The rain comes down and washes the street like tears and I start thinking of my pal from way way back, who shall be called Roy to protect the innocent and as that is the name I’ve given the character in the Screenplay I’ve been working on for two years now: Super 8 Daze, or Film Geeks (we’re still hashing that out). Anyway, he put the fear of Jebus into me last week, when I called him and he said, “I can’t talk, I’m going to the doctor.”
Then I didn’t hear from him back and well you have to understand that Roy was sort of born like one of Larry’s gut shot Chinese. His intestines and vital degestive organs were all on the outside of his body…. he had a whole where the rain gets in and all between his balls and his heart was all shot up by God, or the devil, or their cousin Pandora. Who knows? So this was my best friend from about third grade on….
Yesteray, I went to my U-Haul and did not find this tag, but I did find all the old drawings from IT IN space in SoHo, if you were lucky enough to come to one of Sylvia’s throw down wine and cheese events (which also featured art from yours truly and many of the folks you’ll meet on this blog… but lets face it, it was the chashews and the cheese that we miss most). So as I picked up my passport and left the key I smiled at the lady and told her to have a nice day and she said: “You’re breathing?”
“Excuse me?”
“You breathing, right?”
“Yes, barely.”
“If you’re breathing, then it is a nice day.”
Philosophy can be found in the strangest of places, but that’s the shit about grwoing up with a guy like Roy as your best friend… everyday is Passover (please let death pass over), every day is Thanksgiving or as the boss says, “It’s Idependance Day.”
So The Boss was all day on VH-2 and I must hand it to the guy for not only making great music, but having his heart and mind in the right place politically. I sort of live in broken glass neighborhood of liberals who are still flying their “WE DO NOT ACCEPT THE BUSH AGENDA” banners. However, the minute I saw those things, I knew we had lost. They are rainbow flags, like gay pride and the Grateful dead… yeah middle America really can’t get enough of gay hippies…mmm or not!
That said, it gives one hope that these fag flags fly through rain and sleet and snow… Does it do any good? Not yet, but we must let the world know of the Skizum in our nation and heart… we are like the Catholic Church in this respect… we are at war in Skizum (my old drawing DJ’s name… who is off again to Berlin next week):
But I think again of Roy and how we both loved Ilsa Damenhinder and yet I got to fuck her and he never did (he has the jewels, but the rest of the broken bits mean it will take an understanding Mary to Marry him and sire his Dauphin… because to me his is a King among swine.
Due to the fact that he is more or less bionic and was the six million dollar boy and is such as a man… he can’t drink, or really take any drugs to speak of (other than whatever they prescribe)… so it is hard, I should think, on his battered soul and spirit with all that pain and preassure (and crazy family history which is another sad story) but he is Le Roi des Biers and the Prince of Tides, and Roy Orbison all wrapped up in a nice (if neurotic) guy.
He reminds me always of Oskar from the novel, The Tin Drum (also a good movie). Which takes me back to the film we made in the fith grade with Bill Eliot who now runs the Avon Theater in Stamfor CT. I was the fat kid and he was the kid without intestines (but plenty of guts)… so naturally we made a film about food: The Big Mac Attack. It had a glowing response at the Greenwich Film Festival of 1977 (?), but was destroyed in a plane crash coming from duping at Kodak in Rochester, NY. It lives only as a memory, like a love affair. This one eyed burger cyclops was it’s hero and villain, Monsieur Mac:
All this goes back in some way to our discussion of witches, Jebus, gnoticism, Judaism, DNA, the body, the soul, and Pork flesh… but the question is asked by some guy who you would think was me, but isn’t:
So when you are tired and it is raining, just think of it all as a baptism; because the fire born, they go far, being at home in fire and even bullshit Coke made mineral water can’t put out that flame.
This sip for me and this pour for the hommies of Brooklyn that will keep you honest and in love with breathing.
And this sip for Umberto Ecco, to whom we gave a doctorate the same day as we gave one to Little Stevie Wonder… that might make you very superstcious and ask what is the name of the rose? Gotta love Brown sometimes.
