Fats Domino, back as a cat, still at the piano.
Archive for the 'Into The Light' Category
The first thing that needs to happen is the town of Waco needs to change its name.
I realize that the name derives from the Waco subset of the native Wichita people, who once occupied the area.
But the white people killed and/or drove off all the native Waco. Many moons ago.
Look: so long as the place is infested with white people, dominant language English, the Law of Naming will provide that in “Waco” black teenagers will be hauled out of the jail to be tortured, mutilated, and burned, before an appreciative—yea, orgasmic—audience of some 15,000 Caucasians; wild and crazed clusters of tornadoes will suddenly sweep down upon Waco and kill many people for No Reason At All; epileptic foam-flecked guitar-screechers without discernible brain activity will set up there in Waco their camp, down the road from the press center of the dumbest chief executive in the history of the US nation; crazed-preacher compounds, there in Waco, shall be besieged, assaulted, burned, and melted, and on live TV; and, finally, this latest—dumbkopf gangs of de-evolved knuckledraggers, both inside and outside the law, shall go utterly wild, inside and outside a craven sadsack would-be titty bar, said knuckledraggers employing all and every weapon of the 21st Century larval American, leaving nine dead people on the ground; 18 humans, more or less, wounded, to various degrees, in the hospital; 170-some arrestees clapped in the hoosegow on $1 million bail each; and more than 100 motorcycles seized and shoved into the guv’mint grinder so they may be transformed and purified into death-dealing cannons that may be shipped overseas to—quite rightly—kill brown people.
Do you want this to stop? Then, first, change the town’s name. Ditch the “Waco.” Try something like, oh, say, “Tranquility.” Or “Peace Corners.”
Motorcycle gangs are deeply stupid expressions of the lizard brain. Fight or flight. That’s all. That’s all they are. And, like wolverines, they never do the flight. Just the fight.
They were born, these motorcycle people, in the years after WWII. When returning American veterans, their souls utterly destroyed in Europe and the South Pacific, discovered their beings screaming at the prospect of settling peaceably down into some sort of Leave It To Beaver.
My father was one of these people. He returned home to Iowa, all of him over there in the South Pacific utterly lost. He waved goodbye to his wife, who at home there in Iowa had breezily fucked his brother, while all of her husband was dissolving on Guadalcanal. He bought himself a motorcycle, called Indian. He climbed aboard, and drove as west as west gets—to California. He’d seen, over there, overseas, in some malarial mud-ditch, a soaring “Why We Fight” propaganda short, that set forth as Shangri-La, a burg, in California, called Modesto. Over-arched with a sign that did do read: “Water. Wealth. Contentment. Health.” My father drove cross-country, determined to reach this Xanadu. It would be there. It would be there. It had to be there. It would be there. It would be there. And found it. He did. And found it, eventually, the same old shit. And proceeded, then, to drink himself to death. Though he spread it out over thirty-some-odd years. Which is why I’m here.
Other dead-souled WWII vets who climbed aboard bikes never even tried to reach a Xanadu, or sink to a Beaver life. They instead mimicked, stateside, their overseas military life: always on the road, in platoon clusters—now called “gangs”—loyal to no one but each other . . . and anyone who was not each other, could, and should, whenever it seemed Right, be, just like back in the day in the uniform, fighting for the good ol’ USA, be beaten, stomped, knifed, shot, raped, killed. Left to lie where they lay. Or, at best, be buried, with most often pure contempt, in a shallow grave.
Such people—yea, verily—they were not exactly employable, in any traditional sense. And so they inevitably, eventually, drifted into criminal enterprises. And, indeed, methamphetamine, said death-dust is in America attributable to the industry of the Hell’s Angels, the ur of such motorcycle gangs, who filled the void of the US government’s senseless suppression of the cocaine trade, with busy-bee manufacture and distribution of the fave stimulant of the crazed genocidal murderers of the Third Reich. And so, those who wanted to be shot from a cannon higher, drifted from a drug that encourages one to fuck, and to dream big, to a drug that encourages one to senselessly tinker with the bowels of many cars at 3 a.m., and shoot many rounds at fearsome hallucinations menacingly creeping across the lawn.
I have had a number of glancing acquaintances with the Angels over the years, and in my experience these are “serious people,” as is said of the Sicilian Mafia, or, more precisely, the Chinese triads. They really will kill you, if you are not of them, and they are beered up, and you look wrong at something they think you should look right at.
The Angels, though, these days, are considered by many next-generation biker gangs as “wussies,” who should all be put to sleep.
This is a common and dispiriting penis-pattern upon this planet. Akin to the “punks” of the ’70s-’80s, who decided that planet-transgressive artists like the Stones, the Kinks, David Bowie, the Who, etc., since they seemed to be engaged in the effrontery of getting old, should instead die. And at once.
Ancient, imbecilic story. Expressed by the Lizard King, succinctly, this way:
“I want to kill you.”
And so, one of the stories emerging from the Waco slaughterhouse, is that bikers affiliated with “The Bandidos,” experienced a frenzy, because a rival gang, “The Cossacks,” were affiliating with the Angels.
This apparently caused seminal fluid to poisonously back up into many lizard biker brains, until many dozens of de-evolved nimrods—beginning, banally, in a bathroom—were wailing on each other with fists, chains, knives, guns.
They then spilled out of the confines of Twin Peaks, the would-be sadsack titty-bar that allegedly willingly and even avidly invited these biker geeks to revel there weekly, and rolled out onto the street . . . where they were joyfully gunned down by badged and thereby protected gangs of state-sanctioned killers—as of this writing, it is surmised that at least four of the dead were laid into their graves by agents of law-enforcement.
That is really the cush place, these days, if you want to kill. Behind the badge. There’s a serial killer in Scottsdale, Arizona, for instance, one James Peters, who’s killed seven people, behind a badge. And is out there, stone killer, Officer Peters, even now: he be, gunning, as we speak, for more.
the killer awoke before dawn
he put his boots on
he took a face from the ancient gallery
and he walked on down the hall
Like, if you’re supposed to be a rebel, and thereby all righteous and shit, then why the hill-sam are you wasting all your wanking, wailing on other revved-up bike rebels, who are just like you?
Because you’re a fucking moron.
These “turf” wars, indulged in by these backward-penis pinheads, are beyond de-evolved. If, like, you’re so wild and free and against “the Man,” why the fuck would you not then be united with the one and the all and the many, just like you: and thereby, united, whip your chains and knives and guns, all united, at “the Man”?
Because you’re dumber than dirt, that’s why. And—probably, maybe—a chickenshit. Because, for sure, you’re a nimrod, par excellanace. Because, in the end, you’re rebelling against nothing but being a decent human being. For, in your willingness to inflict pain, you are a creature of Thanatos. Your brain is swollen with seminal fluid flowed backward. Backed up, stinking now, foul as pus.
This Twin Peaks. Where all you limp-dick motorcycle cripples did gather.
Apparently this Twin Peaks chain came to be because it was determined Hooter’s was “too tame.”
At the beginning of each shift, Twin Peaks women are lined up and graded like pieces of meat:
Before each shift at Twin Peaks, a Hooters-like restaurant with 57 locations across the U.S., managers line up waitresses and grade them on their looks. The women get points for hair, makeup, slenderness, and the cleanliness of their uniforms: fur-lined boots, khaki hot pants, and skimpy plaid tops that accentuate their cleavage. Their job, between serving sports-bar fare with names such as “well-built sandwiches” and “smokin’ hot dishes,” is to beguile the mostly male customers, flirting to get them to empty their wallets. They may also have to fend off patrons who’ve washed down too many of the house beers, including the Dirty Blonde or the Knotty Brunette.
Twin Peaks is the most successful example of a new generation of restaurants, what people in the industry euphemistically refer to as “the attentive service sector” or, as they’re more casually known, “breastaurants.” Twin Peaks Chief Executive Officer Randy DeWitt doesn’t care much for the word, not that he’s complaining. Last year, Twin Peaks was the fastest-growing chain in the U.S., with $165 million in sales.
Ersatz sex uber alles. Obscenity. This is not a true manifestation of Eros. If it were, the biker boys would not have spilled out killing each other, into the parking lot. Tthat’s Thanatos. If Twin Peaks truly were of Eros, they would have spilled out, fucking.
None of this matters, really, because all of these people are over.
The bikers, the cops, the Twin Peaks people. They are uncountable light years in the past. It’s just a strange period we’re in now. It’s like all the time has come today. So at the same time we’ve got people like these bikers and their mirror-mirrors the cops, beating the bejeesus out of each other like apes at a water hole, we’ve also got other people preparing to shed the shell and proceed as energy beings into the great wide open.
S.E. Hinton wrote the best motorcycle novel when she was 16 and drunk. Francis Coppola brought her on set and together they transformed her book into my favorite of his films. Rumblefish.
They hired Michael Smuin, then the king of choreographers, to stage the fight scene (shown below), so he could show it without purpose, without meaning, perverse, death-mouth, ode to Thanatos.
But “another glorious battle for the kingdom.”
As Motorcycle Boy says, coming in at the last.
They think they are all emulating him, Motorcycle Boy, these combatants, reflecting in stories they’ve told, faslely, of his glory; but he is no longer anywhere near their world. And he never was.
Any real motorcycle boy knows, like this Motorcycle Boy, that the motorcycle is precisely the opposite of fighting. It is about solitude. It is about aloneness. It is about understanding the need for room. It is about knowing that “rumble fish: they try to kill themselves, fighting their own reflection. They belong in the river. I don’t think that they would fight, if they were in the river. If they had room, to live. Somebody ought to put the fish in the river.”
Nobody in Waco was trying to put the fish in the river.
All the live-long day, every day, we are besieged by news of people actively working not to put the fish in the river.
I am increasingly shutting them out.
I just don’t care anymore.
About anything but putting the fish in the river.
My father knew this. As a motorcycle boy. On his Indian. Riding as West as West gets. He knew the rumble fish kill themselves, fighting their own reflection. He knew they belonged in the river. That they would not fight, if they were in the river. If they had room. In the river. He knew somebody ought to put the fish in the river. But he just couldn’t get there. Because they killed him. In the war. But he hung on, long enough, to make me. And, so, now, I am in the river. I am of sweet thing. Yeeaaaahhhhyeayeayeayeamymymymy. Sweet thing. And I shall drive my chariot down your streets, and cry . . . . sugar baby . . . sugar baby . . . sugar baby . . . .
They saw wild pigs running near the lake, and a soaring osprey. The mountains drew closer. Papyrus grew beside the water. Pelicans made their geometric, card-trick pterodactyl dives.
“Do we have a decent map?” Lucas asked.
“Just this,” said Sonia.
She handed him the rental car company’s map. It was not very detailed.
“This is the kind of map that killed Bishop Pike,” Lucas said.
“The one for us,” said Sonia.
—Robert Stone, Damascus Gate
Even in comfortable circumstances, [Robert Stone] lived hard; his disregard for his body probably shortened his life somewhat; and in art he took tremendous risks. He had an extraordinary ability to throw his whole being into the writing of a novel. I once heard him say, responding to a slight to Outerbridge Reach, “I wrote that book with my blood.”
[H]is attention was distracted by the sight of a young penguin besieged by skuas. The penguin was alone within a circle of disaster ten feet in diameter. No other bird came nearer. It was eyeless although it stretched its neck and strained to face the sky. One leathery flipper was raised in comic rage at things. The other hung bloody and truncated at its side. Overhead, skua gulls were wheeling. Every minute or so, a skua would descend screaming from the wheel to tear flesh from the dying bird. Browne stopped for a while to watch, then turned away and put the back of his arm across his eyes to protect them from the glare. I want a missionary woman now, Browne thought, to make a story out of this. Mother Carey tending her chickens, God’s sparrows falling aslant his gaze. Creatures for sacred inscrutable reasons denied flight are brought piecemeal into the sky as meat.
—Robert Stone, Outerbridge Reach
It starts in the middle, as if you’ve switched stations halfway through some other song without realizing it. It’s moving so fast you feel as if you’ll never catch up. The band—guitar, drums, bass, an organ hovering in the background—can’t catch up with the harmonica that’s leading the charge; suddenly, they do, and then they take a step ahead. You realize that the last thing you want is for the harmonica—high, implacable, uncaring, a body without a mind, it seems to be its own force, not some mere instrument played by some particular person who has to get up in the morning and go to sleep at night—to lose this race. It doesn’t; it cuts in front of the stampeding combo, playing a swirling pattern that focuses the band. There’s a call and response, a joining of forces, no longer one against the others, but a whole against a part, and the part is whoever’s listening.
When lyrics appear in the song, you notice for the first time that there haven’t been any. Suddenly what was chaos, unformed, threatening, thrilling, is now a story. There’s a singer and he’s going to tell you about something, something about walking down by the old graveyard. But then that breaks up, too. “Eyes,” he says again, and again, the word fraying with each repetition, slipping the “mystic” that stands at its head, except when it doesn’t. Morrison seems to turn away from the word, from words altogether, as if only fools actually believe that phonemes can signify, that a word is what it names, that there’s any chance of understanding anything at all.
And here man undergoes a transformation as important as when he became a tool-user. He becomes a natural being again, having used his tools for hundreds of thousands of years to pull himself up by the bootstraps. Now, he no longer needs them. He has transcended his own nature, as that original ape did, and now he is no longer a “man.”
Instead, having grown old and died, he is reborn as a child of the universe. As a solemn, wide-eyed infant who slowly looks over the stars and the Earth, and then turns his eyes on the audience.
These last 20 seconds, as the child of man looks down on his ancestral parents, are the most important in the film. We in the audience are men, and here is the liberated, natural being, Kubrick believes we will someday become.
But when Kubrick’s space infant looked at the audience the other night, half of the audience was already on its feet, in a hurry to get out. A good third of the audience, must not have seen the space infant at all.
When I worked with him, in the forties and fifties, was I aware he was someone with talent who could make it there in Hollywood? No. Later I found that out—when I went to a screening of M*A*S*H*. That was the biggest revolutionary experience I ever had. I went into the theater expecting nothing and I came out expecting everything. What that did was prove to me a theory that I had had for a long time. The reason most people can’t compete successfully is they are born at the wrong time or the wrong century or the wrong moment for what they’re doing. If you get lucky, you are born into a period where you get the most opportunity to do the work you want to do. In the movie business, Bob Altman was born at the exact right time.
—George W. George