at his podium in the United Nations building, God reads from his prepared speech: “My first girlfriend, Heather” he says (and his voice booms like thunder), “she is good; she goes to heaven.” Now one of the reporters from earlier at the footrace interrupts to ask: “Are the rumors true? Didn’t you two break up last summer?” God blanches and replies: “I don’t know how you found out about that. That is factually accurate. But we are back together now.” Then he continues to give his Final Judgment, proceeding on to announce the name of his favorite rapper ever. And then he lists the stiffest, whitest cadaver; then his favorite singer; then his favorite part of the underworld; and then his favorite noise. “For the finisher,” God says, moving on to the conclusion of his great speech, “I want to ask you all: What’re YOU gonna do? I mean, now that I’ve made known my bias, and let you see the Answer Key to all of existence, what do YOU plan on doing about it? You still wanna hit me; you wanna fight? I hope not; for it is sorta like you all won the race, too, cuz I put nobody in hell, as you feared. Isn’t knowing that you’re all coming to heaven with me as fair of a reward for decent living as a trophy or medal? I could give you money, as well. In fact, yes, I will give you some money. Here’s your inheritance—” God tosses a suitcase into the crowd, and it hits an old lady in the head. “I repeat,” he continues: “What’cha thinkin’ about doin’ with your life, now that this is out of the way? Any plans for the weekend? How about applying for the bar? You can take a portion of the exam in heaven. I’ll help you. We can see if you’re qualified to practice law in that jurisdiction. You’re all saints now – why not? C’mon, become a licensed attorney. Learn how to play guitar fast while driving a van. Build a dome to protect my angels. Sign up to join our street-cleaning crew. I respect you, O you tiny little creatures. You’re all fuzzy and cute, to me. Do you want a pony? I’m like your rich uncle now. I’ll give you anything. I flushed all your sins down the toilet. They’re gone forever. Down the tubes, into the darkness. They will never get out of that den. How about all you women who, during earth-life, hated behaving ladylike: do you desire to become boys and men now? I can make that happen. You can dominate your environment physically, once you acquire the meaty muscle-mind of machismo. You can hold knives and really cut things. You can strut and cluck. Add volume to your voice; it will raise your wrath of command to the ninetieth power. Here, I’ll demonstrate on someone – can I have a volunteer? Sharon, you may climb onstage. I’ll throw you a rope. There, now Sharon is bigger and badder, with biceps and ballast from boats and blimps. Sharon Flicek, your name is now Juck. Seven more times manly strength I give you, and I make you sweaty. You can rip and rend anything now. You can ride in my Benz with me, and fix the deck boards at my house. You are handy like that. I’ll give you lots of chicks, too, to take to bed. This is heaven; nothing is illegal anymore. Go and do it with your maid, Shar—I mean Master Jucko. Do you prefer Juck or Juckoozi? Be very careful when you handle chicken eggs, now, because you don’t know your own strength, and you might crush them in your palm without even trying. Man hands. The hands of a carpenter, all callused to death; and you are wearing overalls. You have a male member now, too, don’t forget that. No more shapely breasts. Get someone else to feed the baby. In fact, bring that tot to God: I will condemn him or her to Hell. I know everything about each little life, and I’m steaming mad. You don’t respect my demand for perfection, straight from birth, you get the ax. Down the penalty chute for you. Your ex-mother Sharon is now a big tan male from some sunny country. Her masculine birthday is 20 December, two thousand and twenty-five years after the flush of the last Juck. Winter Solstice Eve.”

The conclusion of an episode in my showbiz life

Part 2 of 2

I am sitting at my upscale vanity, using the mirrors of my dressing table to apply my face paint. The dancing ladies are backstage practicing our act.

The Biggest Bigwig enters my dressing room. Seeing me all made up, he remarks: “This is only rehearsal – why are you in full blackface?”

I take a long drag from my cigarette, then reply: “I just left Bessie’s Family Acting Troupe at the boarding house – they’re coming here shortly, and I don’t want them to recognize me. Remember, our little plan would be foiled if they discover that their newbie colleague ‘Tertius Radnitsky’ is actually the famous Bryan Ray, King of the Blackface Comic Singers.”

As the bigwig and I leave my dressing room, I hand my barely smoked cigarette to the doorman, who takes it dutifully but stares at it in bewilderment. (He cannot believe that someone would discard a perfectly good cigarette, which still has so much tobacco remaining.)

As I begin to croon my comic song at the rehearsal, the Biggest Bigwig is called aside by a portly man with a bulldog face, who says:

“There’s a troupe of greenhorn rookie amateurs waiting to see you.”

The bigwig raises his eyebrows and says to the portly, bulldog-faced man: “Ham actors?”

The man answers: “Yeah, ham actors.”

“I’ll be right there,” the bigwig smiles.

Bessie and her family troupe are led to the side of the stage by the Biggest Bigwig, who points to me as I’m rehearsing with my dancing ladies. “That’s Bryan Ray,” he explains: “the famous blackface crooner.”

Bessie seems impressed by this information. As I’m singing, I turn my head and make eye contact with her, while gesturing in a way that invites her to interpret the song as a personal message, just for her. Then I wink, and she smiles.

While still singing, I pace toward Bessie. When I am directly before her, I descend to one knee and remove my hat and hold it over my heart.

Now my song concludes. Everyone applauds the performance. I rise and bow to Bessie, and shake her hand respectfully, being mindful that this is her first time meeting my Broadway Star persona Bryan Ray. (Since I am in full blackface, she does not recognize me as her troupe’s own “Tertius Radnitsky.”)

Bessie and I immediately hit it off. We sit down at the piano and engage in a spirited conversation, as two souls who have fallen in love at first sight. I remove my white gloves, while we talk, and she absentmindedly picks them up and holds them close to her heart.

After this, I retire to my dressing room. Shutting the door behind me, I give an impassioned sigh. With a dreamy look in my eyes, I remove my hat and place it on the head of the doorman, who blinks at me in wonder. I then sit down at my vanity mirror and remove my makeup.

Meanwhile, Bessie is chatting with a few of the actors from her family troupe. Suddenly she realizes that she is still fondling the pair of gloves that she had taken during our parley at the piano. “Oh no!” she says: “Bryan’s gloves! I still have them! I must return them!”

Bessie hastens across the stage, past the dancing ladies who are practicing their strut kicks, toward my dressing room.

I have just finished washing away my blackface, when Bessie steps in. Upon entering, she happens to be looking down and fumbling with the gloves; therefore, I see her before she sees me. In that instant, I am terrified, lest she discover my true, makeup-free appearance: so I duck my head behind a large houseplant.

Seeing me in this predicament, Bessie exclaims: “Oh, I’m sorry; I just came to return your gloves.”

With my body bent over like so, and my face obscured by the leafage of the houseplant, I answer: “Forgive me; I am indecent.”

Then I notice that there is a tall fuzzy brimless boyar hat and a sparkling eye-mask on the floor next to the plant’s pot. Thank goodness I work in the entertainment industry, I think to myself, as I quickly don these items. Now sufficiently disguised, I lift my head out from behind the houseplant and greet Bessie warmly.

Taken aback by my getup, she asks: “Are you going to a masquerade?”

I think for a moment and then reply: “Um, yes. Yes, in fact, I am. I’m giving one at my house tonight. Would you and your troupe like to come?”

She laughs and says: “But we have no costumes.”

I lift my hand and declare that this is not a problem. I then summon the theater’s Wardrobe Supervisor from backstage and instruct him as follows: “See that Bessie here and all her friends receive the best costumes that you have.”

The Wardrobe Supervisor bows deeply and then retires. Bessie thanks me and makes her exit as well.

Now alone in the room, I exhale sharply, then I remove my eye-mask and tall fuzzy hat, tossing them far away from me, in relief that everything worked out. I remark aloud to myself while laughing: “I’m lucky that Bessie didn’t see my actual face!”

At just this moment, Bessie re-enters the room to fetch her purse. In a panic at being caught naked-faced again, I duck down, pull my cape over my head, and remain there crouching on the floor. I stick my hand out from under the cape and wave.

Bessie looks in wonder at me, shakes her head, grabs her purse off the table, and walks out the door.

The doorman now appears and stares at me for a moment; then, thinking that I must be looking for something that I have dropped, he crouches down and joins me, scouring the floor with his head down likewise.

At this point, the Biggest Bigwig enters my room. He sees me huddled under my cape, with the doorman on all fours patting around at my side. After a moment of confusion, the Bigwig joins our hunt.

While we are all three down on the floor snooping around, I lift my cape and peek out. Espying the Bigwig, I tap his arm to get his attention. I press my finger to my lips, and say in a whisper: “Please round up a lot of guests, for I find that I’m giving a masquerade tonight.” The Bigwig nods conspiratorially, and we all return to our ground-search.

§

That evening, my house is filled with people wearing elaborate costumes. I am wearing my sparkling silver eye-mask and my tall fuzzy brimless boyar hat, while dancing with Bessie, who is also hatted and wearing an eye-mask that glitters (hers is gold). She playfully tries to remove my mask, and I playfully scold her. We then gaze into each other’s eyes for a while, swaying to the music, and I remark: “You’re wonderful, Bessie – I’m crazy about you.”

She shakes her head and says: “Oh, you big Broadway Star, you’re just acting – you don’t mean what you say.”

Now, leaning in, I attempt to press my lips to hers, but she turns her face aside. I try again, and she struggles to get away; so I begin to kiss her neck aggressively. She pulls back and cries out:

“You’re too fresh! I’m not used to feeling so out of control.” Then she runs away.

I try to follow her, but she loses me in the crowd; so I stand there and shake my head, smiling. The Biggest Bigwig, who has witnessed this scene, comes over and mock-punches my arm and says: “It looks like the lady has rejected Bryan Ray because she is in love with Tertius Radnitsky.”

I stand pondering this remark for a moment. Then I remove my mask and hat, and hasten away.

§

Now undisguised, as Tertius Radnitsky, I pay a visit to the Family Acting Troupe’s headquarters. There I find Bessie, still wearing her costume from tonight’s masquerade. “How was the party?” I ask.

She smiles: “Oh, it was swell.”

“Did that blackface Bryan Ray try to seduce you?” I ask.

She rolls her eyes, then clutches my arm and says: “Oh, you have no idea how bullying those Broadway Stars can be. Let me show you how Bryan Ray tried to woo me—” and she yanks me close and starts kissing all over my neck and licking my face. Then she pulls back and laughs.

I pretend to laugh, too, despite being now quite overwhelmed with desire.

§

It is opening night for Bessie’s Family Acting Troupe. Before joining their show as the bit player Tertius Radnistky, I perform my regular comedic songs as Bryan Ray in blackface with my dancing ladies.

While I’m onstage singing, Bessie and her troupe are backstage getting ready. The troupe’s manager now comes up to her and reports that one of their actors is missing: “Tertius Radnitsky must have come down with stage fright, for he is nowhere to be found.”

Bessie assures the manager: “Oh, Tershy will be here, don’t worry – he wouldn’t fail me.”

The manager, however, unable to relax, replies: “But we can’t wait any longer – our act is next!”

Bessie tries to hide her concern. She bites her thumb. At this moment, my Bryan Ray routine ends, and I head backstage. As I see Bessie looking distraught, I say: “What’s wrong?” And when she explains that they can’t find Tertius, I ask:

“Can I help? I’ll gladly play his part for you.”

Bessie thinks for a minute and warms up to this idea. “OK,” she nods.

“I’ll go make an announcement,” I say, smiling widely. Then I dash back out onstage and speak to the audience as follows:

“Ladies and gentlemen, I am now about to do something that I have wanted to do all my life – I’m going to appear in a dramatic play.” And, waving my hat, I disappear behind the curtain.

The Biggest Bigwig comes and visits me in my dressing room, as I’m changing into costume. I complain to him: “You know, this prank, which has me lending my professional showmanship to that troupe of amateurs, isn’t as funny as it first seemed. That girl Bessie really cares about their performance, and I feel bad for making the whole thing into a joke.”

The Bigwig waves away my words with his hand and replies: “Stop being sentimental. Unless you want your career in showbiz to flop, then you better go give it your all. And make sure it’s funny.”

§

The play begins. The bayonets of the army march through the background, as before. Bessie and the rebel spy step out of the house; the latter raises his sword and exclaims: “I am off to the war!”

When the U.S. flag appears among the bayonets, the couple salute it; then the rebel hastens off to follow it. Before leaving the stage, he turns and shouts out: “Au revoir!”

Bessie’s character waves and blows him a kiss, as she re-enters her house.

Throughout the performance, the audience laughs uproariously, because Bessie’s wardrobe suffers various malfunctions, which keep revealing her undergarments.

Watching all this from the side of the stage, I am not amused, for I am aware that the crowd is laughing not with but at Bessie. Now the Biggest Bigwig comes over to me grinning leerily; he slaps my shoulder, and says: “Bry, this is immense! I’ve never heard so much laughter in a theater.”

I shake my head and say: “Breaking her heart to get a few laughs isn’t funny, to me.”

When the curtain comes down to conclude the first half of the play, the actors huddle and Bessie says: “Something is wrong here, but I don’t know what.”

The actor playing the rebel spy says: “We’ve got to put more spirit into the second half.”

The other actors nod. They then disburse.

The Bigwig squeezes my arm and slaps my back and advises me: “Make it funny, Bry.”

Now the curtain rises, and the play’s second half begins. The stage is covered in fake snow. The army storms forth, blasting their rifles. Bessie steps from her house’s front door and empties the fake snow out of her bodice, reigniting the laughter. Bessie shakes her head angrily at the audience, as if to say: “Stifle your mirth.” The crowd laughs even louder.

Now the villain from the enemy troops attempts to kidnap Bessie. He lifts her over his shoulder; this gives the audience a view of Bessie’s knickers. The rebel spy dashes onstage from the opposite side and performs a rescue. Bessie’s character thanks her savior by waving a kerchief, while he heads back into the fray.

When my cue arrives, I stumble forth to center stage, holding my heart as if critically wounded. I am still in full blackface and wearing my dying soldier’s getup. I also donned enormous snowshoes for tonight’s performance, which make my walking very awkward: the crowd finds this hilarious. Bessie watches me in bewilderment. To expire, I flail my arms like a drowning swimmer for as long as the audience will laugh, then I tip back onto my rump and close my eyes. I lie as still as possible, with my tongue hanging doglike out of my blackface. Although I’m fictionally dead, my chest keeps rising and falling from the respiration that all this effort required.

Instead of coming down to hold me in her arms, so that we can perform our scene where I briefly resurrect to say I love you and then return to death for good, Bessie steps to the front of the stage and addresses the audience directly, with tears brimming her eyes:

“Why are you laughing!” she cries out. “This is no comedy.”

The crowd now laughs harder.

Bessie continues: “You can all go to blazes! You don’t know a good show when you see one!”

The curtain closes behind her while she is speaking. Not knowing this, when she turns to flee, she runs right into the drapery and collapses: her hoop skirt billows over her head, divulging for the umpteenth time a generous view of her bloomers. To get backstage, Bessie wriggles under the curtain like a serpent.

Once behind the drape, she climbs to her feet and stomps straight in my direction, shouting: “You! You made a fool out of me!” She slaps my face, and my makeup leaves her palm black. She then runs to the exit.

It is raining outside. After bursting carelessly out into the back lot, Bessie stands there sobbing in the downpour.

I dash out after her and wrap my arms around her, begging forgiveness. I admit all my wrongdoings and confess the shame that I felt while acting like such a cad. At first, she is resistant to my pleas; but then her resolve starts to soften, and eventually she succumbs to my persistence.

Now looking up into my eyes, Bessie steps back in shock: for, as we have been in the pouring rain all this time, my blackface makeup has completely washed away. She gasps and exclaims: “You’re Tertius Radnitsky!”

This accusation takes me off guard: I stare open-mouthed and dumbstruck for a moment. Then, placing my hand against my cheek, I remove it and gawk at my fingers, making the inference that the color of my skin was soluble.

Bessie’s indignation flares back up intensely. She bolts off into the rain shouting something unintelligible. Now a few stagehands from the theater come out and fetch me, saying: “Come back, Mister Ray – we’re holding the curtain for you!”

Epilogue

Much time has passed since the above ordeal. Bessie’s Family Acting Troupe abandoned Broadway and returned to the road. Their tent is now set up again with the sign that says “Actor Wanted: No Experience Needed.” Several candidates are standing in a row, waiting to audition.

Bessie steps out of the tent flap and stands before the first man in the row. “Say ‘I love you’,” she instructs.

The man says: “I love you.”

Bessie shakes her head, and moves on to the next man. “You, try it.”

“I love you,” he says.

She shakes her head again. Without looking up, she moves to the next auditioner: “Go ahead,” she mutters.

I myself happen to be this third man in the row. I reach forth and touch her chin, and gently tilt Bessie’s face up, so that she meets my eyes; then I declare the line with heartfelt sincerity.

Bessie is overcome with emotion. She shakes her head and steps back and tosses up her hands and tells everyone to go home. The row of auditioners disperses; they all leave – only I remain. When Bessie looks over and sees me waiting hopefully, she frowns and begins to head back toward the tent flap.

In desperation, I grab the huge, heavy sledgehammer that happens to be on the ground, and I start to pound in one of the tent stakes. Out of the corner of my eye, I pay attention to when Bessie looks my way; at that moment, with my free arm holding the stake, I swing the sledgehammer and give the appearance of hitting my own hand. I then fall down and writhe on the ground, clutching my hand and feigning great pain. Bessie sees this and rushes over to help: she takes my hand in hers, and hugs it to her chest and strokes my fingers. I now grow calm, as though this alleviated my agony.

Relieved that I am not seriously injured, Bessie pulls me after her into the tent. When the flap closes behind us, the audience can only see our footwear. Our shoes turn toe-to-toe, indicating that we are facing each other. Bessie’s heels then rise, signifying that she is standing on her tiptoes to kiss me. While holding this pose, Bessie’s arm comes out of the entry flap, grabs the “Help Wanted” sign from the place where it is hanging, and brings it into the tent. This means that Bessie has rehired me into her Acting Troupe and that she and I shall be lovers forever after.

---

Source: The Matinee Idol (1928)

An episode from my successful showbiz career

Part 1 of 2

My story begins in the Theater District along Broadway, in Midtown Manhattan, New York City. For those who are unfamiliar, this is the highest commercial level of live theater in the English-speaking world.

See my name in lights on the marquee: Bryan Ray, Star of the Show. My routine consists of lady dancers who do strut kicks around a piano while I sing humorous songs in blackface makeup. I’m known as “the King of the Crooning Comedians.”

When I finish my act, I bow. There are representatives from all the major production studios in the audience. While I’m bowing onstage, one of the bigwigs turns to the biggest bigwig and says: “Well, what did you think of the show?”

The biggest bigwig answers: “Bryan is certainly the King of Blackface Entertainers; but if he continues performing at this level, he shall certainly burn out. He needs a rest. He is the hardest working man in all of showbiz.”

After my bow, I go backstage and wash off my black face-paint. My butler emerges from the shadows holding two huge bags overflowing with mail; he says: “You’re getting over five hundred letters a day, Sir – and all from women.”

I turn around at the sink and smile while my face is still half black and remark: “When I was a ghostwriter of sacred scripture, I didn’t even get a single postcard on Christmas.”

The biggest bigwig now enters my star chamber while I’m lighting my cigar, and he slaps me on the shoulder and says: “Bry, you need a rest. How about joining us for a drive to the country? Come on, it’ll be like Godard’s film Weekend (1967).”

I pause for a thoughtful moment holding my cigar in the same pose as that famous photo of Freud; then I nod once and say: “I’ll go anyplace to get away from these screaming fans who keep sending me love letters.”

The bigwig laughs. We then leave the theater and join the other studio executives in the motor coach.

After we make it past a very long traffic jam, we cruise on the highway for a while. But then our engine breaks down and we get stranded in a small town that only has a single mechanic. On the entry door to his shop is a handwritten note that says:

“Ned’s Auto Repair is closed temporarily because Ned the mechanic went to see the show.” And underneath this note is the ad for a local play, which is being put on by a family acting troupe.

The biggest bigwig elbows me and points to the “Help Wanted” sign attached to the show’s ad; the smaller print says “One actor needed; no experience necessary.”

The bigwig says: “Bry, you should audition for the part. We’re forced to wait anyway, since Ned the mechanic won’t return till the show is done, and we have nothing better to do. Hmm, it looks like they’re performing in that tent across the street. Come on, it’ll be fun for us to watch you, a seasoned professional Blackface Entertainer, perform alongside a bunch of hicks in a small family play.”

The Biggest Bigwig and all the top studio executives now walk across the street and buy tickets at the tent’s entry flap, while I go to the back of the tent, where the auditions are being held.

The family troupe’s lead actress comes out and addresses the five of us who have shown up: “You’re all here to audition for the acting job? OK, I’ll deal with each of you individually. All you need to do is say this one line: ‘I love you’.”

She points to the first man in line. He stretches his arms out and opens his mouth very wide and says: “I – I – I . . .”

The woman claps her hand over his mouth, shakes her head, and says: “Next.”

The next man in line now pulls out of his pocket a deck of playing cards, fans them out and says “Choose one.”

The woman plucks a card and flings it into his face. She then rolls her eyes and says: “Ugh, next. Please try to say the line.”

The next candidate smiles smugly while gesturing to the flower on his lapel, which then squirts out a jet of water. The woman dodges the blast and angrily slaps his face. Then she knocks off his hat and undoes his bowtie.

“For heaven’s sake,” the woman snaps, “can’t any of you just say the line ‘I love you’!? It’s not so difficult!”

I myself am the last man in the group. When she stands before me, I look into her eyes and exclaim the line with genuine feeling.

The woman’s frustration instantly dissipates, and she hugs me. She then clutches my arm and leads me into the tent, cheerfully explaining all that I need to know about my role.

“I’m Bessie; I play the lead,” she says. Yet, when she asks my name, I am afraid to tell the truth, because I’m such a big star on Broadway – my fear is that someone will recognize me – so I make up a lie and say: “My name is Tertius Radnitsky.”

Bessie looks perplexed for a moment. Then she continues with my orientation: “Alright, Tertius, now listen. You’ll be playing a dying soldier. You say ‘I love you’ and then die. Got that?”

“Got it,” I nod.

“OK, give it a try,” Bessie says.

So I place my hands over my heart, where I pretend I’ve been shot, and I take a couple steps forward with difficulty, feigning pain; then I stiffly salute, and fall down on the floor.”

“Great!” Bessie applauds my performance. Then she grabs my legs and pulls me around in a half-circle, and says: “But land so that you’re facing this way.” Then she lies down on the floor next to me, takes me in her arms, and says: “Alright, now say your line.”

I obey, and she instructs again: “Put some feeling into it.” So I repeat very breathily: “I love you.” “Good,” she says.

Then she takes me into the adjacent compartment of the tent, where the costumes are kept. The rest of the acting troupe is in there, dressed as swordsmen and swordswomen. Bessie tosses me a uniform and shouts to the troupe: “Meet our new dying soldier. Please teach him how to put on his makeup.”

§

Now that we are all ready, our play begins:

The stage depicts a battlefield. An army is marching through the background, behind the trees. The flag of the United States appears; the audience applauds. We hear a trumpet and a piano. Two actors emerge from a house. The man raises his arm and shouts to the woman (Bessie): “Goodbye, daughter! The bugles are calling – I am off to the war.”

My fellows from Broadway are in the audience laughing. The Biggest Bigwig remarks to his fellow studio execs: “This is so terrible, it’s great!”

As the actor onstage with Bessie walks away, he says: “Married men make the best soldiers, because they know what war means.”

Bessie’s character folds her hands in ostentatious prayer and murmurs weepily. Just before his exit, the man turns and shouts: “Calm your fears. For one who handles the sword as I do, there is no danger!” Then he disappears offstage. Bessie waves goodbye to him, while drying her tears with a handkerchief.

Now I step onstage in my soldier costume, ready to die. Bessie looks at me with terror in her eyes and whispers: “Not yet! You’re too early!” So I back up and hide behind a tree.

The bigwig and his fellow execs catch a glimpse of me from their place in the audience. “Look, it’s Bryan!” they say, pointing with glee.

I peek out briefly from behind the tree and wave to my friends. Bessie shoots me a mean look. I quickly re-hide.

The next scene depicts Bessie’s character in conversation with a rebel spy, who delivers her some paperwork. He explains that the army is hunting him. She invites the man to take shelter in her house. Then the army marches onstage and confronts her, looking for the agent. She thrusts out her arms and blocks the door of her house. The army then leaves, and the rebel spy comes out and lifts his sword. She hugs him, and the curtain falls.

In the audience, the biggest bigwig nudges his fellow executives and says: “Can you imagine what a sensation this would make on Broadway?”

The curtain rises. There is now fake snow all over the stage. The army tramples across, shooting their rifles. Bessie’s character is standing outside her front door, using a shawl to shield her head. The commander of the army grabs Bessie and attempts to kidnap her, but by the time he has dragged her to the left end of the stage, the rebel spy appears at stage right with his sword held high. Seeing this, the commander drops Bessie and flees with his army. The spy embraces Bessie, then chases after his foe.

Now I step onstage – this time, at the proper moment. I am wearing my soldier’s uniform and holding a U.S. flag. Clutching my heart, I collapse in agony upon the floor. Bessie lies down in the snow and takes me in her arms. I then pronounce my line: “I love you,” and she presses her lips to mine. This kiss leaves me in ecstasy, so I forget to pretend to expire; instead I sigh, rolling my eyes in bliss, and with great feeling repeat my line. Bessie looks right and left in confusion, then kisses me again, hoping I’ll die this time, as planned. I continue to gaze about lovestruck, until I notice her look of frustration; then I convulse and perish. Bessie gently releases my body and says her next line:

“Alas, poor soldier! I did my duty – I kissed him, and he died.”

Now the rebel spy steps back on stage victoriously, holding his sword aloft. Bessie takes my U.S. flag and waves it proudly from side to side. The curtain falls.

The audience applauds. But, backstage, Bessie is furious; she yells at me, saying: “You were terrible – you almost spoiled the whole show!”

I then spring to my feet and clutch my heart and demonstrate collapsing and dying again, and say: “Isn’t that how you taught me? What am I doing wrong?”

She says: “I’ve seen bad actors before, but you’re the worst! You’re fired.”

Out of her own purse, Bessie now pays me the coins that I earned from tonight’s performance. Then she stomps away in rage.

The rest of the acting troupe says goodbye to me, one by one, as they retire to the dressing room.

I stand alone for a moment, thinking about what just happened. Then my friend from Broadway, the Biggest Bigwig, approaches with a wide smile, slaps me on the shoulder and says: “This troupe is so funny! I’m going to make them an offer – they’re just what our revue needs.”

My eyes widen. “Great idea,” I say. But then my countenance falls, and I add: “however, I was fired for being a terrible actor.”

The bigwig and I stand in silent thought for a moment. Then I snap my fingers and exclaim: “I’ve got it! As a stipulation of your offer, you can force them to re-hire me as Tertius Radnitsky, the beginner actor. That will serve as my stage name, when I perform with them; this way, Bessie won’t suspect the truth that I’m already mega-famous. Then, when I do my popular routine, I will use my customary title, which is known all over the world: King Crooner Bryan Ray.”

The Biggest Bigwig smiles widely again as we shake hands and part ways.

§

The Biggest Bigwig now enters the tent compartment where the acting troupe’s manager is in conference with Bessie. The Biggest Bigwig hands them his card and removes his hat. Bessie points to the card as she and the troupe’s manger read it – both of their eyes widen when they realize that this visitor is the Biggest Bigwig of Broadway. Bessie stiffens and offers her hand for the bigwig to shake. “How can we be of service to you, Sir?” she asks.

The Biggest Bigwig now explains to Bessie what he and I conspired about earlier, saying: “I’ve come to make an offer to present your entire company on Broadway.”

The troupe’s manager and Bessie exchange a glance, then they both put forth their hands to seal the deal.

Before shaking, however, the Biggest Bigwig mentions his sole stipulation: “I must insist on having the same cast I saw today.”

Bessie and the acting troupe’s manager smile and hop in place. Then Bessie runs into the next compartment and calls for the other actors. Once they have gathered, she briefs them on the situation before reentering. Then they all assemble themselves proudly before the Biggest Bigwig, who counts them and inquires: “Is this the full cast?”

Bessie assures him that this is their entire troupe.

The bigwig frowns and says: “It can’t be. Someone’s missing.”

Now Bessie gasps and whispers to the manager: “The new guy! I just fired him!” Then she turns and says to the Bigwig from Broadway: “Oh, there is one actor who did not respond to my summons – I will go fetch him.” She pats the arms of the bigwig: “Don’t move.”

I am waiting expectantly in the dressing room. When I hear Bessie’s footsteps hastening toward me, I bury my head in my hands and pretend to be weeping. Bessie bursts through the curtain of the compartment, then stops short when she sees me looking so pitiful. She paces forward gingerly and sets her hand on my back, and says: “Don’t feel bad. I’ve decided to give you another chance.”

Looking up at her with teardrops streaming down my face, I shake my head and answer: “I won’t return unless you increase my pay.”

Bessie is aghast at this response. She scratches her head and thinks for a moment. Eventually she slackens and smiles and nods, and we shake hands to seal the deal.

§

Now Bessie’s Family Acting Troupe travels to New York with me, never suspecting that I, “Tertius Radnitsky,” am already the famous Broadway Star Bryan Ray.

[To be continued . . .]

A thot on dominance

Dear diary,

I’ve heard that all the wealthy computer nerds are trying to invent a way to plant a microchip inside our brain, so that they can read our thoughts and control our bodies directly. I’ve always been fascinated by the debate about free will: do we have it or not? No matter how you answer the question, I’m left puzzled. If we do indeed possess volition, then why does this freedom feel so predetermined? On the other hand, if we are all just miserable slaves to nature, and our actions are but the result of natural laws playing out as they must, then why do I feel like I’m always choosing to behave so ignobly?

I notice that, in each case, I used the word “feel.” Life feels at once predestined and freewheeling. This could be good news: for if the computer nerds do end up chipping our brains, we might like this new shackled mind-life even more than our current “unplugged” existence; all they’d need to do is program us to emote deep joy for our enslavement. Like Hamlet reported about his good friends Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, when he sent them off on a mission to get themselves executed: “They do make love to this employment.” It matters not who’s pulling our strings and for what end, as long as we like the dance that we are doing.

Our computer-nerd overlords don’t have the same problem with us that the god Yahweh had with his human slaves in the pleasure garden. For he, the priests assure us, desired for humankind to have the freedom to choose whether to obey or disobey their maker: Yahweh did not want their fealty to be forced. But our computer-nerd overlords are free from such compunctions: if they had been in Yahweh God’s place, they would simply have made it impossible for humans to sin.

Now the chink in the armor of my optimism is that I’m assuming our computer-nerd overlords will care enough to make us feel blissful about obeying them. This is naive of me. Why would a parasite that suffers no remorse when usurping volition care how its host feels about being conquered? These computer-nerd overlords of ours seem, on the contrary, far more likely to preset our feelings to “endless unpleasure.”

The question is: Can you truly take over the mind of another being without yourself feeling that being’s feelings? How can you achieve total mind control without “becoming what you behold,” as it were, since emotions are an integral part of the mind? The answer will probably be that they don’t care if their control is absolute: they only require enough access to our will so that they may compel us to do all their dirty work.

Yes, that’s the rub. They’re not trying to be us; they only wish to move us around. It’s the same relationship that mankind has always established with other animals. A cowboy is not interested in what his horse dreamt about last night; he just needs the beast to trot him to the saloon. And does any keeper care for the wise counsel that his bees are conveying to him through their dancing? No: beekeepers simply grab the honey and run.

Also, think about which came first: the chicken or the egg. (Instead of asking WHY, maybe we should be questioning exactly WHAT crossed the road. And recall that “the other side” is a euphemism for the afterlife.)

Perhaps we already are commandeered by computer-folk. We might not know it, because we’ve been programmed to misremember. But even if this is not the case, one point is certain: Something is operating us, and it ain’t altogether ourselves. To err is human; it is also irreconcilable with intention. Think of anyone, after performing a shameful act, exclaiming “I don’t know what got into me.”

Is this the evidence of a wireless remote control having been employed? No, it just means that volition is incommensurate with reality. If one’s arrow fails to hit the target, it doesn’t necessarily prove that a counterforce willed the shot astray; it could just mean that our aim is off. Nevertheless, as John’s Jesus says, the wind is God, blowing wherever he desires, and constantly at odds with our hopes and dreams.

Why is God such a trickster? That’s a question that I should tackle in a future lecture.

Quick opinion

Dear diary,

I favor mind over body. My reason is this: If you invest in your body, your return is temporal and you serve what is passing, since the body must die; but if you invest in the mind, by means of writing or other forms of art, then your return can be infinite, and you serve eternity, since future minds shall be able to receive ideas, desire, provocation, experience, and so on, from what you have offered.

Text and other art forms survive the demise of the body; so, although the mind is part of the body, each mind can trespass the boundary of self by exchanging influences with other minds. Participating in the exchange of the mental realm has this advantage over the building of physical strength: one’s mind benefits from the past work of other minds; whereas no strongman can transfer his muscles unto another.

This subject of mind-versus-body was my dominant thought today because I recently spoke to some new people – I don’t normally speak to any people, let alone new ones, because I live a secluded existence in a cave on a mountain; but a couple days ago I attended my nephew’s birthday bash, where there was casual talk happening, and by tuning in I learned that people care about the body rather more than they care for the mind.

When I meet new people in the world, I ask them what they like to do. Not what they do for a living: I assume that their career is something evil, so I’d rather not dwell on that; I prefer to focus on the positive, so I ask what activities they enjoy in life. Every new person I asked happened to give the same answer: “I like yoga, and I also like CrossFit.” Now I was familiar with yoga, at least the U.S. version of that discipline, which is defined as “holding poses and breathing,” but I had to ask the first person who mentioned CrossFit to spell it for me, as it was a term that I had never heard before; that’s how I learned that it’s printed as one single word, although the “C” and the “F” are both capitalized: for it is a company’s trademark. My first assumption is that this must have something to do with crucifixion, like tailoring a cross to fit your body type. But it turns out that it’s truly just a brand of (and I quote) “cross-discipline fitness.” It incorporates various aggravating activities, such as weightlifting, jumping and landing.

So we have this underclass of poorly treated agricultural laborers, and then this overclass of competitive fitness freaks. Why can’t the people who love this style of intense physical exertion leave the CrossFit arena and just go work in the fields? It would give far more satisfaction to be interacting with nature, plus the result of all your hard work would be that you feed people. Why stay indoors, in a stinky old gym, when you could be outside in the fresh air and sunshine, helping humanity?

Morningthots about worlds & art & more

Dear diary,

Every new person is a new world. Oneself is a world among other worlds, all of which are encompassed by a shared world. I have a name, you have a name, others have names, but our shared world we just call “the world.” If we gave this world a name, it might cause us to infer that other worlds exist within a super-encompassing world: the world of worlds. That’s why we do not name our world; it would overcomplicate matters. Plus, we prefer to think of our world as the only one, ever: a lone Island of Despair within the nothingness.

And I wonder if there are worlds within oneself. As oneself is a world, are the aspects of one’s inwardness worlds as well? One’s atoms, cells, organs . . . ? How is it that one can vacillate? Where do the different opinions come from, that leave one indecisive? A oneness should not be able to disagree with itself: any wavering in resolve seems proof of at least duality. Perhaps each thought is the voice of a world within. Maybe each of these inner worlds is deprived of a name by its own inhabitants, lest those worlds be compelled to admit that they belong to Bryan, and their exclusivity is only imaginative.

And why does any of this matter? It does not matter. There are no worlds, or there are infinite worlds forever multiplying. What matters is which rap albums are being released next Tuesday. There’s something solid, a fact that one can sink one’s teeth into.

What is art? Is it a reflection of a world, or an expression of a self? Is it an intermediate world existing between worlds while overlapping them? When you read a story and you forget your own life for a spell, the world of the artwork feels more real than reality. Is this feeling false? How dare we call a feeling false? If we cannot trust our feelings, then what shall we follow? Science? But Science is passed out in a field somewhere, drunk off its own sobriety.

I like artworks because they invite me to access other worlds. I like to meet new people, but I prefer to know them deeply; I’d rather avoid all the surface talk. Art gets to the heart of the matter. A song is a world. A painting is a world. A book is a world. I desire to experience these worlds intensely: to listen closely if they are audible; to gaze penetratingly if they are visible; to misread strongly if they are scriptural. I want to know, to become the other self, the alien world. What is weird is good, I welcome what is confusing or difficult: all this means that the acquisition will augment my world greatly. If an artwork is too familiar, that means more of the same, therefore it does not change me much; that is not too bad, but it tends toward the humdrum, and I hunger for exuberance. If it must be monotonous, let it be superlatively so.

So, I seek new worlds, new selves, new thoughts, from works of art. Others seek from art a type of atmospheric tint or seasoning, a background to another activity, a passive accompaniment to the spectator’s reality. Like Satie’s “furniture music,” which is intended to be mingled over. Paintings that match the room’s furniture and that do not assert themselves. Well-behaved pets. Meek, obedient servants that blend in with the surroundings and do not interrupt the action that one is engaged in. Things that are almost entirely ignorable yet which crucially set the mood.

The body of an automobile is a work of art. Does it bear the personality of its maker? How much does it change one’s own self? Were paintings ever as practical as motorcoaches? What about in the days when people still believed in idols and in possession by spirits?

OK, we looked at the car; now let us look at the woman standing next to it. Is she a work of art? I cannot tell if she is a statue carved out of marble or an actual swimsuit model. If she’s a statue, then of course she’s a work of art. If a living human, then it’s debatable. I say humans are artworks. But I don’t believe that God sculpted them. I think they are an example of art dreaming up its own self. Instead of an agent reworking material, material fashioned itself into an artist. A perishable deity.

But, back to our bathing beauty: William Blake writes “The nakedness of woman is the artwork of God.” If a painter paints a nude, using our virgin as a prototype, no believers would deny that it is art. But if the statue starts breathing, and she removes her swimsuit, do we still call that art? A lady just standing there on the display floor at the car show: that is God’s masterpiece? Does she belong in a museum? When she meets death, does someone preserve her body and mount it somewhere, like they do to grizzly bears?

Why does it seem that she must remain still, to qualify as art? Why is movement the dealbreaker? Don’t people label motion pictures art? Yet it’s true that X-rated pornographic movies, which depict adult wives engaged in a tender embrace, are not art: they’re smut. So “smut” means: art that moves. True smut also ideally contains at least two models. A single nude is too artful: people might confuse her with Eve, from the story of the first human woman created by God. You don’t rent a porno film to see the garden of Eden, with that lawyerly snake ruining a sinless existence. No, you rent a porno film to watch Cézanne’s bathers amble about; because the change in motion is what you can’t get from his paintings.

Can a starving person satisfy her hunger by watching a film of another woman eating a sandwich? I think not. The one who is starving will be just as hungry after viewing this film as she was before it started: she will get no satisfaction. But isn’t it strange how the same starving person can watch Cézanne’s pornographic Bathers Movie and obtain sensual satiation, at least erotically speaking? Why is this? Is smut transferable via brainwaves, whereas food requires genuine physical molecules and at least one functional stomach?

And why don’t we yet have a genre of cinema that focuses exclusively on people breakfasting? Cinematographers could work their magic when filming the cuisine, so that it looks extremely appealing; and those who consume it could be likewise shot from the most flattering angles, so that the dining experience would attain the heights of art. My favorite food film is Caviar to the Masses. On the contrary, you, dear reader, have very bad taste; you prefer the trashy, vulgar pictures like Bryan’s Burger Barn.

I’m against any artwork being “about” anything. Like, when they say, “This movie is about angels.” Or: “This movie is about a wooden robot that becomes a supermodel and then yields up its soul to the food-film industry.” On second thought, now that I have given a couple examples, I realize that I have changed my mind: I now am all for artworks being “about” things. I’d like to see both of those pictures that I just mentioned: they sound interesting. I think we should have more movies about angels; I’d like to know more about how they deliver their messages, and who authors them, and how they mate. And someone should film a sequel where these heavenly spirits battle the wooden robot from that other movie, now that its eyes are opened unto morality enough to be able to perceive their con.

But I still say that it’s permissible for an artwork to be about nothing at all. Artworks can wander freely, without aim or purpose; they need not always seem to remain still, like the hour hand on a clock. I disagree with the school of thought that says: Music should have the monopoly on motion. Yet I’m not sure how to respond to those who say: Artworks should not excite desire. It lures me to wonder whether there are different classes of desire: high desire and low desire. I think I like both.

Incommunicado

Dear diary,

If you live in a herd, and you share the same barn as the rest of your community, then you can speak at any time and your neighbor will hear you, because she’s right next to you, sleeping in the hay.

If you live on top of a mountain, like Nietzsche’s Zarathustra (or Matthew’s Jesus), then you must come down the mountainside to speak to your fellow human beings, who all can usually be found in the marketplace.

But I live neither in a communal farm nor all alone on an active volcano. I live in the suburbs: this place has the worst of both worlds. It’s got all the bothersome aspects of herd existence, combined with the isolation of mountain living.

Also, despite it being crowded here, with too many houses placed too close together, this layout lacks the conveniences of city living. It seems even that this domain was engineered with an aim to deprive its inhabitants of every urban advantage.

There is no fellowship; we are void of camaraderie. Again, if you lived atop a volcano, like Moses’ Yahweh, you would be in the habit of sending postcards to your friends on their respective mountains. And if you were a canned sardine, your siblings would remain at your side, till the day you are eaten. You could talk to them any time you desire. But here in the suburbs, where everyone is constantly online, tethered to a network via computer-phone, caught in the world wide web, and wound tightly . . .

I’m trying to say that it is plain uncouth, a breach of propriety, and bad manners, to attempt to engage in genuine socialization in the Epoch of the Internet. In the Age of Endless Instant Electronic Communication, conversation is impossible.

Am I right about this? Maybe I’m only throwing an emotional fit. Let me try some thought experiments, to tease out the truth.

Say that I use my mobile device to send my neighbor a text message. My neighbor answers back:

“Why are you texting me? I live right next door – just come over and chat.”

OK, so let me back up and try again. This time, instead of using my mobile device, I physically walk over and ring the doorbell on my neighbor’s house. My neighbor answers and says:

“Why are you bothering me in person? We’re all online, nowadays – wouldn’t it be easier just to send me a text message? In that case, I wouldn’t have needed to make sure that I’m fully dressed with no stains upon my clothing and that my hair is combed and all the illegal drugs that I’ve been abusing are hidden from sight. What a nuisance your visit is.”

So, there you have it. This thought experiment proved right everything that I said above. The means of communication have barred communication.

This is good for antisocial people. But what is the goal of these misanthropic jerks? Don’t they realize that if their dreams were to come true, they would find themselves exactly where they began? What I mean is this:

An antisocial man somehow eliminates society; he finds himself all alone in a garden. To prevent the emergence of others, he replenishes the world with images of himself. He pours his spirit into whichever likeness he desires to inhabit. To intensify the activity, he devises a way to mute his memory between instances, and between any given image and its original.

That is why warfare is more honorable than suicide: we forgot that we are our creator.

When you work at a fast-food franchise, you see your co-employees every day. You’re trapped in the same hell, so you can simply converse (via words in air) without worrying about which network or platform to use. You share immediate reality: space and time, here and now. That’s why I recommend finding a career in fast-food.

Why don’t we fix the fast-food formula, by the way? It’s obviously broken; why not amend it? Find out what’s making the food poisonous, and change that. Then figure out how to pay the workers enough so that they can live comfortably; and slow the pace slightly so that the job is not detrimentally stressful. The meals would cost a little more, and it would take a little longer to prepare and serve them; but it would still be much faster than an upscale restaurant; and the food would be healthy and superb. Everyone would be happy. Bosses would no longer need to harass their subordinates, because the subordinates would naturally love their bosses: they would all embrace freely in the breakroom. Every individual’s volition would get to move however it desires; there would be no obstructions. Owners would smile, and customers would smile. Everyone would eat every meal at Bryan’s Burger Barn. It would serve as the town square and the central church. The U.S. Capitol and the Tower of London.

I’d like to say that people would get married at Bryan’s Burger Barn; that they would order a basket of onion rings, and slide one of them over the finger of the bride in lieu of a wedding band. But there are two reasons that this would be false:

(1) The institution of marriage has died and been superseded by free love.

(2) Unless you use very small bulbs, any ring that is made therefrom will prove larger than the average human finger. Moreover, the onion rings at Bryan’s Burger Barn are so delicious that they always end up getting eaten within a moment after being worn as ornaments; they are therefore not the optimal choice of fried vegetable to symbolize a lifelong contract.

Movie Idea

So here’s my idea for a movie:

A policeman is standing on the street corner, smoking a cigar.

A vagabond enters the scene, walks up to the policeman, and punches him in the face.

A matron now enters the scene and stands behind the policeman. The cop kicks the vagabond; the vagabond falls, gets up, turns around, and throws another punch at the cop, who ducks the blow and it hits the matron.

Once the cop lifts his head again after having successfully dodged the vagabond’s punch, the matron punches the cop from behind.

The cop winds up his fist, planning to hit the matron, but the vagabond kicks the cop’s rump and he collapses. The policeman’s legs cause the matron to trip and fall on top of him; then the vagabond trips and falls on the matron and the cop.

Morningthots that are very brief because I was forced to abandon them to go party & have fun

Dear diary,

Why are some things sacred and others not? If one is told “This book is a sacred scripture,” one thinks: I wonder which religion it is from. But if one is told “Here is a sacred movie,” one thinks: You must be joking; there’s no such thing as sacred cinema. Also, to date, there are no sacred video games.

I think that maybe the realms of motion pictures and electronic gaming are just too new, but once they have aged for a generation or two, select works from either category will come down with sacredness.

It seems to me that “sacred” is basically a label that creditors stamp on certain things to control the masses.

It interests me how differently sacred texts are treated, compared to other sacred artworks. When the church declares its book sacred, the command is: Do not change this text, do not even read it; our priests have read it for you already, so read only their summarization of its meaning; but, most importantly, just behave as they tell you. Yet the church does not have the same strictures about sacred songs: the people are not told “Do not sing these; they are sacred;” and while the congregation is prohibited from composing new sacred scriptures (prophecies, wisdom writing), people are not only permitted but even commissioned to compose new sacred music and new sacred paintings.

I was wondering if there are sacred works of theater, sacred stage dramas. The church seems to be against playacting. But aren’t rituals essentially sacred scripted pageants? So maybe the church’s anti-play attitude is consistent with their labeling practices. They’re probably jealous of the effectiveness of secular dramas. But then I wonder why the church doesn’t commission its own playwrights to script new works in service of their doctrine. Perhaps it’s the same reason they martyr all prophets. I wish they weren’t so violently asinine; it would ignite my curiosity if the church were to produce a weekly sitcom – I’d watch that religiously.

How unfortunate that people who prefer to perform supporting roles end up having such wicked masters. Those who desire to help others often become enablers of cruelty.

People who serve in church are like those who work in food service: it’s not their fault that corrupt scientists poisoned all the ingredients. But how should we admit that there is a problem on the source end while still respecting and preserving the front-line assistance workers?

And what about soldiers? They’re at once the finest specimens of humanity, and . . .

§

I had to abandon the above thought because my timed siren alerted me that I must take my morning walk. So I did that, and I’m back now. It was still dark, so I wore this new sash that I bought for night-lurking; it is reflective, plus it has two oblong lime-green lights: one on the front, one on the back.

Why did I need to get my walk out of the way before sunrise? Because today there is a birthday party scheduled for my nephew Marl. He is turning seven years old. The celebration will happen this afternoon, at the time when I would normally be walking; so all my neighbors who set their clocks by my daily walk will now be late for all their appointments.

I spent yestermorn searching for a birthday gift. What type of properties do seven-year-olds wish to own? My nephew already possesses every power toy that makes noise and has flashing lights. There is a permanent bouncy castle in his house’s basement, plus a concrete swimming pool. So after an hour of staring in confusion at all the shelves in a retail store, I ended up buying him The Iliad and The Odyssey. Maybe he’ll read them and become a warrior or a swindler.

We also got our driveway coated this week.

The Thug vs. the Painter (conclusion)

[Part 2 of 2]

Meanwhile the shootout is still going on, and everyone is having a rollickingly good time. Johnny the Thug and his gangsters return to the center of the action.

Shirley the Love Interest remains behind to see what will happen with William the Painter, who eventually revives and stands up, now covered in mud, then begins to trudge home.

Shirley follows William at a distance. He enters his studio apartment, tracking mud all over the floor, and collapses on the sofa. Shirley comes into the apartment after him: she helps to clean off the mud, and nurses his wounds. While doing so, she confesses: “I didn’t mean what I said, about being Johnny’s girl.”

William the Painter faintly smiles. Now, starting to wrap a bandage around his head, Shirley looks here and there in the room and notices that all the portraits are depictions of herself. Preoccupied with this revelation while applying the bandage, she absentmindedly presses William’s face against her bosom. The Painter appears to be in ecstasy.

“Dear William,” Shirley says, “all these pictures — they’re me!”

The Painter gazes up at her and says: “You’re my muse.”

Shirley and William continue to stare at each other: he in love, she in wonder.

Now the front door is kicked open by Johnny the Thug. He stands in the entryway smiling smugly. He tips his hat in mock politeness and says: “Ah, there you are, baby. Are you going to come with me willingly, or do I need to spank you?”

Shirley is scared speechless. William the Painter takes a step forward and says: “What’s the idea, barging into my place like this – haven’t you ever heard of a doorbell?”

Johnny the Thug looks at Shirley the Love Interest. She nods in approval of William’s speech. Johnny then walks up to the Painter and punches his face, right where the bandage is covering. William collapses.

Now Shirley cries out: “I will go with you, Johnny; just leave William alone.” Then, seeing how furious the Thug looks, she adds: “My concern is only for you – I’m worried that if you keep hitting him, you might hurt your hand.”

Johnny the Thug holds up his fist and ponders it, remarking: “It does feel a little sore.” Then draping his arm around Shirley, they begin to leave the studio. When they reach the door, Johnny turns and says to the knocked-out body of William: “Keep away from my girl, or I’ll lose my temper.”

William the Painter remains in a motionless heap on the floor.

Johnny the Thug leaves with Shirley the Love Interest.

Flash the Janitor, who has been waiting in the hallway, now enters the apartment. He addresses the unconscious body of William the Painter, saying: “You’re a coward, letting him take your girl without a fight.”

William wakes from his blackout and replies: “But I don’t know how to fight. No one ever gave me any instructions.”

Flash the Janitor reaches down and shakes William’s shoulder, while saying: “You could learn! The only drawback is your intellect. Too much intelligence gets in the way of a good fighter, as those who are wise forbear from physical violence. But you just got your brains knocked out, so it could be that you lost enough smarts to take hold on vengeance.”

William the Painter timidly asks Flash the Janitor: “Could you teach me how to fight?”

Flash balls up his fists and throws a number of rapid ghost-punches, then answers: “Kid, I will make you a champion!”

§

Flash the Janitor brings William the Painter to the gymnasium, to teach him how to box. They both put on thick red gloves and practice punching each other. There is also a tailor’s dummy in the ring, which the Painter keeps escaping from the fight to go hug. “Stop hugging the dummy,” shouts Flash to his student; “if you keep doing that, you’ll never learn how to fight!”

Now a voice is heard shouting from outside the gym: “William! William! Where are you? Come out here, this instant! You’re late for work!”

William the Painter pulls the fob watch from his boxer shorts. He then shrugs and pats the shoulder of Flash the Janitor, saying: “Sorry, friend; gotta go – my boss is calling.”

Flash blocks William from leaving and says: “Ah, come on, just fight a little longer.” Then he throws more punches, and the Painter dodges and punches back. His boss from the Tailor’s Shop enters the gym and approaches the fighting men: when he is directly behind them, William launches a punch, Flash ducks out of the way, and William’s fist hits his boss in the face.

The boss is now furious beyond words. William begins to apologize, but his boss shakes his head and starts to walk toward the exit. The boss now steps on a dumbbell, loses his balance and falls on his rump. William and Flash try not to laugh. William helps his boss to his feet. The boss scowls, then angrily stomps away.

Once his boss is out of sight, William the Painter shrugs and nudges his sparring partner, remarking: “I guess this means I’m unemployed.” The two men share a laugh.

§

Shirley the Love Interest is working at the bakery. A customer enters. It is William the Painter, but he is all dressed up as a professional boxer. He spits on the floor to prove his tough new attitude. Then he performs a couple stretches, jogs in place, and punches the air. “Hello, baby,” he says; “as you can see, I’ve transformed myself into a murderous beast.”

Shirley is wide eyed. “You shouldn’t come in here,” she says; “Johnny the Thug might beat you up.”

At that very moment, Johnny the Thug steps into the bakery. William the Painter is not aware of this, as his back is to the entry door: he answers Shirley, saying, “Listen, baby, I can lick anyone who enters this shop.”

In a desperate attempt to save the fool, Shirley the Love Interest grabs a loaf of bread and forces it into William’s arms, while she says very loudly so that Johnny the Thug can hear: “Take this bread that you came to purchase. The cost is ten caesars.” She holds out her hand for the cash and tries not to look at the Thug, in hopes that he will believe the ruse and allow William to leave the shop peaceably.

William the Painter, noting the wooden way that Shirley is acting, turns around to see what might be the cause. He then sees Johnny the Thug standing there in the doorway. William clutches the bread to his chest like it’s an infant, and he turns back around and tries nonchalantly to browse the pastries in the glass display.

Johnny the Thug approaches Shirley at the cash register. He jabs his thumb at the Painter and says boastfully: “Looks like your hemstitcher is asking for another punch in the pan.”

Shirley the Love Interest shakes her head nervously.

Johnny pulls a ticket out of his coat and hands it to his Love Interest, saying: “Tonight I’m fighting a duel with a fellow named Bullseye. Here’s a ring-side seat for you.”

William the Painter, in his boxer’s uniform, hugs the bread loaf closer. The thought “I would like to fight this villain, but I am still too cowardly to make a move,” is written all over his face. He hangs his head and slinks out of the bakery.

§

It is now the night of the fight. Johnny the Thug and his opponent Bullseye are scheduled to perform a duel with pistols. Shirley the Love Interest is in her ring-side seat, next to William the Painter’s old boss from the Tailor’s Shop. The boss elbows Shirley and points to the stage, saying: “This is gonna be a good fight!”

The two duelers are in their respective dressing rooms, readying themselves for the event. Bullseye is trembling with fright, while his manager tries to soothe him. Johnny the Thug is smirking with overconfidence while three members of his gang tend to his personal hygiene: one is giving him a manicure; one is massaging lotion into his skin; and one is spritzing his hair with a glossy finishing product.

William the Painter, still in his boxer’s outfit, is lurking through the dark alley outside the establishment. Flash the Janitor accompanies him. Flash says: “You’re crazy to pick a fight with Johnny right now – this is the night of his big duel!”

William the painter says: “No, it’s a smart move. Listen: I’m going to wait until this gunslinger Bullseye gets through with him – then I’ll knock his block off.” William performs an uppercut on an imaginary opponent, to convey his intention.

Flash the Janitor shakes his head doubtfully, then reaches into his trousers and pulls out a case labeled “First Aid Kit.” He opens the lid to show that it contains gauze, bandages, ointments, and other medical supplies. He then closes it and stuffs it into the Painter’s boxer shorts, remarking: “You might need this.”

§

Meanwhile, back in the dressing room of Bullseye, trouble develops. Bullseye is standing before the full-length mirror that is mounted on the outside of the closed bathroom door; he is holding a razor, trembling with anxiety while trying to shave his moustache. Now the toilet flushes, and Bullseye’s manager flings open the door to exit the bathroom: the full-length mirror smashes against Bullseye and shatters in pieces, leaving his body covered in bloody lacerations.

William the Painter happens to be walking past the door of Bullseye’s dressing room when the above occurs. Hearing the noise of smashing glass, William stops and knocks on the door, saying: “Is everything OK in there?” He tries the knob, and the door opens freely. William the Painter rushes in and sees the bloody body of Bullseye sparkling with mirror shards. “Oh, that’s bad luck,” he says; and, retrieving the First Aid Kit from his boxer shorts, he hands it to the manager, who is standing there in shock.

Bullseye’s manager pushes the First Aid Kit away, saying: “It’s no use – he has cut open every major artery in his body. He won’t be fighting tonight’s duel. You’ll need to replace him.”

These words fill the soul of William the Painter with feelings of terror and destiny.

§

The referee now makes an announcement to the multitudes in the audience: “Bullseye has had an accident, so there shall be a substitute adversary. The duel will now be between Johnny the Thug and William the Painter.”

The crowd cheers. The ref waves his hands to quiet them and then adds the following: “This also necessitates a change in weaponry. Instead of both men using pistols, as was planned, the Thug shall still be shooting his favorite handgun, but the Painter shall fight with boxing gloves while wearing boxer shorts.”

The crowd cheers even louder. Shirley the Love Interest looks a bit worried. The boss from the Tailor’s Shop is clapping and grinning.

After a moment of indecision, Shirley resolves to try to talk William out of fighting. She dashes backstage to his dressing room and hugs him, crying: “Please forsake the duel!”

William gently pushes her back with his boxing gloves; then he poses to flex his muscles and says: “I can do this.” He slaps his gloves together and adds: “I just know that it will end well for me.”

Shirley begs him to reconsider, saying: “But what if you get hurt?”

William the Painter, sporting a look of determination, answers: “Johnny the Thug cannot hurt me.”

Reluctantly accepting the Painter’s decision, Shirley leaves the dressing room.

William, now alone in the room with the Janitor, pulls his friend close and asks him in earnest: “Tell me, Flash, has anyone ever been murdered in a duel?”

Flash searches his memory, then answers: “My uncle was – but he had heart disease, so that doesn’t really count.” Then he pats William’s cheek and adds: “I think you’ll be OK.”

Shirley the Love Interest now visits the dressing room of Johnny the Thug. She pleads with him to call off the duel. He shakes his fist and says: “When I get finished with that Painter, he’s going to have so many bullet holes that people will mistake him for Swiss cheese.”

Contemplating such a picture, Shirley’s eyes fill with tears. Johnny the Thug notices this, and he grabs her hand and says to her: “Whenever I see you, I get hungry, because I’m reminded of that big sandwich that you made for me when we first met. Boy, how I wish I had one of those, now!”

This speech gives Shirley an idea. She perks up, dries her eyes, and announces: “I’ll be right back.”

Shirley the Love Interest hastens to her bakery and builds a tall sandwich using thick-cut turkey meat. Gazing upon her masterwork, she remarks to herself: “This should put the Thug to sleep.”

Shirley runs back to Johnny’s dressing room. She hands him the plate with the towering turkey sandwich. Johnny’s eyes grow wide. “Ah, thanks, baby,” he says; “this is just what I was craving!”

Johnny eats the entire sandwich, then exclaims: “Oh, that was good. Now I’m sleepy.”

Shirley the Love Interest quickly prepares an extra plate of pickles and milk, which she serves to Johnny, saying: “Here, for dessert, I made you a plate of pickles and milk.”

Johnny consumes this bonus dish and says: “Now I’m really sleepy.”

Shirley pats Johnny on his head, and then walks backward out of the room while bowing repeatedly. She dashes across the hallway and enters William the Painter’s dressing room: kissing him, she says, “I just wanted to wish you good luck on your duel against that Thug. Be sure to punch him in the tummy.”

Shirley the Love Interest now runs back and takes her seat at ring-side. The boss of the Tailor’s Shop is still occupying the seat next to hers; he is eating popcorn and snack nuts, waiting for the duel to start.

A referee comes and informs each competitor in his dressing room that the duel shall begin in one minute.

William the Painter, before leaving, paces over to say goodbye to poor Bullseye, whose body lies glittering with bloody mirror fragments. William holds out his boxing glove for a handshake. Bullseye feebly lifts his arm and offers the Painter a word of advice: “Take a tip from me, kid,” he says before dying: “don’t lead with your chin.”

The duelists now exit their dressing rooms simultaneously. They meet and stand toe to toe in the hallway. Johnny the Thug, looking drowsy, blows his cigar smoke in the face of William the Painter; then he asks William to turn around so that he can read what is written on his boxer’s cape. William complies, thus displaying that his cape is emblazoned with the legend “Murderous Beast.” Johnny the Thug laughs hard at this. The ref now ushers both the duelists out to the stage.

The men take their places. Johnny in one corner, and William in the opposite. Shirley the Love Interest applauds politely from her place in the audience. The referee now announces each competitor by name: he introduces William the Painter first, who stands and raises his boxing gloves; then the ref introduces Johnny the Thug, who paces out to the center of the ring and aims his handgun around at the sea of people who are cheering; he pantomimes shooting them: this makes them cheer louder. The men return to their corners; and the ref bangs the bell, to start the duel.

Johnny the Thug points his pistol at William, who shuffles left and right in the ring, to evade the Thug’s aim. Johnny keeps pivoting with the movements of his opponent, to make sure that William the Painter shall be hit when he fires the weapon. William occasionally ducks and throws out punches that do not land.

Johnny the Thug takes a step toward William, thus placing his opponent at extremely close range: the muzzle of the Thug’s firearm is nearly touching William’s torso. Johnny now discharges the gun.

The bullet lodges in the belly of William the Painter. He falls back against the ropes; then he drops to the ground. The ref begins to yell out the ten count. When he gets to nine, William labors to his feet. The Painter stands wobbling. The referee asks him if he wants to continue. William nods yes. He is bleeding from the gun wound.

William tries to throw a few more punches at Johnny the Thug. Johnny sways casually away from the Painter’s arms, successfully dodging every blow. The Thug then aims his pistol directly at the heart of William and pulls the trigger.

William falls to the ground again; he lies there motionless. The ref’s count reaches seven, then the Painter lifts his head and looks out at the crowd; his vision is blurred. But suddenly his eyes focus on the sight of Shirley: William sees that she is cheering distinctly for him. This inspires William the Painter to keep on fighting. He achieves a standing position just before the ref’s count reaches ten. The duel resumes.

Johnny the Thug is posing boastfully, blowing kisses to the crowd. He is unconcerned with his opponent, presuming that William is beaten. So William is able to throw a couple uppercuts at the Thug’s back, both of which hit their target. The Thug turns around; William then punches Johnny’s left cheek, and Johnny turns to him the other, which William smites as well. These blows occur in rapid succession.

Johnny now clinches William; that is, he embraces the Painter to prevent him from throwing further punches. Like so, he walks him around the ring. The foes twirl in circles, during their struggle, which resembles a dance. When they finally part, William the Painter throws several punches, all of which miss. Johnny retrieves his firearm, which he had holstered, and fires several shots in William’s chest. Blood streams from all the wounds. Then Johnny shoots the Painter in the forehead, and William collapses yet again.

This time, while William is down, he blacks out and beholds a vivid dream. It is not a fantasy but a memory: a flashback to the scene in his dressing room earlier, when Shirley the Love Interest came in and kissed him and instructed him, saying: “Accept this good luck for your duel against that Thug: I just fed him, therefore you can put Johnny to sleep by punching him in the tummy. I even served him pickles and milk for dessert.”

When this dream ends, William the Painter regains consciousness and feels more alive than ever: his love for Shirley has supercharged him with a total renewal of his energies. Now the voice of the referee is heard shouting the next number: “Otto e mezzo” (he is doing the ten count in Italian); yet, before he can say the word for nine, William leaps to his feet and bounces up and down, eager to fight.

His boxing manager, Flash the Janitor, scurries out into the ring to offer the Painter a plug of tobacco. William bites off a huge piece and says, “Thanks, Flash.” The Janitor gives him the “OK” hand signal and scrambles back to the corner. From there, Flash shouts: “Great job, Willie Boy! You’re winning all the way!”

William the Painter turns and looks in the crowd and sees Shirley, who is cheering for him with a teardrop in her eye. When William finishes waving to her, he turns back, and she immediately begins to pray: Folding her hands and closing her eyes, she says, “Dear Lord, please make the milk and pickles work.”

Johnny the Thug is boastfully posing for the audience again. But, the moment after Shirley concludes her prayer, Johnny clutches his gut and exclaims: “I’m feeling very drowsy and heavy again. Perhaps I should not have eaten so much turkey before marching off to battle.”

However, Johnny’s gang members help him by patting and burping him.

The referee bangs the bell with excessive vigor, signifying that the final phase of the duel has begun.

William the Painter leaps forward swinging at Johnny the Thug. He lands some punches, and others miss. Johnny has two freshly loaded pistols now, one in each hand: he shoots again and again – right gun, left gun, back and forth – but William dodges all these bullets.

Obese businessmen in the audience are visibly enraged that William the Painter is fighting so well. (They most likely placed bets against him.)

Johnny the Thug shakes himself, to ward off the sleepiness, and tries to refocus. He fires a couple more shots, and one hits William in the shoulder. A gasp from Shirley in the crowd is heard. But the Painter does not seem bothered by this latest wound. He continues to hop around the ring, ducking and thrusting, while Johnny the Thug is visibly tired. Johnny remarks aloud to himself: “If only I had refused that extra tray of pickles and milk.” His eyelids are droopy.

Now Shirley the Love Interest gets William’s attention. She stands up from her seat in the audience and says: “Psst! William, remember the advice that I gave you: punch his tummy!”

William lunges once and misses. Then he swings again, but the Thug shoots a bullet that hits the boxing glove, thus deflecting the punch.

From the corner of the ring, Flash the Janitor is biting his nails in anxiety; he remarks aloud to himself: “It looks like William has maybe enough juice to throw one last jab. I hope he hits that Thug right in the gut.”

William the Painter now sways about, while Johnny the Thug keeps shooting his pistols. Most of the bullets hit their mark.

Suddenly William the Painter punches Johnny in his stomach. The Thug falls into a deep sleep, and the ref counts loudly in slow motion. When he reaches the tenth Italian digit, he then shouts “Bravo!” and holds up the arm of William the Painter, signifying that his opponent has been slain. The masses cheer wildly, except for those two obese businessmen, who are very disappointed.

Even William’s ex-boss from the Tailor’s Shop is applauding his former employee. And next to him, Shirley the Love Interest, having leapt to her feet, is now clapping her hands upon the bald head of the boss, in celebration. She then rushes onto the stage.

The several members of Johnny’s gang now draw their pistols and circle around William the Painter, shooting him repeatedly. But William punches each one in the face, and thus knocks them all out. When the last gangster has fallen, Shirley the Love Interest steps over their bodies and hugs William. William then faints from loss of blood.

Shirley screams and kneels next to the bloody body of William. She takes him in her arms and holds him in the pietà pose, then showers him with kisses. This causes the Painter to resurrect. When he opens his eyes, he looks up at his true love Shirley, who is holding him, and he asks her: “Are you going to be my girl from now on?”

Shirley the Love Interest acts as though she is weighing the pros and cons of this decision. Then she ironically shakes her head no. William plays into her joke: he reacts to this mock rejection by swinging his big red boxing glove up to Shirley’s chin, in feigned slow-motion, as if he’s giving her an uppercut. Shirley pretends that this punch knocks her out: she closes her eyes and drops her head down so that her lips land against his. And they live happily ever after.

---

Source: So This is Love? (1928)