Archive for the 'What’s Good' Category
tryin’ to make it real
compared to what
Philip Seymour Hoffman, the other day, he died.
And all the eager scoured-brain skull-lickers, they are all, now, over all and every tube, telling us just how awfully, awfully Wrong, it was, the way, that he died.
He died, apparently, with a needle in his arm. Shooting heroin.
So. Striving. He was. Yassa yassa massa massa. For: the great wide open.
But why, cry the ur-humans, who these days are the all and every of “the press,” though they are knuckledraggers who have never even once gazed upon the monolith . . . why, would ol’ Phil, why would he knock hisself off, even inadvertently, with the ol’ Big Horse?
They do crocodile-weep, these ur-people: faux-crying what they never would say when he was alive—that he was perhaps the finest, most sensitive actor, of his generation.
And in this, they do answer their own question.
Phil, he was, with the needle in his arm, to try to bring the sweet peak understanding surcease release, to both body and mind, just, just, just:
tryin’ to make it real
compared to what
Once upon a time, there on the deeply sad, old-and-in-the-way mercy-preserve for crippled, doddering, withered, sick, ancient, and/or feeble white people—known round these parts as The Great White—there was a foam-at-the-mouth, projectile-vomiting, glow-in-the-dark racist, who called hisself Uberbah.
Among this man’s many manifest manifold sins, included his inability to inscribe a comment without upchucking either the term “weak tea,” or “hand-waving.”
Well, as it is said, “even a blind pig can find an acorn every once in a while.”
And so, tonight, Uberbah, I bow to you. In all your nightriding, white-hooded, glory.
Because, having heard, and turned round and round in my mind’s hands, like a rubik’s cube of the operative universe, the black man’s speech, in re the serial killers of the NSA, I conclude, but four words.
There are no nations, no parties, no ideologies.
There are only queens. And kings.
It was a test. And there were people that passed, and there were people that didn’t pass.
When we did the show up in Portland—to give you an idea of someone who passed—some businessman, just walkin’ around on the street, came in; we charged a buck, and for a buck you got to see us make all our noise, and the Dead make all their noise, and anything else that happened.
This guy was in a suit, and he had an umbrella. He got the customary cup of stuff. And about midnight, you could see him really get ripped. Somebody who’d probably never been anything but drunk on beer. But he looked around, and he saw all these strange people, and he looked down, and the spotlight was showing down on him, and he saw his shadow.
And he stands up straight, puts that umbrella over his shoulder, and he says:
“The king walks.”
“The king turns around.”
“Now the king will dance.”
Let’s have a little break here, so that we don’t get too tired. Do you have any questions or problems? First issue: very often after the fourth beat there is a feeling of waiting for something. We wait for the fourth note . . . and the flow of the music stops . . . Or maybe my heart stops.
I have stage fright when I face you. I do not do this every day. Instead I listen to music, and I’m more interested in playing myself, than conducting.
But I will improve before tomorrow. If I live that long.
The most important problem for me at the end of the twentieth century is the continual lack of time. We are always in an awful hurry and still we waste an incredible amount of time, for instance in front of the TV or in a car. While I do like some aspects of our “fast” civilization—I love to fly in airplanes, I am fascinated with cosmic adventures, trips to the moon or Mars—and we do live in astounding times, still, here, in this music, we have to surrender ourselves to this other dimension of time. We have to slow down. Only then the sonority will be fantastic: the higher the music will go, the more distinctly it will sound. I dream of writing such tranquil music. I do not want to compose anything that echoes the modern “rush”—the cell phones, the telephones and faxes. It has to be calm. Life is too beautiful to be wasted in this way, by rushing things so much.
How should I explain it to you? Perhaps you should think about an elevator: you leave behind the basement of everyday life, filled with noises, distractions and anxieties, and you take the elevator up to the tenth floor, or even into the sky of timelessness. When you are in this music, time slows down, it is as if you were in heaven, it is like eternity. Do you understand what I want to achieve there? Total calm.
Let us play it again.
This is a mother’s song. This song has to be expressed both by the orchestra and the soloist. It has to be contemplative in mood, but still maintain the tempo. It approximates the speed of slow walking, when one walks alone, lost in thought. We have to enter into this mood. It is as if we were walking, or even slowly dancing. You have to think about walking here.
For me it is a very difficult movement because I do not usually engage in conducting and I do not know how to enchant you with my hand movements. But music carries me away and I may at some spots—and please forgive me if I do—make a wrong movement at a certain time. But you know the score and could play on. So then do not look at me, at what I am doing, but listen to each other, listen to what happens around you.
I am sorry for these mistakes. But I think that we will be able to communicate soon.
Alpha and omega, the beginning and the ending, which is, and which was, and which is to come.
On those stepping into rivers staying the same other and other waters flow.
The chemical composition of seawater, the Science Men tell us, is identical to that of human tears.
And seawater, they tell us, is from where, on this planet, all life did grow.
I believe that, in a mobius strip of time, the tears shed by us, created the oceans, from which came us.
So. Don’t hold back. Let them flow. All your tears. Like water flow.
And upon them, someday, you may sail. Sail to Caledonia.
I want to tell my daughter not to be afraid. Instead I’ll tell her to be vigilant, and to look to her dreams and nightmares for clues and signs of progress. I’ll tell her to be open-minded about the spirit world, and if it feels right, to call upon the spirits for help. I will also tell her to seek out communities embarked on meaningful and noble acts. The acts need not be as large as the Sword of Heaven, for any act that makes the world a better place is worthy. Above all, I’ll tell her that all action, big or small, must always be accompanied by the opening of one’s heart. As the Sword of Heaven taught me, ritual only takes one to the door. To get through to the other side, there must be love.
The afternoon light moves from the end of my desk and for a moment illuminates the letters on my keyboard. From my window, I can see a huge ship passing beneath the Golden Gate Bridge on its way to dock. I lean back and take it all in. I wonder where the ship is going next. I wonder where the light will fall now.
—Mikkel Aaland, The Sword of Heaven
I write along a single line: I never get off it. I said that you were never to kill anyone, and I meant it.
A boy, so broken; broken from birth. So broken that, as he entered adolescence, he came to physically less resemble a human being, than a pop-eyed sketch of an extraterrestrial gray.
So, through weeks, and months, and years, he closed himself off, from all the world. Eventually sealing all the windows, of his room, and of his soul. His room, he sealed with desperate scratchy black plastic, and duct-tape. So he could freely crouch. Ape-like. Masturbating. Before his video screen. His hands on the controls. Sealing the cessation of his soul. As he ceaselessly engaged, there on his screen, in killing. Killing. And killing. And killing. And killing. Killing. Killing. And killing.
Till, one fine morn, he awoke. Took a face from the ancient gallery. And walked on down the hall.
To blow, with her own gun, his sleeping mother, into bloody chunks.
Killing, this time—at long last—for real.
Then, the broken boy, he went to school.
And rained death down upon them with the second amendment freedom discharge of his god-given-right weapons unrecognizable some they had no longer any face what so proudly we hailed upon twenty little children in the twilight’s last gleaming they were five-year-olds they were of the age of fairies and fingerpaints and a broken boy because he could because any freedom git yer gun git yer gun git yer gun broken boy in America can freedom freedom freedom came to them with a gun and he concealed carry freedom second amendment blew all their faces and their brains away.
They were shot and they were killed and they were buried in closed coffins because they no longer had faces. Their faces splattered all about the schoolroom. Traces of blasted faces among the fairies and the fingerpaints. Five years old. Because freedom. Clap your hands. Because freedom. Clap your hands. Outta yer cold dead hands. Because freedom. Clap your hands. Sometimes. I. Feel. Like. A. Motherless. Child. Because freedom. Clap your hands. Hoo-rah. Semper fi. Aim high. Anchors aweigh. Because freedom. Clap your hands. Clap your hands. Clap your hands now.
(Something I reprint every now and again. Usually around this season. First appeared here.)
* * *
In my Father’s house are many mansions.
Christmastime again is here, and so be Santa, and so be Jesus.
A couple years ago, in contemplating Santa and Jesus, the two began to get confused in my mind. Santa Claus, for reasons that have never really been explained, devotes each year to overseeing minute laborers who fashion gifts which he annually delivers, in a single night, to all deserving children the world over. Jesus Christ, for reasons that have been variously explained, roamed for a short time across a relatively minute plot of land, uttering gnomic wisdoms, then was seized and subjected to excruciating suffering, so that all, deserving and undeserving alike, might be gifted with salvation.
When a sprout, I was taught that while Santa’s labors never end—a yearly, year-long grind—Jesus’ was a one-shot gig. Wander around Palestine, ascend the cross, into the tomb, three days later out again, brief appearances before various friends and lovers, then up to heaven for a well-deserved eternal rest.
I no longer believe that. I believe that, as is set forth here, “Jesus Christ suffers from now until the end. On the cross. He goes on suffering. Until the death of the last human being.” That is the mystic meaning of his tale: he suffers with all beings suffering in the exile of existence. And we are called upon to do the same—to grow to empathy, so that thy neighbor truly is thyself, and suffering everywhere, for everyone, may be eased. With this meaning there is no need for the resurrection. All of us are him, doing the same work; our work, his work, never ends.
For those who are wedded to the resurrection, the advances in science and philosophy in my lifetime, in the understanding of the multiple dimensions and multiple worlds about us, too mean that his work never ends. For the planets, it is now known, are innumerable, and so are the dimensional variations of this one. And if salvation is indeed his calling, he will forever be busy as twelve bastards, for there are those who need saving, inhabiting every one.
“In Vence,” said Herzog, “my parents left me under a crucifix. And I asked them, my parents, ‘What happened to him?’ I meant the man on the cross, the Christ figure. I was then ten years of age and had no idea what a crucifix was. We lived in Paris. After the liberation I was not yet fourteen. The prefect told me who I was. That I was a Jew. That my parents, my family, had been delivered to the Germans and murdered by them. And I felt—what can I say—a recognition.”
“But you couldn’t leave the Church?”
“Oh,” Herzog said with a little shrug, “I didn’t care much about the Church. The Church was men, people. Some good, some not.” He looked at the floor.
“Because I was waiting,” said Herzog. “Waiting where I had been left. At the foot of the cross. Out of spite or devotion, I don’t know.” He laughed and put a hand on Lucas’s shoulder. “Pascal says we understand nothing until we understand the principle from which it proceeds. Don’t you agree? So I understand very little.”
“We’re supposed to believe that Christ has gone on to reign in glory,” Lucas said.
“No,” said Herzog. “Jesus Christ suffers from now until the end. On the cross. He goes on suffering. Until the death of the last human being.”
“And that,” Lucas said, “brings you here?”
“Yes,” said Herzog. “To attend. To keep on waiting.”
From the steps of the church, the evening smelled of car exhaust and jasmine.
For the first time Herzog smiled.
“Don’t regret it, sir. Perhaps you know Malraux’s Anti-memoires? His priest tells us that people are much more unhappy than one might think.” He offered Lucas his hand. “And that there is no such thing as a grownup.”
—Robert Stone, Damascus Gate
(Christ Jesus, but Christmas has galloped like a motherfucker, this year. Just the other day, it seems, I easily went to sleep, at the dawn of December . . . only to awake to find the thing nearly here.
(Guess, now, it’s time to start wheelbarrowing back onto the blog yuletide faves, from Decembers gone by. We’ll start with one from last year. Or maybe that was the year before . . . . )
The French, they can differ from other humans.
They are for instance known, in the immortal, if crude, words of National Lampoon, as folks who “fight with their feet and fuck with their faces.”
Now it seems they have determined that a proper way to honor Mary, mother of Jesus of Nazareth, is to light up a building like a pinball machine, and then play it.
For many centuries, the people of Lyon have in early December paid homage to Mary, in gratitude to the goddess-woman for interceding with the Mean Man to spare the place from the plague, back in 1643.
In them Olden Times, said homage involved a procession culminating at the Basilica of Fourviere, where candles were lit and offerings presented.
In 1852, the sculptor Joseph Hugues Fabisch erected a Mary statue next to the Basilica. The people of Lyon in that year planned for December 8 a mammoth Mary party. Here is what happened:
Leading up to the inauguration, everything was in place for the festivities: the statue was lit up with flares, fireworks were readied for launching from the top of Fourvière Hill and marching bands were set to play in the streets. The prominent Catholics of the time suggested lighting up the facades of their homes as was traditionally done for major events such as royal processions and military victories.
However, on the morning of the big day, a storm struck Lyon. The master of ceremonies hastily decided to cancel everything and to push back the celebrations to the following Sunday. In the end the skies cleared and the people of Lyon, who had been eagerly anticipating the event, spontaneously lit up their windows, descended into the streets and lit flares to illuminate the new statue and the Chapel of Notre-Dame-de-Fourvière, later superseded by the Basilica. The people sang songs and cried “Vive Marie!” until late in the night.
In years since, Lyon humans have each December 8 placed Mary-devoted lit-candles on their windowsills. The place is each year alive with light. Meanwhile, in the center of town, various assorted performances and such have built upon one another until these days they draw up to 4 million tourists, to what has become a four-day event.
As it is necessary on this planet that things mutate to survive, the Mary-fest now features some very clever humans, from the French lighting company CT Light Concept, who project with colored lights an assortment of pinball bumpers and flippers onto the side of the Celestine Theater. The display fully playable, as can be seen in the video below.
Frisky and alive.
The French: good with light. Knowing Mary as the one and only. And thereby sailing into the great wide open.
Peace, love, contentment, to all.
To that day. When we all go together.
Into the great wide open.
F. Scott Fitzgerald saw it. To the bottom of every bottle. Which, early—44—killed him.
No matter. He got it right. Wrote the Great American Novel. The Great Gatsby. Which ends with this:
Most of the big shore places were closed now and there were hardly any lights except the shadowy, moving glow of a ferryboat across the Sound. And as the moon rose higher the inessential houses began to melt away. Until gradually I became aware of the old island here that flowered once for Dutch sailors’ eyes—a fresh, green breast of the new world. Its vanished trees, the trees that had made way for Gatsby’s house, had once pandered in whispers to the last and greatest of all human dreams; for a transitory enchanted moment man must have held his breath in the presence of this continent, compelled into an aesthetic contemplation he neither understood nor desired, face to face for the last time in history with something commensurate to his capacity for wonder.
And as I sat there, brooding on the old unknown world, I thought of Gatsby’s wonder when he first picked out the green light at the end of Daisy’s dock. He had come a long way to this blue lawn and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.
Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgiastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter—tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther . . . . And one fine morning—
So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
The green light, it will never be attained, as Fitzgerald knew, on this continent, by white people. Because they do not belong here. It was a mistake, for them to ever to have come. To this place. Because it is not their place.
The green light, they can bask in it—the white people—when, “boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past,” they return to from where they came. Where they should, forever, have remained.
the little bird; all that there is
. . . from Election Central . . . .
While elsewhere on the tubes tonight people are being snored into somnambulism by the anti-news that Captain LapBand, a.k.a. the Baron Harkonnen, a.k.a. Chris “Meaty, Beaty, Big, and Bouncy” Christie, has secured a sentence of a second term as governor of the incredibly foul and indescribably noxious uber-fart known as New Jersey, and that some ugly ooze-slug of a Democrat has slimed into the governorship of Virginia, because his dufe GOoPer opponent was so batshit insane he even called upon the febrile fuck-brained “chain-the-nig*ers” nimrod Pawn Rawl to wildly ejaculate the confederate flag at his final rallies, we, we here at red, are offering the Real News: that is, that AvoWoman has been elected mayor of the Minnesota metropolis known as Icepick.
People who Don’t Know think that Icepick is actually called Minneapolis. But that is because they Don’t Know. In truth, and in all realms of Reality, as soon as all the region’s native peoples were all buggered out, the place became known, to all its white inhabitants, as Icepick. Because it is so often so fucking cold there that an icepick is required to perform even the simplest tasks: opening the front door, gathering firewood, grooming the cat, cooking a meal, making the bed, engaging in sexual congress.
These, the Icepickians, have long been the hardiest of American souls. Though it’s not like they really knew any better. Because most of them sprang from some sort of Viking stock—Norwegians, Swedes, Finns, Normans, High Germans, etc.—and so they considered it perfectly normal that one had to wield an icepick to, say, carve one’s sexual partner out of an ice cave before beginning the breeding season.
Those who did not consider this normal; those who did not spring from any sort of Viking stock; those who, among these non-Vikings, settled in Icepick; they really quickly died. Like fucking fruit-flies.
But: lo. A new dawn. It is shining brightly. On Icepick.
For global warming, which in so many elsewheres, has so many people shrieking their undies into their ovaries—well, over there in Icepick, it has people sunnily rolling the dice on avocado futures.
Because the ice, in Icepick, it has gone astray.
The cold, more and more, it has forgotten to come.
And thus, Icepick, it is poised—yea, verily—to become the new premier avocado-growing region, of all the planet.
There were Some who saw this. But none of the Some saw it as did AvoWoman. Who saw not only that Icepick would be growing whole town-rows of avocados. But also saw that people would next be wearing avocados.
Avocados. The clothes of the future.
The photo. Over there to the left. Depicting the common everyday costume of the Icepickian. Before the illumination that was vouchsafed to AvoWoman. Which resulted in her AvoWear.
Clearly, there needed to be a Change.
A change now embraced by all Decent citizens of Icepick. Who have, this night, ecstatically elevated AvoWoman to the mayoralty.
. . . . we interrupt this program for a special news bulletin . . . .
This here site, red, is now in possession of the full text of the victory speech emitted by AvoWoman. She having this night overwhelmingly been elected mayor of Icepick. These, her Words of Wisdom, we reprint, exclusively, below:
Your full embrace of the platform of environmentally friendly high fashion meets prison abolition is a tribute to the long standing progressive legacy of Icepick.
I am honored to be your Mayor. I promise to Do Better than that Man from Toronto.
And now, let me go shovel some snow :/
Yeah, but what does AvoWoman really want? This, the two or three readers of red who are at any one time fitfully conscious: they might wanna, maybe, someday, know.
Well. Shit. Because I am an omniscient being, one aided greatly by my access to all and every NSA intercept, I suppose I could go ahead and here reveal previously private conversations that indicate that AvoWoman is, probably, an imp of Satan.
We begin with a September 13, 2013 missive from Satan himself. Who suggests, temptingly, to AvoWoman:
You can campaign in AvoWear, and announce that you will appoint a cat as chief of police. You can propose mining the bridge to St. Paul, to keep those people out, and suggest an electrified fence at the state border, to take out any blind Iowans who attempt to wander over with their six-guns. Your jobs program can consist of starting the Icepick cheese industry, since Wisconsans are simply too embarrassing to be allowed to make cheese. Any Icepickian caught with cheese on their head will be forced by city ordinance to clean the sidewalks with a toothbrush.
AvoWoman, already a shrewd political operative, replies thusly:
You know—that’s kinda an appealing thought. Not a bad platform—especially the part about Police Chief and the electrified border w/Iowa. Possible appeal to many constituencies.
The NSA intercepts next indicate that crazed penis-hacking lesbians will be running hog-wild throughout AvoWoman’s godless anti-man administration.
The evidence, as ever, begins with a tempting missive from Satan:
Am I remembering right that there were one or more lesbian students who really Wanted you? These could serve as your security/bodyguards, when you are AvoMayor.
To which AvoWoman replies:
And yes you do remember correctly. More—maybe many?? So i have wardrobe, an Icepick-centric platform, a press secretary, and security.
The evidence: it is irrefutable.
No penis, is hereafter safe, in Icepick. Now that there is AvoWoman, as AvoMayor.
Why has the News Media not picked up on this? Why is red the only Fount of True Knowledge? And why do we even care if a penis survives in AvoWoman’s city? Where previously a penis was serviceable only if it was pried outta the permafrost with one or more icepicks? Why don’t we just listen to Lou Reed?
Because there are no coincidences, the night before Lou Reed swirled out the corporeal container, I was watching a documentary called After Porn Ends. A film that takes a Lou Reed approach. To Lou Reed people.
A film that trains its eye on transgressive people. Here, in this film, on people once and future active, in the adult-entertainment industry. Porn. A film that presents such people as they are. Without judgement.
Until we reach the coda. Wherein the filmmakers, in an extended, a long and lovely epilogue, bring us up to date, on all of the people we have just seen.
And we then understand, that they, the filmmakers, love them all.
From the people who have since gnarled into Christianity, and deny all of what they once had been. To those still proud, of all and every, of whom, they once, on camera, did join their loins.
And we understand that the filmmakers love them all, not only because of the coda’s photos and words, that are baldly spilled upon the screen. But because of the music.
Which begins as a long and lyrical instrumental piece. Until, eventually, after more than four minutes, in a really magical, yet so simple, chord change, the music reveals itself to be “Sweet Jane.”
And, like warm honey and wine, the words, they pour over, healing, all that we are:
anyone who’s ever had a heart
wouldn’t turn around and break it
and anyone who’s ever played a part
wouldn’t turn around and hate it
And, experiencing this, that night, I became higher than the world. Simultaneously spouting deep tears, and whooping in high joy. Because, I understood, completely, in this film’s concluding “Sweet Jane,” two things. That the filmmakers had opened themselves, to sanctify, heart all open, everyone in their film. And that “Sweet Jane,” the song, had entered into the immortal. Become a song that will never die.
So, when, less than 24 hours later, I heard that Lou Reed had shuffled off this mortal coil, I again spouted tears. But also gave a smiling nod to the stars; to the great wide open. Because, I know, now, that they will be playing that song, his song, “Sweet Jane,” two thousand years from now.
And so, like Jesus of Nazareth, another nice Jewish boy, also ripped all to hell and to shit, who also knew more than a little something about sin, Lou Reed will never die.
Know why? When we really get down to the all and all of it?
Because Lou Reed perceived, and presented, people as they are.
And then: he loved them all.
There is only one category/tag on this site that can be traced to a single human being. And that is “What’s Good.” Which comes from Lou Reed.
From a song he wrote. In all his anguished, tearful, loving-them-all fury. A song about death. Death bringing his lovers down. Taking them out.
There is a studio version. I eschew it every time. Because the live version, in all its many imperfections, it bleeds.
Acknowledging death. But not granting it supremacy. Because, in the final crash of Reed’s mournful, joyful, chords—death, it is over.
The first thing that must be understood about Science Men is this: they don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about.
To wit: the latest wonderment to bleed from these people: that there was oxygen on this planet hundreds of million of years before they previously thought there was.
Kind of a boner, there.
Squeal like a pig.
In truth, they’re just groping.
Like everybody else.
And the only truly really way to get there, near as I can tell, at least on this planet, is through, first, knowledge and appreciation and attention and empathy, which results in pain, and pain, and pain, and pain, and great loneliness; and then, through magic, and through childhood, and through grace, there may be achieved a conscious uncoupling of oneself, from all and all of all their all and every, and a return of thyself, to from where we all did came: the great wide open.
when i was a child
i spake as a child
i understood as a child
i thought as a child
but when i became a man
i put away childish things
and now, we see through a glass, darkly:
but then: face to face
now i know, in part
but then, shall i know
even as also i am known
and now, stays: faith, hope, charity
but the greatest of these is charity
for though i speak with the tongues of men
and of angels
and have not charity
i am become as sounding brass
or a tinkling cymbal
and though i have the gift of prophecy
and understand all mysteries
and all knowledge
and though i have all faith
so that i could remove mountains
and have not charity
i am nothing
Beshrew my heart, but I pity the man.
—William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream
So far as I can determine, Darth Cheney has always been controlled by Fear.
He grew up—a child—in Caspar, Wyoming. Staring across the endless wastes. Where there was nothing. Nothing at all. Least of all: him. Amidst all this nothingness. Young Darth. He became Afraid. So lonely. So cold. Just . . . so lonely.
And then, his corporeal container, it failed him. Utterly. And early.
In 1978, when Darth was but 37, a massive real-bad heart attack, attempted to carry him away. This he, somehow, survived. Six years later, he had a second heart attack. A third came after four more years. He underwent quadruple bypass surgery at age 47. In late November of 2000, while waiting for the United States Supreme Court to complete its judicial coup, and thereby elevate Darth, and his minion George II, to the vice presidency and presidency, of the United States, respectively, Cheney was hit with a fourth heart attack. A fifth struck in 2010.
In the many meantimes, Cheney underwent coronary artery stenting, urgent coronary balloon angioplasty, the implantation of a cardioverter-defibrillator. Etc., etc., and etc. He also had fitted this and that and the other, and more, pacemakers.
In the spring of 2011, amid desperate and extraordinary attempts to extend his life, he became a man with no pulse.
Basically, Darth Cheney is a roboman. Nature, it tried to carry him off. And many years ago. But technology. It keeps him keepin’ on.