Monday, September 7, 2009

Confessions, Part 3

London, Sunday, 25 August, 1974

Little Danny Diggs had scarcely finished his platinum-plated polystyrene Popsicle when his harried mother appeared like quicksilver in the doorway of their freeway-modern American suburban complex apartment. It had been raining in San Diego ever since the top of the charts as I lifted the obese obsidian door knocker. For the past two years, ever since urban renewal facilitated the arrival of all those geeks into our previously off-white neighborhood, we have had to keep our doors and windows tightly bolted. Then it happened. The Church of Jewish Scientists moved in and the place became infested with trichina. Our babies became the target of severe Kosher circumscription. Oil depletion allowances made deep frying poignantly obsolescent. A cool winter's breeze shattered the morning silence as star-crossed lovers locked in energetic consternation.

London, Monday, 26 August, 1974 “Bank Holiday”

Gerald Ford's “confidence of his conservatism is like an amiable Tory backbencher from the Shires.”

“It is evil to fart during Beethoven's Ninth” -- Anthony Burgess

The gospel according to St. Fudd states that molecules with a valence of greater than three times the circumference of the Earth's midriff will expand when heated. Others reproduce quadraphonically, without benefit of conjugal byplay.

Thursday, Sept. 5, 1974

The lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer inexorably relinquish their hold on the consciousness of mortal man and give way to the tepid dog days of September memories. English schoolchildren wend their weary way back to the folds of educational dogma and try to learn their reading, 'riting, and 'rithmetic (and to keep a stiff upper lip, stand in queues, sip tea, spend a penny, take the tube, go to the loo, pip pip, cheerio, and all 'at) whilst the cosmic seasonal cycle plays its never-ending game of Bulgarian roulette with the holy grid outside their two-way perforated windowpanes. All the masses (are asses) of multitudes of hitherto ignominious royal subjects prepare to cast their predetermined lot with the Labour, Conservative (Tory), or Liberal (birthday) parties in the forthcoming Parliamentary elocutions. The young liberals want to eliminate the need for compulsory jobs for all citizens and like good social democratic commie fascist jew bastards, seek to eliminated the armed forces which after all are only the corporeal manifestation of the pointless ego-trip of a war oriented economic inflationary nightmare of the body politic of a push-button no deposit no return throw-away automotive smog-ridden computer punch-card televised society.

Scene 3 – Welcome to the future. It's just starting now.

Our society has no classes, except in the collage or multiversity of your choice. The means of production are held by all the people. Yes, we have them all – uppers, downers, beaners, boogies, all in living colour 'cuz everything looks worse in black and white. At last the binding shackles of the by now moribund mediacracy have been recklessly cast aside and the anxious androids of both remaining planets can live in harmony, melody, and various contrapuntal intonations. Methodists and religious ecstatics of all indoctrinations can rest their retinas daily on the channel of their choice, both commercial and educational.

One organism, one vote!
All power to the pimple!
Up with megahertz!
Ché lives!
Free Morton Kaiser!!
Fold, spindle, mutilate!

Yes, dear friends out there in Medialand. The biosphere is awash with maxims, slogans, flying, bouncing and ricocheting like McLuhanian ping pong balls off the Van Allen belt which shrouds our multiverse. Pharynxes, larynxes, epiglottises, eject sonic microwaves by the score. Blackboards, bathroom walls, car bumpers – every centimetre of available space – graffiti (the writing on the wall, for both of you non-Italians) proclaim the good word, once heard only by a small band of evolutionaries but now by that ever-increasing number of zealots who march to the beat of a different drummer.

The medium is the massage. (Medium, hell – I'll take an extra large.)

Welcome to the Age of Epic Proportions