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The Tough Talk - 6 |
GoneLikeATrain and Gray23 - 12/29/99 09:14:24
The Heat You Pack? Exoterica
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Hey here's yr jet-pulse, ingrate---right here.
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This is for Gray, GoneLikeATrain, Eva Maria, Ave Maria and anybody else: Look, no buncha esoterica in Johnny's.
Esoterica disappears. And no buncha Franco-German Europhile babble. This place is American. Euro languages got no
cachet here. We're Americans. You got that?
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Yes, I've been hearing rumors.
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Blessings of sweetness to all those glowing in the
candlelight of Johnny's Lounge on this Christmas night.
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My inmates must select
one of these two uniforms and they must wear it right.
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Peace. A warm Bossa Nova soundtrack to the bright cold sun outside my crib. Merry Christmas to all under the red neon.
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I also stretch out with some cheese and some pate, and wait to be saved by yanks.
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Play Little Richard's Christmas album.
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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, and have
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 they're adapting this month, this year. Their lives
are perpetual "reinvention."
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Longest night tonight. Moon closer to Earth than it's been for 133 years. Top ten
sky events of the century.
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I didn't know you were an opera lover, Johnny.
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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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The archetypal pattern of Johnny's Lounge: the cartoon
threat, the cartoon challenge, the cartoon takeover attempt,
the quick knockout, then Johnny goes off with a broad, then
the next threat. It's a mandala of quick knockouts and travel. How long until Johnny Nocturne gets his?
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Arnold Stang is right for the part.
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Wednesday the 22nd features the Winter Solstice at 2:44 a.m. and a full moon.
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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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Dude--what did she look like, the geocities collaborator. Dude.
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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?
And I met with this Yahoo!GeoCities PageMaster late last night. We had a drink and talked about many things --
Art, Beauty, handguns, and how she likes her features the way they are. So after about two minutes she decides to listen to reason, and this lockout of hers is now history.
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I discovered an open back door, kept that way by a crate of
Clementines. I'm a back door woman.
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Johnny has savoir faire.
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To The PageMaster --
Look, I run this joint and I run it
my way. You got that, Jack? You gonna lock up the Tough
Talk until I see things your way? You gonna try to keep
me outta my own lounge? You got some office somewhere? You
got some office I could visit soon? Maybe you want to talk to me in person instead of sending me some semi-anonymous crypto message from space. I got your lockout right here, chump.
You can lock this out.
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John Willie and
Little
Richard wrecked your lounge, Jean Paul. Out of the blue and quickly.
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Film Noir Johnny's. Lock-GeoBook/Increments. Warning #1 obs/prn/smt. Contact PageMaster@geocities.yahoo.com
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I didn't go to work today. I said I had the flu.
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I take it.
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I've
been inspired by John Willie.
No esoterica added.
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John Willie is a sleazo. Take care of business, Johnny. Your lounge is reeling out of control.
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You can't view this. This also is
forbidden.
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John Milton and all other formza esoterica disappear with speed.
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Then purg'd with euphrasy and rue
The visual nerve, for he had much to see.
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Charles Earland.
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The struggle among males for dominance and alpha status is basic Wild Discovery. Tune in nightly at 7:00 EST.
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I'm the mambo man, chix.
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I want James Brown for my Santa Claus. I want James Brown to come down the chimney and dance into my living room,
singing.
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You wanna see Santa do the Mambo? I'm the Mambo Santa Claus.
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I'm the Santa Claus round heah. I pack a .38, a guitar, and a
talkin' blues harp. You don't mess with me, Back Door Man.
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They call me Back Door Santa, I make my runs about the break
of day. I make all the girls happy while the boys are out to play. Lookie heah! I keep some change in my pocket in case
the children at home. I give them a few pennies so we can be alone.
You can hit this on the downbeat for
Back Door Santa and His Rhythm
Revue.
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I have a smoking girl for you, Bobby.
Kiss here
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I heard on NPR's Morning Edition that your Uncle John
is light on his feet. They said you're singing about a dick.
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Long Tall Sally she's real sweet, she got everything that Uncle John need. Well I saw Uncle John with Bald-Headed Sally. He saw Aunt Mary comin' and he jump back in the alley.
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So just after midnight
these chicks flashing fat reefers walk in, looking for Johnny.
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i wallk daunna streeet ta-thah beatah-eitha hankkk ballad
awethah sloe hahlam noktrrrn.
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Lotsa Earls. We got too many Earls in here. I got your Earl.
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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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if ya need any back-up against this louie prima wannabe--just holler, dude
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Secret Addiction: come sit in my lap.
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Earle, I got a problem with Film Noir Johnny, not with you. So if you're smart you'll stay out of this.
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Johnny Nocturne, I'm flattered you took your name from this
song of mine. Your version isn't bad, but I would rank many others above yours. These many others include GatorTail Jackson, Illinois Jacquet, Earl Bostic, Sam Taylor, Herbie Fields, and The Viscounts.
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Wild Discovery last night.
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Little Richard started something.
According to NPR's
Morning Edition, the Russians just told Bill Clinton to shut up. I'm for the Russians.
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Breathless. You leave me breathless.
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Wait a minute, Johnny. What about the kneeling broad? What about her?
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Well now they often call me Speedo, but my real name is
Mister Earl. Well now they often call me Speedo cause I
don't believe in wastin' time. Well I've known some pretty women and I've caused them to change their minds. Well now
they often call me Speedo, but my real name is Mister Earl.
And now they gonna call me Speedo till they call off makin' pretty girls.
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Sent from down below (Mother-In-Law) Mother-In-Law. Satan should be her name (Mother-In-Law) Mother-In-Law. To me
they're bout the same (Mother-In-Law) Mother-In-Law. I come home with my pay (Mother-In-Law) Mother-In-Law. She aks me
what I made (Mother-In-Law) Mother-In-Law. She think her
advice is a contribution. If she would leave, that would be
the solution (Mother-In-Law) Mother-In-Law. And stay away for
good (Mother-In-Law) Mother-In-Law.
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Her name was Sue. His name was Earl. His love was Lorraine.
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You got no style, Film Noir Johnny.
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I recommend many Hank Ballard and the Midnighters songs. Two of them "Christmas Time For Everybody But Me" and "Let's Go, Let's Go, Let's Go." Ya gotta dance. Ya can't help yo'self.
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I was dancin' all over the room. Doncha know the people were dancin' like they were mad.
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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?
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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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Western hemisphere problem corrected. Several Asian and African locations still down, including Algeria, Morocco, Libya, all of the Sahara, The Sudan, The Congo, Rwanda, Tanzania, Kenya, the Serengeti, and all of China.
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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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You some hip dude, Richard? Your name's faggy.
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Johnny's a tourist.
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So these days Johnny visits chicks in hop joints, doesn't take care of business, and his Automatic Jet-Pulse Tough Talk Technician gives us Hollywood glamour shots?
I heard Johnny looks like Woody Allen.
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Nexus damage at Tough Talk Central -- parts of the world are blocked out. No pattern. Crew working on it. You got some problem with this? If so, send your problem to
Jean Paul Noir. He'll tell you what you can do about this problem. Or maybe you better stay away from Johnny and instead drift into
this museum in North Carolina or
look at this for awhile
or maybe
this. Take a look through
this photo album, or you can
read
this. Maybe you want to
look at this, or maybe at
this. You got some choices. The world's full of possibility.
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How many weathermen this joint need? I say we got an
abundance of weathermen. Abundance of science class too.
Look, that Mars lander crashed. You want signals? You can forget a buncha signals from Mars. No video, no audio. And
you can red planet this. I got your red planet right here. And your Art, too.
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Walked around town this weekend. Didn't do any business. None. Union Square yesterday morning. Sunshine, blue
skies, about 60 degrees both days. Smelled like spring.
Big crowds on the streets. Gramercy Tavern all afternoon yesterday and stayed until after dark. The new Woody
Allen movie and the Graham Greene sap movie after that.
Over to the Hudson this morning, then into Little Italy
for some prosciutto de Parma, then over to Mott St. where
I slipped into the hop joint behind Weng Fat's to see
Honeygirl for a coupla hours, then way downtown this afternoon -- Brooklyn Bridge, Canal, Broadway, Tribeca, South Street. Didn't take either car out of the garage once.
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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 amber lamps 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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Jamais, ellen. Toujours, ellen. Jamais.
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Rico dude, archaeology and anthropology chicks at the dig have tan legs and they wear shades and t-shirts and khaki shorts and hiking boots and they have their hair up. science is rewarding.
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Johnny's some science class now? Get back to the chix, dickhead.
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Mars landing tomorrow afternoon --- live pictures and the sounds of Mars winds.
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Rip Van Noir is a slow storyteller.
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Just found the skeleton of a 1500 lb. juvenile T. Rex north of Belle Fourche, SD. It measures only about 23 feet from the snout to the tip of the tail, but it's fully armed with massive bone-crushing teeth. The kid's about 66 million years old.
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Borderline. When I look around, baby you just can't be found. Feels like I'm going to lose my mind. You just keep on pushing my love over the borderline.
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song of the muezzin--/up above the world/the sheltering sky
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Paul Bowles.
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Pygmy spears for you, eva maria.
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I collect spears.
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Pygmies call themselves "The People," of course. About once very 3 years, one of the men is chosen--he abstains from sex for a month, goes through other ritual purification, and then goes out with a spear to kill an elephant. One throw.
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And the Pygmy they make good music too. Johnny got some on his jukebox. Pygmy CD.
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I'm on one of these black sofas in the lobby of the Paramount, Bobby Three-Heads, reading an article in the Times about a battle two days ago in Zaire. The Pygmies stood concealed
in the elephant grass, fully erect with their bows and
poisoned arrows, and destroyed a band of tall, heavily
armed enemies striding across this plain. Don't knock the Pygmies.
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Like a blindfold.
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I close my eyes so that everything will go black, but it's never black enough.
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Wrong photo. It's this one.
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Get lost, broad.
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What we have here is JerrySpringer Noir Johnny. I can
remember when Johnny took care of business, instead of going for rides up the Hudson with these Drama Women and lying around on his couch in an opium haze. I took this picture of him then, in
November, 1993, on the Brooklyn Bridge, high over the traffic below. Borderline. You just keep on pushing my love over the borderline.
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I know how to sap your Sundays, Rico.
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Everybody plays the fool (sometime). There's no esseption to the rule. Next time around, someone cries for you.
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Sunday saps in here.
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What a difference a day made.
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Everyday words seem to turn into love songs.
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When your heart's on fire, smoke gets in your eyes.
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I got yr cryptic--right here, Pepe. Figure this out.
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va te faire enculer, caro mio.
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Sometimes I wonder if dysfunction has been etched in my double-helix. Secret Addiction -- we share something.
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I love it here in Johnny's Lounge.
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iii glow byootahflee inna ambahlyta jahneez lounjjj onnis nyyt aftah famleee.
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What is Gray, some cryptic voice in this Johnny's Lounge?
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This East Coast fog is more than weather, Pepe. Unseen voices carry this far.
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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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You must be little, River Drums. Pygmy.
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A mongoose has the fastest fighting moves in Africa, faster
than a goshawk and faster than the strike of any cobra. When
I box, they call me The Mongoose.
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My women like to get high, but they have chins.
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Sophomoric and misogynistic.
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These Dutch brushmen had wine-drinking women with no chins.
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kid -- I'm gathering up my skirts and leaping out of this window. Catch me.
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Hey, Diabolique. You wanna come over?
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I been thinking about the best American movie of the 90's, and I gotta say "Booty Call."
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Perhaps you're right. The last patient I saw before lunch
had just revealed that she responds to nearly every erection
she notices. This after describing herself at our first meeting as a serial monogamist. "Something just happens to me," she said. "Something comes over me."
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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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the poor fellow
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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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Dog, lips, wine glass, innocent victim.
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Ellen, sweetie, your cattiness is a cliche. Loosen your straps and stop looking up my skirt.
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Suburban librarian . . . ragdoll . . . it's one cliche after another from Married Mary Maria Annunziata, the recent arrival with the many names. I'm in Brooklyn Heights, you too-eager slut.
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He attracts, Take Down. Draws me like the full moon.
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Ellen needs to take down those librarian's glasses and shake loose her long suburban hair.
In a single, slow, seductive motion.
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the ebonically enriched threaten miss ellen suburb.
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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 be the Mastah of the Ebonical Canon!
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You seem well-schooled in ebonics, Take Down. You too, Two-Timin' Jaybird.
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Married woman know how to break the Greco-Roman stud.
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Commedia dell'arte contains improvisation and is not codified, but there are rules -- mainly, no esoterica. Got that? I
can make esoterica disappear forever, and if you want a demonstration you can send some my way.
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Five pictures for Part Six, and none of them are any good. Like most vulgarians, Johnny believes more is better. You've lost your eye.
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Gone: it's cyclical, like sin and procrastination.
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Gotta lay-out for a while, Dude--it's all getting to me. Again. Watch yr back, Dude.
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Slip out of a tree and limbs snap.
Fall in love with the mary'd one, rico.
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Dodging the law. Tight, winding streets. Doorway into doorway.
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Rico, this Andreadoria doesn't know jack. Come back to bed.
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You're a real Lothario, Rico. I heard her husband left her six months ago, so I doubt if she sneaked over. Maybe that's what she tells you. She's desperate and lost and she's keeping you in the dark (not a difficult job).
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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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I keep the stash right next to my bed for November Sundays. There is light slicing through the blinds and I'm guessing it's about noon. Eventually I might make coffee and eat some fruit.
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All the birdz on Daybreak Street know when Two-Timin' Jaybird walk by.
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Get in a taxi, HKJC. On this grey afternoon there is steam
heat down low, a great view, books, magazines, cigarettes, a
tin of tan and orange boo, two movies I just rented, Italian
soup which I began simmering on the stove two hours ago,
quilts, robes, a tile shower, cold drinks, hot drinks, Sonny Rollins, Charlie Parker, Lester Young, Paul Desmond, Sonny Stitt, Gerry Mulligan, and Dexter Gordon.
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I call for madder music and stronger saxophone!
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I can't believe I missed that.
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The sarcasm is unwarranted. She has come here several times before, and I believe she is serious and that she wants help. She has had relapses, but I believe that she is truly seeking help.
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What did the dog do, S. Addiction?
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Secret Addiction gave them no signals. It just happened.
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It was one of those things. It just happened. Early this afternoon I was walking my dog in the park and stopped at
Tavern on the Green for a salad and a glass of Pinot Blanc.
A stylish man and his stylish girlfriend began looking at me
that way and talking to me softly and I got that feeling immediately, the one I have difficulty resisting. I know
they sensed it, even though I'm sure I gave them no signals, because they told me to follow them when they left. I did it, just as they told me to. Watching them walk ahead of me,
I was shaking and almost light-headed. They led me to a
nearby apartment on W. 65th where I was shameless for two hours. Now I am very depressed and I loathe myself.
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According to the long, lean, Libyan woman in the bunk beside me, the radiant will be centered in the skylight above us.
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Benedict Arnold kicked ass. And Money Man, I got your Alexander Hamilton rite here.
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I always liked Aaron Burr. The treason charge came from a scheme of his to set up an empire in the Southwest, in the Louisiana Territory and Mexico. And Benedict Arnold. I like him too.
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The plan for later tonight is to get the beach chairs and pile on the blankets about 10:30 or 11:00. Look to the southeast, 30 degrees from the horizon, down and to the left of Orion, Gemini, and Sirius. It will go on for hours, appearing to emanate
from a radiant, but really shooting along parallel paths.
This is better than New Year's Eve, 1999.
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Aaron Burr rose to fame and fell from grace. He was indicted for murder after killing Hamilton in a fair fight, and later he was tried for treason but found innocent. Hamilton wavered and waffled all through the pre-duel challenges, then, at
dawn in Weehauken, got his from the first bullet fired by
Aaron Burr. Hamilton's shot hit a tree at least 10 yards
to Burr's left.
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Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr were both aides to George Washington during the Revolutionary War. Over time Hamilton came to believe that it was his religious duty to oppose and thwart Aaron Burr whenever possible. For life. Non-stop.
It went on and on. Hamilton had contempt for him as someone motivated only by self-interest. Burr and Jefferson tied for President in 1800, and because of Hamilton's lobbying efforts, the House elected Jefferson.
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Money Man, Thomas Jefferson was intimidated by nothing. Aaron Burr took care of your man, Alexander Hamilton, who didn't handle his gun very well on that morning across the river in Jersey.
