From: sabbott@nmsu.edu (SDA)
Newsgroups: talk.bizarre
Subject: Re: Rictus Hep grumbles about the good old days
Date: 16 Oct 92 23:06:51 GMT
Organization: WHorshipers of Lady LibertY (WHoLLY)


nj@magnolia.Berkeley.EDU (Narciso Jaramillo) writes:

>   In article <1992Oct9.155804.2040@nmsu.edu> sabbott@nmsu.edu (SDA) writes:
>
>   > Like the same, they recycle the same old standards in some variant
>   > and call it art.
>
>   Intro: "You poor, deluded fool; show me anything creative that is not somehow
>	   a variation on something else."

the point, missed or ignored, 
depth of recylement.  

>
>   A: "Better yet, show me anything creative."


I'll show you mine if you show me yours.....


It's a bit early for a beer but what the hell, the bars open and it's 
Sunday.  He walks down the stairs into the bowels of The Cave.  As his
eyes adjust to the dim flourescent lights, he realizes the bar is full
of everything and everyone he ever loved.

There's his '64.5 powder blue mustang that got wrecked in high school
sitting in the corner.  It is in perfect shape, like it was right
after he painted it in his dads garage.

"hi Car"

Car beeps.

His grandmother who died of cancer is sitting at the bar.  She is
drinking wine and seven-up, a drink she called a highball.  

"Hi grandma"

"How's my little angel?"

"I'm feeling a bit lightheaded."

"Have a beer"

"Ok, grandma"

There's his dog that ran away from home when he was 8, the girl that
was his first kiss in the swimming hole, the snow runoff chilling
their young bodies, she died in an auto accident in high school. His
best friend as a child who used to draw monsters and paint spaceships
with him. His son who died at birth is in a bassinet next to the bar,
grandmother idly strokes his face.

He orders a beer, the bartender is the same one he used to go to when
he was underage, walks over to Car, gets in the driver's side and shuts
the door.  He watches people casually mill around.  His dog urinates
on a table leg, a few people laugh.

He drinks the beer down and immediately feels it work on his empty
stomache.  He opens Car's ashtray and sees a joint in it, picks it up
and smells it, then puts it back.  

He gets out of Car.  "I don't think I'm ready for this right now but 
thanks anyway."  People smile casually, he waves, starts up the
stairs.  "We forgive you", they say in unison to his retreating back.

Outside, he squints at the streets, overwhelmed by the noonday sun, by
the smells of life.  He drops his empty beer in a stone trash barrel
and heads toward the border.
--

	\\\\\sean/////

0, unseen,,
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From: sabbott@nmsu.edu (SDA)
Subject: <please insert subject line>
Organization: WHorshipers of Lady LibertY (WHoLLY)
Date: Sat, 18 Jul 1992 06:22:07 GMT


I was given _On the Road_ by a bohemian-type writer friend when I was
nineteen.  "I feel like I'm putting dynamite in the hands of a baby."

He was right.  Six months later I set out on my kerouacian odyssey,
with my guitar, duffelbag, and a gallon of water. 

Some distilled memories:

There was the night I dropped acid at Virginia beach with thirty other
fringe types.  We stayed up all night on the empty beach, all on the
same wavelength, wrapped in linen stolen from an elegant beach hotel.
A biker ripped out all the pay phones because he thought they were
ringing.  We spent the night making up details about a bizarre cable
tv station we were going to start.  The sun rose in 3-D and the
tourists filed in while we came down.

Or the weekend I spent harvesting marijuana in the hills of West
Virginia.  I was given food and beer for two days of filling garbage
bags with raunchy pot.  This was at the beginning of the Reagan drug
war and pot had risen dramatically in price.  My acquaintance was able
to sell as much as he could grow.  

There was the weekend I spent with my cousin in Colorado.  He was a
chess master and saw the whole world as a chess game.  Endless
hours I spent listening to his hyperlogical reality.  After I drank
all his imported beer he politely asked me to leave.

There was the ufo that kidnapped me and took me to its home planet of
Trafalmador.  For fourteen years(their time) I was in a plastic bubble
on display to the trafalmadorians who shuffled past me with their
strange, tentacled gait.  I was returned to the same time and place
they found me but left with a strong fear of small windowed offices

--

	\\\\\sean/////

0, unseen,,
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From: sabbott@nmsu.edu (SDA)
Subject: <insert subject line>
Organization: WHorshipers of Lady LibertY (WHoLLY)
Date: Wed, 15 Jul 1992 21:41:24 GMT


I introduce myself to myself with all the grace of a mutilated ballet
slipper.  An awkward moment passes.  
 
"I thought you were Mike Rutherford"

I wince.  

"Listen up, you have to give up these dreams of being a musician.
Kelly is the love of your life and music is just a long, desolate
road that will leave a broken-hearted alcoholic who <pauses> ...
...vaugely resembles Mike Rutherford"

"Abondon my dreams of greatness? What about my deep artistic side that
needs to be set free? What about all my talent and natural ability?
What about all the guitar groupies?"

"Look if you can't trust me, who can you trust?  Besides you can
always play on evenings and weekends, and...."

"Shit you sound like my, our, mother.  'Hold fast to dreams for if
dreams die, life is a broken winged bird that cannot fly'..."

I fade back to the present.  What an idealistic twirp I was.  I
pour a glass of whiskey, add a couple of ice cubes and a dash of 
lime.  I turn on the Marshall, tuning while the amp warms up.

I gulp my drink and start my warmup arpeggios.



--

	\\\\\sean/////

0, unseen,,
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From: sabbott@nmsu.edu (SDA)
Subject: <insert subject line, please>
Organization: WHorshipers of Lady LibertY (WHoLLY)
Date: Sun, 19 Jul 1992 05:28:21 GMT


The rain is powerful and my windshield wipers are weak.  Rain drips
from the sunroof onto my glasses smearing the oil and sweat.  A
bright flash of lightning and I see an evil visage, it is burned onto
my retina.  Every time I blink it returns.  

I knock on her door but she doesnt answer.  I stand shivering in the
rain screaming and pounding but I don't see her face nor her warm
healing body, all I see is the evil smiling face . . . mocking me.

I sit in the car alone with my impotent rage.  "Paranoia is just the
first realization of the interconnection of all things" . . . a line 
from Pynchon cycles endlessly through my brain.  

At a coffee shop trying not to blink or stare into the night.  The 
waitress is tapping her long red fingernails on the formica counter
. . . tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. . . I ask her to stop but she ignores
me.  I hear a laugh outside and look up.  No one else has acknowledged
it but I know they heard it.   I KNOW.  

The rain has stopped now.  I walk the streets in eerie silence.  The
strange image has left me alone and I'm tired and washed out.  Nervous
convulsions rack my spine.  I return to my car, drive out of town.  I
pull off on a dirt road to get some sleep as the sun rises through
spent clouds.

--

	\\\\\sean/////

0, unseen,,
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From: sabbott@nmsu.edu (SDA)
Subject: <insert subject line>
Organization: WHorshipers of Lady LibertY (WHoLLY)
Date: Wed, 22 Jul 1992 16:28:48 GMT


There was a smell of burning plastic in the air.  

A primal fear seized me.  My stomach was clenched tighter than
the jaws of an insurance company's pocketbook.  I leapt up from
my desk and seized the the Triumph catalogue.  It was already warm.
I ran out to fireplace and threw the catalogue in, it let out a feral
scream then burst into flames.  

I ran to the garage.  I was fearing the worst and when I threw open
the door, my fears were confirmed.  

A bubbling heap of metal was cooling on the concrete floor, only the
antenna remained.

. . . next year I'm voting Republican.

--

	\\\\\sean/////

0, unseen,,
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Newsgroups: talk.bizarre,alt.smouldering.dog.zone
From: sabbott@nmsu.edu (SDA)
Subject: <insert subject link>
Organization: WHorshipers of Lady LibertY (WHoLLY)
Date: Wed, 22 Jul 1992 17:12:27 GMT



I lay in bed listening to the dog next door bark the monotonous bark.
Outside, I search the the weeds for a rock, but all rocks have been
thrown during early morning forays such as this.

I hop the wall and walk down to the all-night baseball fields.
Middle-aged jocks.  Short men with mustaches and barrel chests and
beer guts swagger about in tight baseball uniforms.  A pitcher hits
a batter with the ball and the scene erupts into violent confusion.
Men are hitting each other with bats and blood drips onto the tidy
ochre soil.  I imagine the dog next door getting his skull crushed
like the pitcher and chuckle a bit. 

I hear a voice behind me, "Aren't you going to join the fun?"

I turn to the woman.  She long brown hair that appears to be pasted to
her bony face.

"I prefer to remain a disinterested observer." 

"Perhaps you're imagining someone or something you know getting, uhm,
pummeled like my husband," she nods in the direction of the lifeless
form of a player.

Her insight causes me to shudder a little.  "Time to hunt for another
one?"

She smiles.

"Oh, I think I'll remain a disinterested observer, at least until
I've completed my mourning."

She jumps off the back end of the bleachers and walks to her car.
I watch her drive away.

Walking back to the house, I fill my pockets with rocks.

--

	\\\\\sean/////

0, unseen,,
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Newsgroups: alt.smouldering.dog.zone
From: sabbott@nmsu.edu (SDA)
Subject: <insert whatever the fuck you want>
Organization: WHorshipers of Lady LibertY (WHoLLY)
Date: Fri, 24 Jul 1992 19:42:57 GMT


   Half read books are stacked on top of each other like dead seagulls
   after an oil spill.  I have searched all night.  Searched in vain.

   My wife stands in the doorway.  "Perhaps it doesn't mean anything"

   I recall the night Spinoza died, gasping for breath, his lungs filled
   with glass particles.

   "It means something.  Why would Socrates mention a cock in his final
   breath?"

   "Maybe Plato was just playing a joke and you're the victim"

   I think of Neitsche pounding madly on piano keys, laughing and
   wallowing in his own excrement.

   She comes up behind me and rubs my shoulders.

   "I wish we'd never heard of Socrates...I wish we could just leave
   here...go someplace where they've never heard of Socrates or Plato or
   Neitsche...just make love in the warm sand and frolic like dolphins in
   the warm ocean"

   I laugh condescendingly. Then erupt into a frenetic rage.
   "Never heard of Socrates!  How can you say that..."

   "Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar"

   She stuffs a cigar in my mouth, pierced through the center by a 
   red rooster toothpick.  

   I decided she had a point. 


--

	\\\\\sean/////

0, unseen,,
*** EOOH ***
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