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The Tough Talk - 6.1 |
Reefer Girl - 01/17/00 18:27:50
The Heat You Pack? high heat
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I know how you feel, Philosophical Bent. I think it's about enjoying life with someone you love.
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What's it all about, Lanalula? Somebody tell me.
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The next thing. It's on to the next thing. It's a Sunday afternoon in January.
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Lapis lazuli and amber and sterling look good together by lamp light, at eye level from the prone position. This heavy cuff I found on my tray last month.
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Fuses blown.
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Fuses blowing.
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I got the January Limbourg Bros. lapis lazuli blues. Roots
not working.
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"December" looks like something I saw in Central Park three weeks ago.
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Azur d'outreme et vert de flambe. First,
January. Last,
December.
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The Seventeen Best Movies: 17. Hud 16. Road Warrior 15. Chinatown 14. Blade Runner 13. La Dolce Vita 12.
La Grande Illusion 11. On the Waterfront 10. Wings of
Desire 9. Breathless 8. The Rules of the Game 7. Double Indemnity 6. Breathless 5. Planet of the Apes 4. Sunset Boulevard 3. Godfathers I and II 2. Casablanca 1.
Johnny Guitar.
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You gonna change it, Johnny Staccato?
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Johnny Guitar? That's no name.
Hillary Clinton has an 8" dick that hangs down to her knees. So does Joan Crawford in "Johnny Guitar."
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That's big talk for a little gun, Albert. Anybody who calls himself SexyLips is a fag. Don't think any women gonna be flaggin' your train, except maybe to talk about hair or art or make-up.
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You got a good woman? You better pin her to your side. Hey, you got a good lady, Johnny? You better pin her to your side, yeah, yeah. Because when she flag my train, buddy, I'm bound
to let her ride, well. That's why I wonder...will a matchbox hold my clothes? That's why I wonder, Johnny, would a matchbox hold my clothes? You know I haven't go so many. But I got so far to go.
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Johnny Rocker should be banned from baseball and then held accountable in a court of law. You can't think like that.
You can't talk like that. This is America.
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We have it all over the Times.
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I've lost 31 pounds and what I want to do now is meet men. I'm exploring new ways.
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They're gonna examine
Johnny Rocker's head.
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New York is full of green-haired queers with pierced noses and short illegal aliens. Some of them look like they came from outer space. Where do these people come from? How do they get into this country? Everywhere you look is a 20 year old welfare mother with four pickaninnies hanging onto her. The zoo's everywhere, not just in the Bronx.
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I have arrived. Soon I will put on my
strut suit. Or appear in
La Revue Negre. Instead of viewing, you may read if you would prefer
to do that.
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Did somebody call my joint a congregation of fools?
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It was a chance encounter. He made her do it. It was against her will.
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Oh yeah? Well I'm froward and the Lord shines upon me with beautiful and bountiful blessings, like the lips of that chick who just left. Lips of truth.
To the XXXXX *** Get ahold of yourself, baby.
To Red Girl *** There's too many weathermen in here already. We don't need a weatherwoman. You can talk about
the weather someplace else. Tell it to somebody else.
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Kiss me and press me and squeeze me and tell me you love me and don't ever stop.
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Brother Leon, I offer more of the wisdom of Solomon. Perhaps the message will reach Johnny and his congregation
of fools. Proverbs 12: "The wicked is snared by the transgression of his lips: but the just shall come out of trouble . . . The way of a fool is right in his own eyes: but
he that hearkeneth unto counsel is wise. A fool's wrath is presently known: but a prudent man covereth shame. He that speaketh truth sheweth forth righteousness: but a false witness deceit. There is that speaketh like the piercings of a sword: but the tongue of the wise is health. The lip of
truth shall be established for ever: but a lying tongue is
but for a moment."
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I got through the holidays well. Right after Christmas I went skiing with a nice man, and it was relaxing, invigorating, and cozy. He thinks I'm just "amazing." But I can sense that
he wants to get serious and so I've lost it for him. He was like a tail-wagging dog when he saw me off, and now I just
want him to disappear and stop bothering me. Last night I
did it with a stranger I met at the baggage claim after I
landed in the city. It was a chance encounter. He took me
into a small, out-of-the-way men's room and then he made me
turn around. He made me put my hands up high against the
tile and I was squirming. Then he did it to me. The best
part was leading up to it. Now here I am back at work and
I loathe myself today.
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Not this Mr. Lee.
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I shot
Mr. Lee.
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It's warm today. There's a spring-like rain outside and
it's a
new year, a new century, a new millenium. It's time for
the new hook-up, the new dance.
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Sophomoric and misogynistic.
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I am your brother, Father Mac. Psalm 75 -- I said unto
the fools, Deal not foolishly; and to the wicked, Lift not
up the horn: Lift not up your horn on high: Speak not with
a stiff neck. For promotion cometh neither from the east,
nor from the west, nor from the south. But God is the judge: he putteth down one and setteth up another.
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I like Lee Marvin in Prime Cut and Point Blank.
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And you will call me
"Queen Crop".
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Kid, you and Rico, my sons, have suffered under the influence
of Film Noir Johnny long enough. I have watched this
foolishness take root and thrive in each empty threat, vain display and outrageous claim you have made since this
font first began to pour forth. Take heed the message
of Solomon: "Envy thou not the oppressor, and choose none of
his ways. For the froward is abomination to the LORD: but
His secret is with the righteous. The curse of the LORD is
in the house of the wicked: but he blesseth the habitation
of the just. Surely he scorneth the scorners: but he giveth grace unto the lowly. The wise shall inherit glory: but shame shall be the promotion of fools."
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Mr. Lee, I own the Speedster and I got your ethnic package right here. Getta load of this ethnic package, Mistah Lee.
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eye-bn wachnnn a lee marvin moveee. mistah leeee.
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The greatest American ball-drop narrator was Ben Grauer. It's not Dick Clark.
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Midnight in Paris, the City of Light. Rumba Drums pours two glasses of porto from Portugal here on the rooftop of this
old rive gauche hotel, the Lutetia. The band, faint from the ballroom below, playing La Marsielles. The bridges and trees lit for miles, as far as the eye can see. A dozen bright
ferris wheels. The Eiffel Tower going wild, like a rocket
about to blast off into space. Then it becomes an exploding 20th-century power tower.
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It is the turn of the century in Egypt. It is the new millenium. There are many spotlights on the pyramids of
Giza and on the Sphinx. Choirs are singing.
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I squeez yo mamaz Y2K hoochie all nite long, Rico. You
talkin' sheah.
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I've had it with this "Y2K" term. It's un-American. We talk miles here, not kilometers.
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Fire from the heavens tonight in New York City. Masked Islamic warriors with rocket launchers in all the windows on Wall Street. Fire of Allah in Lincoln Tunnel. Fire of Allah in Holland Tunnel. Large explosions, the collapse of three skyscrapers and the Brooklyn Bridge. We will escape triumphant from LaGuardia or we will eat lamb in paradise.
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And I see you got the ethnic package thrown into the deal, Kid.
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i gotta new set of wheels. eat it, dudes.
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We don't need any poets in here, Ned Ludd. No Jeremiahs either.
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Look, I hope all computers of the world crash at midnight tomorrow. Bring it on. Let the planes fall from the sky. Let the banks come unglued and the accounts vanish. Let the stoplights go blank and the lovers slip into each other's arms.
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My new name is Mr. Lee. Lawyer man.
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One two three, look at Mr. Lee. Three four five, look at him jive. Mr. Lee, Mr. Lee. Here come Mr. Lee. He's comin' to me. Come on, Mr. Lee, do your stuff.
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Forget it, Carol Cutrere. Get lost. Whatta you know? Nothing, that's what you know.
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I was a visitor earlier and signed in as "Arizona Horses." Film Noir Johnny, I think I love you. Your best story is the one barely concealed between the lines. Hold me and kiss me, Bad Man.
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How many times can these people use "actually" in one conversation?
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My inmates must select
one of these two uniforms and they must wear it right.
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You can hence this, George. The French are effete, their culture's dead, they imitate cool Americans, and they won't fight for their country. They stretch out with some cheese and some pate and wait to be saved by the big-band Yanks.
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Most Americans born after World War II are lost. They're
lost in their own skins. In general, they are rootless, physically removed from family, maintain temporary and constantly changing addresses and phone numbers, have a series of temporary acquaintances they call friends, and no
real centre as individuals. There is very little there except a yearning to be something else. Hence, their ever-changing ideas about, and preoccupation
with, homelessness. Hence, the very high proportions of neurosis, psychosis, anxiety, ennui, depression, and general malaise within the population. Hence, their ever-growing list of "disorders." Americans have only an "identity of the moment," based upon whatever media image or vision they're adapting this month, this year. Their lives are perpetual "reinvention."
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We'll slap you around, Johnny.
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The women in the crowd behind the ropes were squealing and squirming as we stepped out of the Bugatti, into the spotlights, and headed into Lincoln Center. Some reporter asked me if I expected Gatsby to top Tristan. I told him yeah, I expect that. "This one's American," I said, "not some buncha Brunhildas."
Inside, most of the broads on stage looked good, only three or four fat ones, there were some good parties, and the music was good. But this tenor who sings Gatsby, Jerry Hadley, needs to be replaced with some baritone and they're gonna have to rewrite the part. This Opera-Gatsby isn't Fitzgerald's Gatsby. They got him in some pink suit and he looks like a barker.
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Arnold Stang is right for the part.
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They've done this before, Secret Reader. Then, it was either James Woods or Nick Nolte. Someone even said Tim Roth, and
there was a vote for Samuel L. Jackson.
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In the film version, Michael Wincott (Metro, Romeo Is Bleeding) must play Johnny. No one else is
a contender. He was Moxica in "Conquest of Paradise" and
his name was Top Dollar
in "The Crow."
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Steppin' out Monday night. Cruising up to Lincoln Center
in a green Bugatti for the Gatsby premiere. Gonna wear my
Meyer Wolfsheim molar cufflinks and some white spats. All
the broads at the Met will go wild. Got two complimentary tickets from this Susan Graham chick, the mezzo-soprano
singing Jordan Baker. She's been slipping into my joint
lately after rehearsals, and she tells me the story's about
some sap. Jazz score and some American Weltschmerz, she says. What's American Weltschmerz?
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I didn't go to work today. I said
I had the flu.
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You shouldn't
view this. You shouldnt look at this either.
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So just after midnight
these chicks flashing fat reefers walk in, looking for Johnny.
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Our research indicates that 63% of Americans are born with "Harlem Nocturne" hardwired into their nervous systems and brain circuitry, so that when each individual hears it for the first time it is always deja vu.
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You got no style, Film Noir Johnny.
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Johnny Nocturne, you can take your problem to the United Nations. That Chocolatta you got your saxophone around? I taught her how to sing the same way Ike taught Tina how to sing. You got that, Torpedo-Head?
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People have been confusing me with you, and I'm not
flattered. I've also been getting e-mail addressed to you and I've read it. So I suggest that you change your name. I'll give you a day, maybe two. Then, trouble. I'm no one to
mess with.
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You meet a man. You hook up. It's only natural.
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The Girl Can't Help It.
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Eva Maria should be in one of the booths over there, doing it in the shadows thrown by the candles and the yellow lampshades of Johnny's Lounge.
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For heaven's sake, let's fall in love. It's no mistake to call it love.
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With the eyes as vulnerable as they are, why aren't more people blinded?
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Just flew into LaGuardia. Foggy night out this taxi window. Chilly breezes and gusts. Headed for the Paramount.
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What an outrageous and inflammatory thing to say, Li Yung-Li! Everyone lies about sex, as you of all people should know.
You are puritanical, you are judgmental, and you are very un-hip --- all undesirable qualities to find in a psychiatrist.
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Maybe, ms. li-y-li, we're all serial monogamists until we have reason not to be.
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Over the past two decades it has become fashionable for
single women to advertise themselves as serial monogamists.
The term sounds good to enlightened and progressive men during the early phase of a relationship, when sexual histories are being exchanged; and it will do the job until the couple gets
to know each other and the truth comes out .... as it will. I advise my clients never to use the term. Sooner or later the man will get the story, and it's a bad idea to begin a relationship with a lie.
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Warm night in the Casbah. Big moon over the city.
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Everybody in this joint is a two-timin' jaybird.
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I am the Ebonical Mastah.
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You seem well-schooled in ebonics, Two-Timin' Jaybird.
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Dodging the law. Tight, winding streets. Doorway into doorway.
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The weathermen sound like a bunch of fags, a bunch of fresh-pressed fruit. I got this married chick who sneaked over
last night and who likes to be indoors with the windows
open. We can't get outta bed. A cigarette every now and
then. Still drinkin' coffee.
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Sunny, mild, and sweet afternoon. Full moon Tuesday night.
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All the birdz on Daybreak Street know when Two-Timin' Jaybird walk by.
