Web browsing led to a train of thought from U2 to The Alarm to Michael Hutchence to Kylie Minogue and ultimately to watching the video to her “Can’t Get You Out of My Head” from 10 (!) years ago:
A glamorous sheen, wit, fun choreography, confidence in presentation. Gay as hell.
She’s a knockout, of course, but something is off-putting. Her face at times looks masculine. Her lips in the second segment (white cowl – does it count as décolletage if it doesn’t really connect up until the floor?) are done up raw in a way that’s perhaps MEANT to be uncanny. Easy to imagine The Joker going “Hey, dial it down!”
[No, comic book villains do not regularly appear in my erotic imagination. Thanks for the concern.]
An example of pop culture with attractive women ostensibly paraded for straight-male admiration, but REALLY directed to tastemakers. Watching this video is like witnessing a meteor carefully composed and launched from a magical land called Art, then we in the hoi polloi cluster of breeders gape while it streaks above. We coarsely admire and think whatever base things we are meant to. The luminous missive is finally received in the distant land of Aesthetes where the denizens eagerly decode and coo over the embedded messages the mass of us in the valley could not detect.
I dutifully bought the single in 2001. No worries about helping subsidize secret semaphore between Art and Aesthetes, even though I don’t know what the hell these brilliant bursts of white light mean half the time. Purty lights!
Elbows behind back, flashing jazz hands is my favorite part.
Despite driving while intoxicated/stoned in recent years, George Michael, according to YouTube, has given a concert within the last month. Among the songs he sung were covers by two of my favorite artists. “Let Her Down Easy” from Symphony or Damn by Terence Trent D’Arby (who now goes by Sananda Maitreya and still makes great music):
He also covers “Going to a Town” by Rufus Wainwright from the album Release the Stars. Here he admits to being stoned talking to Wainwright on the phone and not remembering the conversation afterward:
Mostly, I’m pleased to see George Michael being charming, lucid, and doing a good job selecting songs to cover. Hope he keeps it together…
In 1990, I fixated on how much I hated “Silent Lucidity”, the hit single by sensitive prog rock band Queensrÿche. When I really hated something in pop culture, I would delve deep to get agonizingly precise about WHY and HOW. This pathology led to a two-year obsession with Danzig. I can’t hear more than a few bars of Danzig without laughing. My buddy V, who got similarly obsessed, can get us going with quoting a Danzig grunt or mumble.
“Silent Lucidity” sounds like a Pink Floyd parody. I never liked Pink Floyd. Oh, those guys are fine as people, grateful to Dave Gilmour for bringing Kate Bush into the light, Roger Waters seems a decent bloke, and so sad about Syd Barrett, but in college people got so preciousssss about Pink Floyd, often while mocking my preference for Prince. Thus, Pink Floyd, the collective entity, has earned a karmic “kiss my grits”. Yes, I am all about pop culture vendettas.
BEHOLD this video. Be AWED how the lead singer dude looks into the camera, peering into YOU achingly, seeking solace, wanting to guide you in turn! LISTEN how “lucidity” is turned into five syllables, possibly seven, eight, infinite syllables extending to a fourth dimension! “As I lay next to you, in silent loo-sid-uh-tee-hee.”
So, my masochistic button in ’90 was pushed and I HAD to buy the cassette single (what’s that? Kids, they sucked, but that’s all we had after the Walkman revolution. Don’t worry about it.) of “Silent Lucidity”. This jihad followed my having just sold my car, my dear ’65 Buick Skylark Gran Sport, red, vanity plate “DANTE” (because it took me to hell and back, har-har). I persuaded my friend V to drive to the shopping mall. He agreed, but only if we went to Dairy Queen with out friend visiting from out of town, G, to eat Blizzards afterward. This was a fateful decision.
Bought the cassette single, we ingested Blizzards (gross! why were we girlfriendless?) and I got home. With ceremony, as my friend & roommate B was out, I put the cassette into my Walkman, and sat on the toilet.
I had felt a little flushed in the head eating the Blizzard. As the music played, it was clear digestion was not going well. Song went on, discomfort churned to disgust and I was at the mercy of some satanic gumbo gurgling in my intestines that couldn’t decide whether to evacuate & slither down through me to sewer pipes in a path back to hell, or wreak more horror by roiling within my mortal innards.
Composed myself enough to collapse into bed. The next morning I was running a 102 degree temperature and still had the runs. After sharing how ill I was, my roommate B did not register my ailment, and instead shared how he took exception to an obnoxious message I left for him on our answering machine (what’s an answering machine? Again, kids: don’t worry. You have inherited a better world). At that moment, I was not capable of interpersonal subtleties/apologies/analysis. I was fending for the integrity of soul and body, because of Queensrÿche, which had infiltrated and violated me from my very center.
So now I LOATHE the song. In fact, I didn’t even listen to the song or watch the video when posting it above. PTSD has etched the whole thing, and etched it deep.
And what is up with the ümlaüt in their name? If anÿone can provide an answer I’d be grateful.
Upon my arrival, I can tell from her raspy greeting they had been singing at the studio piano then likely singing a capella instead of being at task for this interminable sitting. The walls seem to pulsate with absorbed melodies and laughter. If I put my fingers on the plaster, would they palpate vibrations?
Her mother started this project with Sargent. An expense, as he is known to be slow. But she wanted her daughter portrayed as she was when engaged. Prima del matrimonio. Who knows what I, as the mid-tier career soldier, might do to diminish her daughter? She will tell my children “Your mother was a great beauty.” with a grand gesture toward the portrait.
I am not a fool. I see an aspect of Elsie coming through. Sargent’s warm regard in wanting her. I lean over his shoulder and note the blush and exaggerated care given to her lips. As I loom he is silent, not from bravery but a worry a tremble in his voice may reveal too much. Famous as he is, he is still vulnerable and must fear a bad report. Yet he knows I will not pounce upon his work. His creation will outlast this room and my review. His desire imbues her portrait and becomes what she exudes for him. I have earned and sustained my higher station, but my victories on the field and maneuvers in this scene may not last as long as this portrait. His strategy is longer.
In her cool appraisal of those who evaluate her, the flush of her cheeks, this portrait is Elizabeth as a maiden. As she stands apart from me now, a laugh still in her stance, has she been girlish with him? I do not think she would be so rude as to bite her lip and act less womanly than she is. That may put him off, too. Knowing her power, and knowing it is accentuated by being not yet attained. She is not flighty here, she is strong. She knows and has lived, much by what we have shared. Her mother is not getting the portrait she wanted. That is gratifying.
And I indulge Elsie. No, too patronizing. I endure from others the whispers, asides, occasional daring remark in my presence that Elsie’s avocation and accomplishments as a concert singer are déclassé.
But it fills her. To see her take savor and draw in the air, bosom rising, delay before her note, knowing she could convey so much in her lilting soprano then drop to a feral resonance. Where will she go? Follow her training? Let the spirit take the moment? She is lost and happy and delirious in the suspension of the world and those fixed on her. We are held in thrall. She is happy. Obliged to perform, but the setting is of her choosing. Let them natter on in parties. She feeds from us. I am among those feeling within her and sustaining her. Admiring her as the room does, coveting my own all the more as others covet her. Then, her decision or spirit assented to, the note selected, force sanctioned, she carries us all along again.
And, my hand will be on the upper side of her hips, John, as her hand is posed off her waist. I will hold her there as she’s straddled over me to fix her in place. And her left hand will be set over mine to pin her even more. She will press on me with the assurance and lovely heft you have conveyed so well, John. And before then the palm of her right hand will tend to my need, wrapped with confidence as on the rim of your sitting chair. Yes, Sargent, those hands are daring and skilled and loving and clever and I know you have made a guess that is so, but I see you do not know from experience. You have posed her hands in speculation. I am amused.
This is a painting of allegation, admiration, want, abundance, poise. Her bosom is a marvel. I have seen our child feed there, and I still have desire and feel relief to take refuge and time there. And she lets me. Her soldier is happy there. And I am happy to make her happy.
“We are obliged to leave soon.” I say glancing at the clock on the wall. Strong chance Sargent’s clock is not accurate. Stronger chance any array of clocks he may have here do not corroborate one another.
Mrs. George Swinton (nee Elizabeth “‘Elsie” Ebsworth) painted by John Singer Sargent
“What time is it?” Elsie says. Her voice evenly modulated. I do not think Sargent would truly do anything untoward. He tantalizes himself. I look at the nearest clock again.
“It’s 22 past six.” Recital at 8. Reception at 9. Would she wear this ensemble? He paints her in white and coppery pearlish taupe. She stands now in royal blue. He is using her expression and proportions. She will not need a change tonight.
After the recital: praise, and flattery, and as she is flush with regard and expression I shall take her home, and we will bid the help good night then gaze upon our infant son asleep in the cradle then adjourn to our chambers. I will pin her down by her left wrist, leaving her right hand and my left to wander as they please, and I shall take her as she is arrayed now. She will see how what she set in motion by my catching her in this scene in the studio and her later scenes this evening will culminate in the light in my eyes fueled from the swells of desire from the crowds of men and envious women channeled and churning through me and she will be well pleased and sleep soundly and it will be a good morning.
“It has so many AWESOME parts. You simply won’t believe how much this book can change your life.”
“Religion is the sigh of the oppressed creature, the heart of a heartless world, just as it is the spirit of a spiritless situation. It is the opium of the people.”
— Karl Marx, Contribution to the Critique of Hegel’s Philosophy of Right
“Hello. My name is Elder Price, and I would like to share with you the most amazing book.”
— Elder Price, The Book of Mormon
When listening to the Broadway soundtrack (and eventually watching the show: YAY!) to the Tony-sweeping The Book of Mormon, I keep thinking of Marx’s compassionate point preceding the “opiate of the people” line.
The musical gets a LOT of deep digs in at Mormonism, but makes a profound point in its savage satire with complex, catchy, funny, moving songs. People need stories, and will adapt stories to resonate with them, no matter how ridiculous their sources. The more oppressed the people, the deeper the wish-thinking in their collective sigh for a tale to tie it all together.
“I’m going to take you back to Blblical times: 1823.”
— Elder Price, The Book of Mormon
Referral form used by Mormon missionaries circa 1993. Yes, my copy.
Joseph Smith, the founding “Prophet” of Mormonism, was a multiple-count convicted con-man “money-digger” who charged money to tell people where treasure was buried by using a sham device. The victims would dig where he told him. When they found nothing, the move was to say “Ah! The treasure must have moved, then. But it USED to be here.”
Smith claimed to be directed by an angel named Moroni (!) to dig in a yard in upstate New York, where a series of drilled-hole bound golden plates was buried telling the story of the Mormon people. A tribe of Jews sailed from the Middle East to the Americas and had a bunch of dull-ass adventures and talkity talk. Also, Jesus visited the Americas between the Crucifixion & Ascension. And Eden is in Missouri.
“I believe in 1978 God changed His mind about black people!”
— Elder Price, Book of Mormon
Mormonism was a hobby in my teens & 20s along with my buddy Paul and later on with buddy Fanny. More lore? Dark skinned people were marked because they were cursed, and ineligible to be full Mormons. Jesus and Satan are brothers. Only men are eligible for priesthood (crazy!) but since all men of age are eligible to be priests there is no vow of celibacy (whew!). In the afterlife, the blessed get their own planets (Coo-ol!). In 1978, the Mormon President announced a divine revelation that dark-skinned people could be full Mormons. New demographic for international markets!
Joseph Smith did not allow anyone to see the golden plates he got. He persuaded a neighbor, Martin Harris. to dictate him “translating” the golden plates from behind a suspended blanket. Smith was not even looking directly into the plates, but into magical seer stones set inside of a hat to block out all light. Harris was never allowed to see the plates. It became an obsession for Harris at the expense of maintaining his livelihood. His spouse, the brave Emma Harris, hero for the ages, had enough of this bullshit and swiped away the 116 pages of manuscript and demanded Smith try to reproduce them. No big deal, given he was reading from magical golden tablets still in tact. Right? RIGHT? In pure Imam/Vatican fashion, Smith declared the first manuscript infected by Satan (like the “Satanic Verses” of the Koran) and a new version from OTHER plates, even more pure, was incipient and would be dictated to other writers.
Back to the book. It sucks. It’s boring. It lifts entire sections of The Bible, and clumsily apes the poetry of the King James Bible. But the preface is AMAZING and crazy and ballsy and defensive. Joseph Smith persuading people to sign testimony they saw magical figures beaming in to interact with Joseph Smith. Check it out if you get a chance.
“Did you know that Jesus lived here in the U.S.A.? You can read all about it now. In this nifty book, it’s free, no you don’t have to pay!”
— Elder Young, Book of Mormon
In the 19th century Mormons DESPERATELY wanted to be a separate nation named Deseret that extended from what is now Utah to southern California, Nevada, chunks of Oregon, Nevada, Wyoming, Colorado, New Mexico. Congress threw them land-locked Utah territory instead. Also, polygamy was an important part of doctrine and critical in swelling LDS numbers. Polygamy isn’t as big a deal to my sensibilities now, so long as it’s between adults – when it leads to childbrides, though, send in the rescue teams! But polygamy got shed from Mormon doctrine more than a century ago.
“Eternal life is super fun! And if you let us in we’ll show you how it can be done!”
So, the Book of Mormon compounds a bunch of American crap with shoddy, all-too-human rubbish imagination and bigotry as a Third Testament to the New Testament, itself a collection of contradictions and tamperings by womb-fearing men written generations after the death of Jesus that ends with a petulant smashing of everyone’s toys and eternal torture of those not in the club. And the New Testament compounds the idiocy and superstitions of the Old Testament, a series of Iron Age myths written and edited and re-edited when Man did not know anything about anything. But the Book of Mormon, unlike the Old and New Testament, at LEAST acknowledges geography beyond the Middle East. So, point awarded to Joseph Smith. Still, a mish-mash glopped onto hash that was already on a pile of hash.
“I’m wet with salvation!”
The musical The Book of Mormon mocks a LOT of that, even starting up a FOURTH Testament to compound on Smith’s book with more absurdities. Magical frogs that cure AIDS. Boba Fett as divine instrument of justice. On and on. Each element hilarious and/or heart-wringing. Each of them adapted by a native people in despair and distress. Joseph Smith’s book evangelized by the Mormon missionairies bores them, but frogs that cure AIDS and holy admonitions to not circumcize people (in this case, women)? That resonates with them NOW!
The musical knows Mormons tend to be “really fucking polite to everyone” and plays it for laughs, then finds its heart there. Video below of a HUGE, grim laugh in the first half of the show. “Turn it Off”, a number about ignoring horrors and troubles, including being a closeted gay, by clicking them off, like a light switch. At this point, the two main missionaries, Elder Price (the tallest, handsomest, charismatic and most destined for greatness) and Elder Cunningham (shlubby, prone to making things up), are experiencing culture shock after arriving in a war-torn Uganda village where their fellow Mormons have failed to convert a single person. This number earned the main singer in the number (supporting player Rory O’Malley) a Tony nomination. Official video is not available, but here’s an amateur production that’s charming:
Nikki M James
Nikki M James has a Tony. She is talented and beautiful. World domination inevitable.After witnessing a violent act by a warlord general, Elder Price begins to doubt his destiny as the next Joseph Smith. His crisis of faith splits him from Elder Cunningham, who must take the lead after being disregarded his whole life. He falls in with a local girl Nabulungi (Nikki M. James, who won a Tony for the role) who is charmed by his imagination and sees him as a way out of the horrors of Uganda to a paradisal land called Sal Tlay Ka Siti. James’s performance of “Sal Tlay Ka Siti” (say it aloud to get the joke) is a turning point that the show will not be completely “Har har!” mockery of its characters. It’s moving, and she does a great job of selling the yearning in a song that ends: “I’m on my way/ Soon life won’t be so shitty./ Now salvation has a name. / Sal Tlay Ka Siti.”
Side note: the actors playing Ugandans have wandering accents, shifting from genero-African-ish to Carribean inflections and, heck, I’m not a dialectitionator. Not gonna go to Uganda to research this point. I’ll drop the pretense.
From the rousing final number: “Who cares what happens when we’re dead? We shouldn’t think that far ahead. The only latter day that matters is tomorrow.”Elder Cunningham flourishes and uses his lying/creativity to adapt and exaggerate and customize stories that resonate with the tribe, as Joseph Smith did. And the people exaggerate the stories even further to suit themselves.
The writers of The Book of Mormon (the dudes who make South Park and the composer behind Avenue Q) have mentioned originally they were going to have Elder Price killed by gunfire, leaving Cunningham completely alone to lead the tribe, as Joseph Smith was fatally shot and left Brigham Young to lead. A severe, intriguing idea. Price does not die (spoiler!) but does go on a divergent path that makes for a richer exploration of ideas about religion, faith, and not needing belief in heavenly reward to work to help people in this realm.
“We are all still Latter-Day-Saints. All of us. Even if we changed some things, or we break the rules, or we have complete doubt that God exists. We can still all work together and make this our paradise planet.”
This guy on staff was really cool about handling people eager to figure out how to get tickets.
The Book of Mormon is the hottest ticket on Broadway, even before reaping Tonys. I love theater, but had never been to a Broadway show, or New York City, before watching it August 13. I’m not much of a musical afficionado. The few musicals I do know, through film, I know deeply: Singin’ in the Rain, An American in Paris, West Side Story, Grease, and … that may be it. Oh, Purple Rain, but that doesn’t really count. The Les Miserables mania in the late 80s? Pass. Phantom of the Opera? Get the fuck outta here. Wicked? May see it before I die, but wouldn’t recognize a single song.
I dig theater. I’ve seen nearly 100+ productions at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival over the last 25 years, modern and classical productions. And I’m competitive about being the first audience member to clap. An embarrassing trait during classical recitals in the break between one musical movement to another.
But The Book of Mormon? I’d listened to the soundtrack maybe 20 times before seeing the show, and it’s the first time in my life I’ve owned a soundtrack for a currently running Broadway show.
It does skim ONE problem with regarding religion as stories – it’s okay to let other people follow whatever myths they want. But the evangelism, telling other people what to do, is where the true harm comes in. Why can’t people imbued with the Great Cosmic Answer seem content and happy? Why the need to bully others? Not so much a Mormon trait, but a general lamentation about the self-Elected.
Seeing the production, the script and plot points not conveyed by the songs themselves (though the songs do a great job of moving the story) was a great experience. Inspired acting and direction, catchy tunes, fun choreography. Toward the end of the show, I got teary-eyed from being so happy to be there and see the show with great wit and heart. It was fun watching the show with a friend who didn’t know what to expect. And even knowing what to expect, the show exceeded my hopes.
What I’m saying is: the story of The Book of Mormon really resonated with me. And I want to share its story with you.
Jay-Z seems a nice enough fellow, very much of his time. Kanye West is more forward-thinking and entertaining. I sympathize with his egomania, but it so echoes my own solipsism that his songs as they bounce within my ear canals give temporary relief at forming my own self-aggrandizing thoughts. Doesn’t count as entertainment, more a palliative.
And his pronouncements/stunts usually make 100% sense to me. Still have a hair-trigger wildly intense response to defending his bumrush of Taylor Swift in the name of Beyoncé and the integrity of art itself. Drumming fingers over lips contemplating a post about this. Three years late, sure, but the power of Internet Posterity compels it!
Any-hoo, gonna let the world chew on their joint album Watch the Throne, and see what singles come out of it. If I hear three singles I like, or two that I REALLY like, I’ll buy it.
In the meantime, here’s a cute photo of Jay-Z sitting next to Kanye who may be having a stroke. Anyone who reads this is HEARTILY welcome to come up with a caption.
Not that strokes are funny. If you are having one and reading this, for gosh sakes leave your mobile device/laptop/tablet/desk/WebTV and seek medical attention immediately. Unless you’re a faith healer, in which case goodbye and you may wanna close those browser windows of fetish porn in your last few flails and gasps.
Watched the Captain EO Tribute: Presented in 3-D today at Disneyland. Even when I saw in in the late-ish 80s (’86? ’87?) it was slapdash, disjointed, nonsensical, and dorky on at least three different levels. Weak-ass songs, shoddy choreography mimicking more inspired videos by MJ, here performed by people in pajamas. Theater was only 1/3 full, but even at the Kremlin there were slow days of visiting the waxen corpse in Lenin’s Tomb.
But, hoo-boy.
George Lucas directed, Francis Ford Coppola produced (or was it the other way around?) and the signs were all there that the Star Wars prequels were going to suck 13 years ahead of time. Incoherent script. Things like “Hey, here’s X, doing that thing X does all the time.” [X does that thing]. Everyone: “Oh, X…”
Accountants cackling at the thoughts of how much merchandise with X people will have to buy because it’s 3-D! Michael Jackson! George Lucas! That guy who did The Godfather! We put some outerspace stuff in there with peew-peew-peew laser beams ‘n’ shit! And it’s got elements of Aliens and Tron but with mediocre-Broadway musical design, airbrush makeup, & songs! Something for everyone! And Michael Jackson can shoot blue and orange bolts easier than making a fart, just by feeling!
Mercifully, some people in the audience laughed when the Borg-ish bad guys were converted by the power of Michael Jackson b-sides to become highly-moussed pop-lock dancers. Many (me fo’ sho’) recalled when pop-lock/break dancers were dropped into entertainments, and it was exciting – because OMFG some spinning on the ground and walking like robots was ABOUT TO GET DONE! Remember that guy at the end of Footloose? Many of us were parsing his moves and imitating him in school hallways back in the day. Then talked defensively about how we were so much better.
Then the movie was over, some applauded. Not presumably because the movie was any good, maybe out of politeness, as if a member of the Jackson family was in the theater. I didn’t applaud. It was around Captain EO and Bad that Michael Jackson lost his way. Mimicking the heat and energy that once moved him, enough to fool many he was still digging it, though his flame was dimming.
I’d rather have spent the whole 10 minutes or whatever looking at Anjelica Huston in that electric blue dress billowing in the dawn. Pleasing, camp, stirring all at once. A vision all too brief. Alas.
Caught this video, thought “Who’s the brunette? She’s kind of cute.” Saw the in the opening title it was Shakira. Thought “Still kind of cute, I mourn that magnificent mane she whips around.”
It is unlikely I will buy a Shakira record. Many years ago I complained her songs regularly mashed 3-7 genres, which induced disorientation and groove whiplash.
BUT(T)…
From the start I have admired her self-possession. In her videos she seems aware and in control at all times. That is hot.
About five years ago at a then-annual “Man’s Weekend” with high school friends, my buddy J, knowing I prattled on and on imitating Shakira’s hiccupy songs and dissecting them, rented a Shakira concert video. We watched it while playing some game (or maybe porn on an adjacent tv?) but I kept looking at the Shakira concert video in preference over whatever we were collectively doing.
“Look at that!” I would marvel. Shakira working the crowd, hard, and they were LOVING it. She was strong. We may have even had the sound off.
A confident woman directing the music, the crowd, the staging, deploying every wiggle and look into the audience knowing their effects. That was wicked hot. My buddy J, an accomplished drummer and showman, also marveled at her showmanship. So very different than the current gaggle of ditzes who walk as if they are in shoes for the first time ever.
And, oh lord, those hips.
Then shortly into this video, Shakira’s dirty blonde mane was revealed still in tact. And all was right again.
BTW, I’ve seen her in her presumably natural brunette hair. When long, it still totally works.
‘Cloud Gate’ by Anish Kapoor (also known as The Bean”) in Chicago’s Millennium ParkOn a plane headed home. Four and a half hours to kill. Groggy. I typically have trouble sleeping the night before traveling. Not with worry, but wondering if I should dash out and do one more thing in a famous place I may never see again. Flush away the minor concerns of sleeping and packing and proper sleep. Grab the supply of the wines of experience to fill my brain and have it swirl around in the hope that between my eyes and the cheat of a camera it will stain the walls or its residue will settle at the base of memory to give an aroma when scratched.
I packed in stages. Made up one last jaunt. Came back to the room and packed some more, then split the difference: stayed in the room and selected photos with their subdued colors (Chicago was overcast, but mild, the whole time) and lack of depth and sound and smell and motion and will and posted them to share. Wrote terse captions while my sense of geography and paths were fresh. Fell asleep after 2:00 a.m.
Woke up at 5:30. Push-ups. Shower. Wimbledon on television. Reviewed the comments on the posted photos and videos. Enjoyed the attention but also the reward of delivering the boon of new visions or evoking memories for some people who are dear, others I’ve not seen in decades, still others I’ve never met or have spoken with for scant seconds or minutes. An exhaling gust at my deeds and my people. I turn on my heel and remove the shaman robes and set them on the rack, or hand them to someone else to don. Can’t recall if the robes are in a closet or another’s possession. I had to pack, and only know the robes did not drop to the floor.
I get to airports at least two hours early. It’s prudent, but also to get through security and take strolls up and down concourses to get some exercise into a day of being launched across states and time zones, but while sitting on my ass.
An actor from a cult t.v. show (Michael Horse – Tommy “Hawk” on ‘Twin Peaks’) popular 20 years past walked by, slightly hunched, into the Men’s Room. Wiry white hair to his shoulders. Blue denim jacket with a patch of a white hand making the peace sign, words “American Indian Activist” over that logo. He looked well, and not visibly anxious about being in public. I let him go pee instead of saying “Hey!”
On the plane as it ably performs its aeronautical miracle of transport, but the cabin air is hot and muggy. The air nodules in the console above offer no cooling, allowing minimal airflow like pointing a body-temperature, sustained, stink-free dilated fart lasting several hours.
Big gourmet headphones (not Bose!) clamped over my head, I am surrounded by rectangles. This journal. Book of poetry on my lap but under the seat tray. When Music player wedged between my legs piping about an hour of The Western Canon audiobook (a chapter about Marcel Proust) before I switch to Québécoise chanteuse Martha Wainwright trills and torches Piaf songs ably and with a full voice she does not commit to her own songs. One bar of organic fair trade chocolate in my belly, another bar of another kind in my bag at my feet. Laptop in that bag. Portfolio holding notes and outlines of a writing project. Kindle. Powered-down smartphone in my bag (pssst… you don’t truly have to shut it down, the crew only needs that for your attention during the tender take off and landing phases – so says science and airline pilot columnists). Girl two seats down jumping from movie to movie on her parents’ laptop. Rows of monitors mounted above us play the CGI cartoon film Rango and I wonder if someone in an airline meeting room raised a hand and suggested they routinely calibrated their monitors. Am guessing that person was shut down by a bean counter or a philistine boss who sees no problem with wildly different hues, washed out or blown out colors that look nothing like what artists and other billion dollar companies intended. The same kind of philistine who thinks the wide screen HD televisions with murky non-HD programs look just fine so long as the stretched image fits the whole screen even with people looking like squat blotchy toads. Usually within minutes in a hotel room I’m trying to circumvent the pokey Fisher Price remote and leaning behind the t.v. searching for buttons or knobs to make the window to the world or to fantasy look normal.
I have a fever. Wish they would hook up the apertured fart vents above us to a frost giant. Can I roll down the window? Frost along the edges show it’s nice and cool outside.
Ended up watching/listening to this whole thing. ‘Twas nice, but for the umpteenth time when viewing/reading/listening to an object kept pondering: “Would I be giving this so much attention if the person were not beautiful?” More than Eros at play — a hope that when someone has both beauty and talent, an aspiration that our species is capable of advancement. A little thrill at yielding to such people/moments obsequiously. Interested in your thoughts.
I love the cello. It’s the classical instrument I’d most like to play.
