Whistle & Fish Werewolf Tales

1

Street mime. White face. Black shock of makeup above and below eyes. Hint of red lips. Black-and-white-striped rugby pullover. Black trousers. White gloves. Barefoot.

Flowering. Tug-of-war. Shrinking box. Climbing stairs. Cat. Baby. Walking into wind. Normal stuff.

Now a turn. Sobbing. Urinating in the park. Killing a bottle of Wild Turkey. Projectile vomiting. Shooting heroin. Slipping on the noose. Dangling.

Disgusted audience turns away.

Playing an invisible guitar, wondering, “How do I cram the whole of existence into a three-minute pop song?”

2

Summer is empty heat, and it isn’t officially here.

Politics is empty words, and no one is officially the candidate.

War is empty motion, and I am told In war there is no substitute for victory. (Unless it is profit-generating perpetual war.)

Sleep is empty dreaming, and when I close my eyes nightmares swarm over my imagination as a colony of fire ants dismembers the carcass of a dead crow.

I touch the strings of my guitar and wonder, “How do I cram the whole of existence into a three-minute pop song?”

3

Even when the news is good, as it was when the Supreme Court insisted on restoring habeas corpus to a somnambulant citizenry, I remain disenfranchised from the process. Thieves have come and stripped this house clean of its hope and passion.

After six years of being told I should cede my Constitutional rights and abandon the political process for the sake of homeland security or economic expediency, the political party I adopted for lack of choice tells me we should turn the national convention into a charade for the appearance of unity and a certain victory.

Political conventions void of choice are simply arid wastelands where mindless drones mime the process. Dear Howard Dean, when “unity” and “victory” come at the price of liberty, democracy is dead.

I feel like Bluto in Animal House chanting, “It just doesn’t matter. It just doesn’t matter.”

And, really, it doesn’t. I have no proxy in government, and would still have none if the Capitol were stacked from floor to ceiling with Democrats. The party never has, and likely never will, represent my interests. It makes those who approach representation appear to be fools.

No one is telling what I believe are three vital political truths:

1. Printing more dollars to pay debt only devalues them. Taxes are necessary for the functioning of the nation and, unfortunately, they must be increased. The only real question is whether they will be demanded of an already overburdened middle management and working class or expected of the nation’s wealthiest citizens.

2. Islamic extremists in Afghanistan bankrupted the Soviet Union by engaging it in a war that slowly trickled away its resources fighting an enemy that was here today, gone tomorrow, back the day after. It was a war of attrition, one in which the pressure exerted was not acute, but a constant annoyance. The same war is being waged against the United States today, both in Afghanistan and in Iraq. There are only two ways out of it. One is by tripling or quadrupling our present armed force and utterly, decisively conquering and occupying them, establishing in effect a United States empire. The other is through cutting our losses and getting out now — before our economy and military are further drained. Perpetual war designed to enrich a privileged few while subduing a free citizenry is unacceptable.

3. If we must sacrifice individual entitlements for the public good, then we must also abolish corporate entitlements. The United States Constitution speaks of the “general” welfare, not of corporate welfare.

4

I once devoutly believed in the Christian model of creation, properly interpreted. It seemed to me the Genesis account was a perfect telling of the Big Bang theory, with the creation of humankind as a separate act. There was something awe inspiring about the image of God bending over the first human, then a lump of clay, and breathing into him the breath of life.

Lately I am more inclined to believe we are simply another rung in the evolutionary ladder, nothing more than animals. There is in humanity no spark of the divine. If there was, something long ago snuffed it out and ground it back into the dust.

Maybe capitalism.

5

Jim is a Rush fan.

He has few kind things to say about Jimmy Buffett.

Back in the days when I earned money playing guitar and singing night after night in a restaurant lounge, I performed the entire Jimmy Buffett catalog from Down to Earth through Son of a Son of a Sailor whether you liked it or not. The reason was simple: Frat boys tipped big for renditions of “Margaritaville” and “Peanut Butter Conspiracy” and no one cracked their wallet for “Tom Sawyer” (maybe because only Geddy Lee can do it justice). When one is selling pitchers of beer, nothing inspires a buyer like “Why Don’t We Get Drunk”.

To be sure, I haven’t heard anything by Jimmy Buffett after his Volcano album, and I’m not certain anyone else has either. While I’m no Parrothead (and wouldn’t pay to see Jimmy perform if he were entertaining my backyard barbecue), I appreciate the zeal of Parrotheads and often wish I felt as passionately about something, soulless or not. (I never got the Deadhead thing either.)

I always considered Rush in the same category as Yes or Emerson, Lake and Palmer. Their playing was technically flawless and their lyrics were remarkably literate, but they never struck me in a visceral way. I considered them a thinking person’s band. I would probably include Moving Pictures in a time capsule of the era as part of the peak of their creativity, but I’m not sure anything else would make the cut.

Besides, only one band mattered in 1981. They had just released a sprawling, critically panned album and they were getting ready to give it one last go before imploding. But in London Calling the Clash had created a masterpiece rarely rivaled. It touched me musically, lyrically and viscerally; and no white band has ever recorded a more politically astute, eminently danceable statement.

If Joe Strummer were still alive (I knew all that rage and heroism would burn out before 60 years) and if the Clash reunited, I could see myself becoming a Clampdownhead.

“REVOLUTION ROCK! I am in a state of shock!”

6

I have no more words. Picture me pantomiming the rest of this entry.

Pantomime has 2 responses

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