207 lines
14 KiB
Plaintext
207 lines
14 KiB
Plaintext
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ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ
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ݱ07 Jan 94±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±_ROR_-_ALUCARD_±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±Ý? Þ°
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Ý Ý A Þ°
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Ý Ý ?Þ°
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Ý A ßßßßß°
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Ý The Beer Mystic's Last Day On The Planet Tfile Þ°
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Ý Distribution Þ°
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ÜÜÜÜÜ Centere Þ°
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Ý? Þ Written by: Rabid Liberal (Joshus) - RoR - Þ°
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Ý A Þ_____________________________________________________________________Þ°
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Ý ?Þ Shawn-Da-Lay Boy Productions, Inc.úúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúÞ°
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ÝÜÜÜÞÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÞ°
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°°°The HQ of SDBP, Inc - 510/237/8563°°PolySpock Project - 510/524/3649°°°
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°Drop Sites°°°°°° Hollow's Renaissance - 510/669/9432°°°°°Drop Sites°°°°°°
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The Beer Mystic's Last Day On The Planet
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A story by Rabid Liberal (c) 1990
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Shawn-da-lay Boy Productions INC.
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"World of Wheels" is on TV. A chorus of cheerleaders in smilie
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spangles jazzes up the "star spangled banner". The PA prays with
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feedback, something from Job: "behold, I AM vile.. I AM the king of
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terrors," tying in the holy snuff king with the emerging Krusher,
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"champeeeeeen" Big Wheel, a Godzilla of steel on wheels the size of modest
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lake-side bungalows. With beer #3 I bear witness to the glorious slo-mo
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ecstasy of shattering glass, splintering in a crystal shimmer up to the
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rafters as the Krusher romps hunh-ho over the roofs of a line of mortal
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transport vehicles. Crushing them in an awesome symphony of buckling and
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imploding steel. At the intermission, Chubby Checker does an updated Twist
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with extra girth and sincerity. Six playboy bunnies help. But I'm lost.
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Which one is miss May? Which one is the cowgirl from Gillette? I fumble
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through data. Wonder why I'm sick, a half-melted baseball trophy molded by
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a drunken god, living a life of air fresheners, ill-fitting jeans and
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beer. What a land of mind we are! Ah, now some mediacaster, holding his
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ear, barks at us from above the blue smoke roar in the pit. The driver is
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a hero. He removes his helmet and his hair looks great even after
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crushing 35 cars. And now my Hagia Sophia beer is all gone. They say it's
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Latin for "holy wisdom". Where's it from, the Vatican? I'm from a town
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noted for its automobile by-products - of which I guess I'm one.
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I dreamt of my only car. A rambler picked clean like a carcass. Like
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a toothless grin. A wad of parking tickets under the windshield, blown
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away when the blades finally got ripped off too. But I couldn't sleep with
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the alarm wailing. Three hours. Counted 24,133 bottles of beer on the
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wall. Besides I only got 28 hours left on this planet and I got plenty to
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do. Three of my neighbors - I don't know them, they don't know me - were
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relaxing on the hood of their prey, having just hacked and bashed the car
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with the alarm into a hulk of gnarled steel and broken glass. It was like
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walking through a museum diorama of cavemen who have just butchered a
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twilight mammoth. The guy in the wool cap thinks he's Elvis and beats his
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wife. He once hung a cat from a neighbors doorknob cuz she'd shot him
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down. There's supposedly one rat for every person in NYC. Wonder if he's
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found his "vermate" yet. I asked the three for a souvenir, they threw me a
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hubcap with the center punched out, leaving a jagged halo. I put it on.
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Where's the crime of the century? I'm ready. And six beers later I'd
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black-eyed more than my quota of streetlights. i was out like a light
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myself. I dreamt of sending my diaries somewhere - the papers, a
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publisher. Thought has kinetic energy. It does. But it wasn't taking me
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anywhere. And when I finally come to it was still night. my sneaks were
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gone, someone had painted a scene-of-the-crime outline arond my body (a
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premonition or a joke?) but my halo is still warm to the touch.
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To revive myself I usually head for the Linger Lounge, a place of
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purposeful and stylish dissipation. There's a sieve in the john, behind
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the toilet. Check it out. In the mirror I look like Shemp - ugliest of the
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three stooges. I scoop a sieve of water out of the toilet's tank, then
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shower up by holding it triumphantly over my halo. Don't worry, there's a
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hole in the floor that sucks up the water. The cool water revives the bony
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plates, the gristle and cartilage and the wandering soul. It does! It's
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like wetting a dull stone which looks precious when wet. And I come out a
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new man. I am. No longer looking like Shemp. I'm ready to face the rest of
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my life - all 20 odd hours.
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Sure, my techniques have always been clever. But I'm tired of hanging
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out in dance joints. I usually stalk a table of nervous birds in jangly
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jewels. Wait for them to get dance fever. And when they hit the dance
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floor I observe them while I suck down their neglected drinks no matter
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sweet and gooey. It's a cheap drunk and a rather subtle way of
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redistributing wealth. It's a little chancy with disease and all, but
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adventure is the throb in the blood, the beer in the glass, the light in
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my bulb. How does one go about patenting new drinks anyhow? I have two
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surefire hits: "The Jersey Shore" (gin, Yoohoo and Alka Seltzer) and "The
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Jersey Sunset" (Bacardi, Pepto-Bismol and Hi-C).
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I pinched my wheels (no ordinary tin can) from in front of the
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Heartbreak Club, where the innoculated money spinners dress up in $3000
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worth of leather to get real, break a sweat, act artsy. Someone had left
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it - my '63 abalone Lincoln - idling right there on Hudson. It was
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immaculate, the hood awesome as Texas in tin. A right romantic grease
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jock's dream. And it left me lushed, imagining the driver's face when he
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returns with his Euro-trash bait under his arm. Oh, sweet reverie! I
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adjusted the electric mirrors, electric seats, put it in gear like a warm
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knife through butter, elbow out the window. All the dials stared up at me.
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We were one. A noble cell with a mission. A time bomb waiting to go off.
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To get fogged up I buy beer, the best, Harp, Guiness, Grolsch, Old
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Peculiar cuz what good is a pocket full of chump change in hell? One of
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the techno-convenience society's greatest inventions: the 24-hour deli
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with 100 brands of beer. From Tribeca I bullet up Avenue of the Americas
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doing menacing side swipes, shearing door handles and fancy trim along the
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way. This boat's a dream. I glide across craters the size of which we'd be
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able to see on the moon with the naked eye. I do felonious hot-dog donuts
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at Crazy Eddie's. Heads turn. I'm a bumper car wacko on a tear. Don't they
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understand? This is what Artaud would've done. I wish I'd had Francis
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Farmer next to me. She could grenade empties at pedestrians along the way,
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but she's dead too. It's 2am; I got 22 hours to live.
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I wish crazy little Jenny was beside me. I was wearing her undies as
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I often did when I was lonesome. I tried to call but every # was a wrong
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#. She'd ride her bike to the Fashion Institute of Technology with blue
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hair, army boots sprayed silver, holes in her T-shirt so her breasts could
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grace us with their peculiar smiles. We once made love with an Alligator
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baggie she'd salvaged from the freezer, unwrapping two pounds of chuck in
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my honor. It was defrosted on the counter by the time we'd finished. But
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chance will just have to be my copilot. at Fourteenth street I do a
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dramatic stuntman slide, broadsiding a silver Mercedes. The sound is
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meaningful. The jolt exaltingly tragic. A citizen gives chase but I lose
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him quickly because I am not afraid of intersection death. I course
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further up Sixth avenue, free of guilt and moral constraint with my nose
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up the tailpipe of a trembling Volvo. I run 4 red lights, scattering
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pedestrians. The threat of death animates them, wakes them up out of their
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dull lives. But I get no thanks, no howdy-dos. I challenge stunned men in
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important cars. Everything speeds up hell-bent beyond comprehension. At a
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light I gun the engine, pour a Harp over my head, comb my hair back. I'm
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James Dean. He's dead too. Yes, I am too short a chapter in an absurdist
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novel. At 34th street I make a chase-scene left, cruise down the sidewalk,
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watch strollers scatter, cling to Macy's windows. It's a movie. I wish my
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head was a camera. I hang a ralph at Eighth Avenue, pick up a hooker at
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40th. She's in chemical limbo, somewhere between Flip Wilson and Dolly
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Parton in absurdly tight satin jogging shorts. She diddles my fiddle and
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holds on to her 14th street wig as we cruise crosstown. I double park at
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the Waldorf and block two black limos in. I drag her luded body in past
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the big eyes under red caps. I order beer. She likes Long Island Iced Tea
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with five packets of sugar. She's never seen Long Island. And we dance.
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Her backbone is like saltwater taffy. Her skin smells like a candy bar. I
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try to imagine sitting next to her in high school. How'd she get this way?
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We bump tables, upset drinks into faces. Her eyeballs have disappeared
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somewhere up into her forehead. I lead her out through the yawning doors,
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heels dragging, wearing out like a pencil eraser. HA! I tell the doorman
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that I was the model for Rothko's painting "Drunk on Turpentine".
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I park in the intersection of eighth and 49th. I drop of Delilah.
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Traffic backs up. I lean her against a lamppost, serenaded by the sealion
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chorus of horns. Anyone can paralyze a city this way. Anarchists with
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cars, listen up! The gridlock guzzler is me! I put my tub in drive and
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challenge the honking backed up traffic like a bull in the arena. It's
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6am. Workers on their way. But they're all bereft of purpose, wired to go
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nowhere. Eerily preoccupied equally with weight loss and child abuse. You
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can either go nowhere fast or nowhere slow. I back up, demolition-derby
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style and put a BMW out of commission. Crushed radiator. It looks almost
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sculptural. The driver bangs furiously on the windshield and dash, hangin
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desperately onto the steering wheel. I'm becoming well-known now. I wander
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up Eighth avenue to Harlem, weaving deliriously a very unusual tapestry of
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steel misery and mayhem. Bouncing off cars from side to side. Crash nose
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first through a furrier's window, and kids with askew baseball caps
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ransack the place before I've even backed out into the traffic.
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Thirty-five cars to Harlem. Just like the Krusher. They're filming on a
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streetcorner and not only do I black-eye their jungle load of wattage and
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spotlights, I also manage to scatter a pack of crack dealers who seemed to
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be menacing the film crew. This is aggravated operation of a motor
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vehicle, a churning delicious hunk of illogic. By now my back bumper is
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dragging, trim is splayed and branching out.
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I head down fifth avenue. Bump cars in heavy traffic chicken-style
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with 100+ violations under my belt. One or two million in damages. I hit a
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stretch limo at 45th and fifth, doing 40. It buckles into a U-shape and I
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imagined it still running, running forever in a circle like a toy wind-up
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car. The moment of impact becomes a crime of ecstasy, orgasm and felonious
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vandalism for mere seconds. After that it's just hysteria, human foible
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and stunned collective panic. After that I just comb the outer boroughs,
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confident that Manhattan is all abuzz because of me and my tub. More abuzz
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than anything I could ever write. I find my favorite sites. The Brooklyn
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Bridge, the Long Island City salt mounds. Catch my breath and perspective.
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Then I go to various banks and yell "They have no money!" in crowded
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lobbies. This is, after all, how panics begin. Banks exist in out implicit
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suspension of disbelief. A bank run is contagious. We've seen drug
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companies drop to their contrite knees. But we're all free here cuz our
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words are empty, ashes blown into the faces of the shivering.
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This is the painting I wish I could do. George Grosz in crushed
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steel. a panic of the fat. In Central Park it's 7:30pm. Hats climb the
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hill with big-daddy shadows and coats the size of backyards. I'm tired. I
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abandon my aritist's tool with beer soaked seats. In the Central Park Zoo
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I talk to the seals and otters. They seem to understand, and at midnight
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of the 7th day I shivered, I festered, but I did not die. No activist
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lawyer came to my defense. The nobility of my terrorism had eluded them
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all. Notoriety had failed to lift me out of my meaningless anonymity. I
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was still alive, and in big trouble.
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. The nobility of my terrorism had eluded them
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all. Notoriety had failed to lift me out of my meaningless anonymity. I
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was still alive, and in big trouble.
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