Date: Thu, 11 Oct 2001 23:37:46 -0500
From: Tom Emerson <thomas@btl.net>
Subject: Blissy's Song - 20

Blissy's Song -- 20
(Conclusion.)
by
Feather Touch


Chapt. 20


       Was I going somewhere?  Leave you in peace?  Sorry, fat, sorry,
dumb, sorry, happy: I'm back.  I have sixty one channels of cable and it
amounts to a chain to irresistible not to pull.

       I keep forgetting to thank Jeanne McGuire somewhere along the way.
I was in love with her and would have lived as her devoted slave but she
dumped me, after one two hour date, and took up with Dickie Dunham, yes he
who invested a fortune in scuba lessons and gear in pursuit of a clever
business model in which he would capture the clam market by gathering the
mollusks at high tide.  It was through the graces of one of my brothers
that Dickie was informed that clams stay right where they are at all tides.
The whole story is a play on reading and literacy.  By the time I moved to
the coast of Maine, 1961, I'd read several hundred books, half fiction,
half non-fiction.  This made me unfit company for the Miss McGuire, I
guess; something sure did, and thus freed me to read hundred more during
high school, as I was not to be the devoted slave of anyone.  Jeanne dumped
Dickie in the end, leaving him out of luck at all tides, and I've always
wondered if she ever read a book.  It was a challenge, even in the Sixties,
to have read all of Kenneth Roberts, when your date hade seen all of
Gilligan's Island; to have read early Irving Stone, when the girl across
the table knew all about Hoss.

       This is a heads-up to you wanna be's.  To ever make it one inch
above journeymen hack, you have to read yourself so far into geekland
you'll end up a one trick pony with a scorched earth social life.  It takes
more guts than there are in most villages to pull it off; to avoid the
convivial and expedient for a level of psychic self-indulgent that
alienates you from dawn to dusk, leaving you -- more time to read.

       They though I was retarded at Maine Central Institute, and when,
with a solid F- average, I scored in the top two percent on my SATs, right
at the top of the school list, I was actually circled by the curious as I
made my way back and forth to the library.  I did graduate due to the minor
miracle of the goose.  Mr. Stanley, the extremely nice headmaster, and
Mr. Haseltine, the superb biology instructor, shot themselves two very big
geese.  As it happened, I did all the photography on campus, and, also as
it happened, I was a dead cert to be in the dorm of a Saturday, while Karen
Tryder was out with anyone but me, so, when the call came in, I was able to
show up and render unto the administration excellent photos of huge geese
and happy teacher and headmaster.  Two others should be mentioned in this
sketch of a bookworm oddity.  Mr. Kohler was probably the world's best
teacher, and I sat in the front roe of Chemistry, and I don't recall ever
getting a grade of above fifty percent, and that was before we hooked up
with the organic stuff at the back of the book.  And Mr. Richards who
mocked me as an `individualist,' but taught me to type.

       In summary, all school does is cut into your reading time.  Girls do
the same.  Both are best given very short shrift, indeed, if you are going
to walk amongst the gods of English.  Perhaps you will do this better than
I have managed, and perhaps you are a better person.  If so,
congratulations, because one day you may stand beside me, and, while it
would be impossible to be better, you might be just as good, and, not only
that, but imbued with a nobility that would prevent you avenging yourself
on the assorted morons who have crossed your path over the decades.  In a
way, this would be impossible, because if you were that likeable, where
would you find the time to do your three thousand books, to say nothing of
your ten thousand magazines?  It's a tough row to hoe, but it leads to the
pinnacle of a mountain of your own creation. which is altogether different
from following a god of your own creation.

       I just saw a thespian eat a banana with the skin on, so there must
still be Jews in Hollywood.

       HBO's priest and twinkie movie is playing again.  Actually, I guess
there are two of them.  In the first reel, the kid doesn't want to continue
on as an alter boy.  Here's how the concerned mother's lines should go:
       "Sweetheart, is something going on with you and Father?  The boy's
reply is vague.  She sits on his bed and takes his hand, "Joey," she says,
assuming that's the boy's name, which I doubt it is, but anyway, whatever
his name is, she says it kindly.  "Joey, men who devote their lives to the
church, and live without wives, often are strongly attracted to young boys,
especially extra cute ones like you are.  This is a tradition as old as the
church, and many would argue the reason the church exists, in the first
place.
       "If Father wants to do special things with you, I want you to
evaluate it on the following grounds.  First, do you like him and think
he's reasonably cute, second, what does he do for his parish, in general;
is he energetic and active or lazy and selfish? third, you should evaluate
the situation from your own point of view.  Do you like, or dislike the
things he wants to do with you?  Are you friends above and beyond these
special things?  Try to remember, some boys like that kind of activity,
just like some boys like hockey or chemistry, and some boys don't, again,
just like hockey and chemistry.
       "Then you have to total all these factors in your own, personal
mind, without a thought in the world as to what other boys say or don't
say, or what anyone says, or does not say, including your family.  The only
exception to this is the other altar boys; what do they think, what are
their feelings about having their little secret which isn't much of a
secret to anyone who brings literacy to the church?"

       Then she would have gone on, as follows: "Joey," she would say, "you
have three choices.  Either quit, entirely, which would be fine with us;
or, second, I can call father and tell him enough already with the touchy
feely, but you want to stay on with the other boys, or, third, and my very
tenuous suggestion, is that you give yourself fully to what happens, become
an ardent lover, if possible, and have some great memories, whatever life
brings you in the way of love and sex in the future.
       "Why don't you just take the day off, read, and you can tell me in
the morning, and I'll square it with your dad.  And just a note, anything
you decide now is in pencil; you have some freedom to change your mind, if
that's how it works out."

       As this Jew script plays out, the story goes all Lawyers and
everyone is damaged to the max.  That's why I mentioned it.

       So, back up here on my perch, having stared down "Mitch," "Keith
"and "Iris" in the last four years.  I tried something I've never done
before.  I wrote about half the last chapter drunk, finishing off the liter
of rum Roman and I pulled on as the storm went whistling by.  I don't
understand alcoholism.  It's so nice to be sober, why would anyone want to
live with the greasy feeling of excess alcohol more than once a week or so?
While I try to limit advice to other writers because of the unachievable
and inaccessible nature of my pearls of wisdom, I can tell you that I only
begin work when I'm Oh-what-a-beautiful-morning fresh.  Totally,
absolutely, one-hundred percent rested.  Drinking interferes with this
cycle.

       Drinking brings up smoking.  I'm a utopian in the issue.  Smokers
should be registered, and allowed a half-pack of cigarettes per day.  As
mentioned before, the handicapped and disabled should run the vending chain
to the extent possible.  Personally, I doubt I'd get any work done if I
didn't puff my life away, fifteen coffin spikes a day.  Churchill and Freud
are the most famous men who attributed both their genius and productivity
to nicotine, and there are thousands of others.  Of course, I smoke
advisedly; as the grandson of three wealthy grandparents (whom I knew) who
lived into their nineties and above, I have no desire to try the
experience, myself.  As a national issue, the bottom line is smokers die
ten to fifteen tough, painful, and extremely expensive years earlier than
the pink of lung.  Since almost everyone over their mid-sixties is a burden
on society, tobacco vastly lessens the burden.  In fact, if you wanted to
write the most tragic sketch on smoking possible, you would end by
wondering how many native geniuses fail because they do not smoke.  All
that needs to be added is that there is no more emblematic manifestation of
your life under Jewish Socialism than not being able to smoke in a Los
Angeles bar.  (Strange, because one would think, just offhand, that smoking
would be harmless to the dead.)

       There was a fun little smoking story here in Dangriga.  Lady won a
judgment in a malpractice suit, and built a fancy restaurant, Pola's
Kitchen.  It is my belief she built her brand new building around a huge No
Smoking sign which took pride of place beside the entrance.  I had one
glass of memorable lemonade at the establishment, told the lady I found it
absolutely repulsive that such an Americanism should ever find its way to
funky town, and never darkened her door again.  Apparently I had lots of
company, because, although Pola's Kitchen's sign is still as big as ever,
the restaurant has been closed for years.  I wonder if the woman who
squandered several hundred thousand dollars is aware of the irony of her
smoke free dining room.  Meantime, I can send a thirteen year old out to by
cigarettes or liquor any time I feel like it.  Different strokes for
different folks, mixed with subtle ironies to do with the concepts of
freedom, liberty, the pursuit of happiness, and the American way.

       I keep going on about how smart and in touch I am, right?  Even Jews
will agree.  So how is it I'm in my mid-fifties before I realize I'm a
millionaire?  I'd never know it; supporting a family of five, plus myself,
in separate households, I often end the moth with less than a hundred
dollars in the bank.  And yet my net income just went up to twenty-two
thousand a year, which, assuming nominal dividends and taxes, means I'm a
bonifide [sorry, the spell-checker simply won't make this one come out
right] millionaire.  Do they make a tee shirt?  My real luck is to be
regarded as a wastrel and slacker, incapable of handling money, and thus
removed from the loop other than the ATM which keeps me posted via little
register slips, or, if these are out, which is most of the time, by some
numbers on a monitor.  Why this number keeps going up is a mystery which
must have something to do with very old money.  So, on balance, I'm cute,
talented, funny and rich in an iron pants sort of way.  Also, single.
That's probably because I work all the time.  After all, if one is going to
be in love with one's self, why not be madly in love?

       I've given up my occasional foray into computer gaming in favor of a
new sport.  Shooting Arabs.  Houseflies.  Since the storm, my house, which
has shutters but no screens, has been somewhat invaded by the critters.  My
can of Super Shelltox is slim, well balanced, and comfortable to grip, it
cools slightly with each burst.  Nice on a hot afternoon.  I try shooting
the little Arabs out of the air, using minimal chemical and guarding my
smoky lungs with an impromptu gas mask.  Fun combination of patience,
stalking, ambush, quick draw, and hand/eye coordination when it comes time
to attempt a kill.  Then there's target assessment.  How fast are the flies
pawing themselves after a near miss; should another volley be fired, or
should I save my Super Shelltox?  Weighing on my mind, as the tactics play
out, are larger and more strategic issues.  For example, how much time can
I steal from the keyboard, and thus the thousands of Nifty readers, in
order to smoke a bandit?  I know it sounds childish to mention it, but
there must be something wrong with a cute, slim guy who's rich and stable,
being single, and a sub-teen developmental level is a possibility.

       Does this mean there are many flies in the ointment of
self-discovery?  It always seemed to me, that women were enough, but, as
mentioned, it's an exceedingly long row the writer must hoe, and it's a
literary axiom that flies come with hoes.  Thank heaven for Jews and Arabs,
to raise the vision from the gutter and affix the eye to the cross-hairs on
the far horizon.  I say this advisedly, because the women in the US should
be howling about the treatment of their Arab sisters, and Mavis Leno seems
to be the only one letting out the proverbial peep.  You suck, gals, all
except you-know-who, at least with me.

       It's becoming ever more difficult to simply watch television.  The
repetition is so intense, you have to suffer for hours to learn one new
fact or idea.  Where once I had the volume off most of the time, now it's
rare to have it on, at all.  The silver lining is the technical quality
keeps going up, as the scripting thins, so the medium does end up as a
luminous variation on wallpaper.  A major consideration arises when one
wonders how long people are going to pay heavy cable bills for pretty
pictures in a world where the only content providers are camel-faced
schmoes.

       I find myself an occasional victim of novelty-ism.  I'll, for
example, download eighty meg game demos, like "Escape from Monkey Island,"
and play them for ten minutes.  I've even purchased a copy of "Train
Simulator," and, although it seems to be very well done, if a little
glitchey, I've played it maybe three hours in the last month.  I mention
this as a prequel to wondering how much fad value is inherent in the
Internet, in general.  I used to spend loads of time exploring and
downloading, now I rarely do.  In '72 I bought a big Kenworth and drove
coast to coast through the heart of the trucker's strikes and birth of the
CB craze.  Run that graph in today's economy, at the scale computers and
related services represent, and you'll want to be spending a lot of time
prepping for the end game, which puts your ass in a sling between a rock
and a hard place, because you don't have much time.  If the Arabs don't get
you, the traders will, and if the traders don't do it, diabetes and obesity
will, or addictive behavior, or maybe something as insidious as simply
losing interest in your Jewish future.  Lack of motivation.  The
alternative is to subject yourselves to my rule and die of you-know.

       David writes to ask of Chapt. 19 completes "Blissy's Song."  This
morning the answer might have been yes, but I spent much of the day
downloading five demo games, all of which futzed when I had the audacity to
click them. Since I'm a bit of a hand at doing this, it leads me to believe
a dysfunctionality is at hand that translates not only into a lack of
ability to thrive, but to even survive.  This, on top of the last step on
the road to ultra Jewification represented by contemporary television, make
it more attractive for the writer to emulate Edna Ferber who was known for
her novelistic push.  Isn't it lucky I love to shove, and have so many
juicy targets to bully?  Trouble is, as I just said, it's now at least a
hundred hours of leftist babble for every minute of wisdom, context,
insight or perspective, which, of course, is the whole point to begin with.
As for the Bradys, well, I suppose Cindy could invite the Lakers over for
high tea, to be followed by coffee cake.  Nah.  Two huge novels for one
half year set all the records I'm interested in, although it will be weird
to wake up at four in the morning and not have a story going.

       In the end, quality becomes the enemy of productivity.  Looking back
over "C-Camp" and this work, I can't think of a page or a scene I'd change,
other than copy editing.  No one has ever done anything like it, and no one
ever will.  Best to keep it that way.  No cereal in the meat.  Nothing
short of absolute.  To backhand Joe Friday, just the facts, ma'am.

       California: One stupid bumper sticker at a time.


       			THE END

Posted by Thomas@btl.net

147,712 / 822, 862

xxx