I imitated Hendrix, sure. But not his guitar playing. I wanted
to cop Hendrix's speech patterns. Now I'm older and people say "you speak
real weird for a Jersey boy. You South African?" "No," I tell them. "That's
the residue of my Hendrix affectation." "Your what?" they ask. "Sin, sin,
you die, like a little white rabbit getting run over by a big Mack truck.
this top, flop," I say, then bite the cap off a bottle. They leave
me alone after that.
Oh, you should have heard the weird deep guttural noise of agreement
I made when you said you hated "Breaking the Waves." That was the first
movie I ever skimmed, preferring to watch it in fast-forward than frame
by frame. At first, I thought you said "Breaking
Away" which is one of the sweetest movies ever made, as sweet as "Gregory's
Girl" or "My
Bodyguard" . . . these aren't art movies, they were targeted to me
when I was ten, I still love them like the "Cannonball
Run" I suppose, but not as major as "Candyshack," "Stripes," "The Jerk,"
etc. Artfilmwise, I'm not so smart: Jim Jarmusch stuff, esp. "Dead Man,"
"Ghost Dog," "Down by Law;" Wim Wenders (duh), esp "Wings of Desire" (duh)
written in part by Peter Handke; "Pi" and "Buffalo 66" (two great ones
that came out same time as "Happiness"; Goddard stuff; otherwise, I can't
think of anything although I know they're there and I know I've seen some
other good ones. "Irma Vep" is good: totally artsy. I'm more into watching
such nostalgic films of youth as "Red
Dawn" and "Dreamscape"
(the first two PG-13 movies).
We create my persona, perhaps we call him "Throop
Roebling" . . . from Trenton, New Jersey. Descendent of the Brooklyn
Bridge building Roeblings, sort of like Neal Pollack, but more humanly
pathetic: had been terribly worried about his easy life as the beneficiary
of tremendous fortune and did everything possible to make his life harder.
Who somehow survived it all to settle in Greenpoint, NYC, to snort wafting
kielbasa smoke and write a long novel tentatively entitled "The Big Book
of Joke & Riddles," which tentatively depicts the evolutionary lives
of several jokes and riddles as they've appeared since Columbus, featuring
a genealogy of the insidious "killing joke" which the Spanish Conquistadors
used against the Aztecs and which reared its head lastly lampooned in the
skits of a certain British humor outfit. Unfortunately Throop cannot speak;
he communicates through a Casio "magic light" keyboard, varying the tempo
of the slow-rock, bossa-nova, and waltz rhythms according to along the
rich spectrum of his moods, depending on whether its morning, noon, or
The speed of nudity and sunsets and all praise the geeks and the lord
who brought about this technological nightmare. I know all about the window
chycks: like in NYC, instead of streets for gold, streets for cameras,
streets for Indian food, streets for guitars, it's streets for yellow chycks,
brown chycks, fat chycks, medium chycks with large nipples, short gymnasts
with shapely thighs/mangled toes, streets for women with lightbulbs in
their eyesockets, streets for women with little women within them, streets
for women with little women within them who have littler women within them
etc etc etc until you get this tiny little one inside who's almost microscopic
who anybody can have for less than half a gob of golden saliva . . .what
else? Streets of women with glassbottom bottoms, streets of women with
telescopic red-laser night-vision implants in their breasts that let them
see just a little through your skulls so they know how to posture so you
want them more and afterwards you'll buy their Chicklets . . . I've read
all about this in Sports Illustrated. When the Sixers went there, my man
Iverson (A.I.) and 24 of his peeps and his moms too -- she went --
they all went down there, down one of them streets with the women with
the telescopic breasts, and he dropped like a few thousand duckets to get
his braids tightened by one of them and all the time he had them telescopic
breasts peering past him, one at either ear, reading all the way down into
the souls or his 24-deep posse, and the braid braider with the telescopic
hair so it looked exactly like a map of . . . what the hell am i writing
this for again?
at 2AM msnbc.com had a triumphant picture of George W. and "BUSH WINS"
. . . now they have concerned photos of both of them, and the title "waiting
# of parties I been to: 3
# of parties that included a shitload of santa clauses: 1
# of santa clauses on rooftop at massive party i just got home from:
# of tubas accompanying santas: 1
estimated # of sweaty santa clauses juking to Velvet Underground cover
band led by my friend Jim: 20
# of beware of dog signs I saw on solo walk home: 6
# of dogs: 0
# of potential muggers: 4
# of potential muggers that turned out to be shrubs: 3
# of smouldering vehicles that had probably been on fire quite recently:
# of women seen ripe for jack-the-ripper incidents: 3
# of times i giggled to myself at thoughts: 3
thing that made me giggle the most:
"I think I'm like Columbus saying the world is round, but then every
once in a while someone tells me the world is flat -- all I can say is
c'mon, c'mon, let's keep going."
Forever after here
book of blurbs for books that don't exist.