"Biting the Hand."
Another story about Rick Ames.
Whose stories it is the privilege.
Of Disaster Opera Theatre to tell.
And thus.
Given the opportunity.
Of Beginning an operation.
Without the benefit of a tutor, or a suitor, or one who toots
a horn.
Given the opportunity,
Rick Ames chose to penetrate
into his own cavity
of being.
Wherein he had a small candy replica
of his most exalted craftsmanship:
a squeeze bottle of Whiff,
the perfume which satisfies even the most elegant
of lady elephants.
"I fear for my trunk," says one elephant.
"I left it in the car," she says.
"That was a terrible error," says the other.
"Your trunk emits a thin trickle of gold bullion.
It will certainly be stolen."
"Not any of your business if it is stolen," says the first.
"For I activate my tusk alarms in electric sockets
for to give you the shock of a lifetime worth the waiting
if you so much as set foot anywhere near my car's
Parking Location.
I have disguised the city of San Francisco
to look like Pittsburgh
so that you will fall into the bay and be eaten by sharks.
And when my recipe book comes out,
you will find your name among the pages devoted to the
Cooking of Elephants by Sharks.
In a sauce of coconut meat and your two floppy ears.
And when you read the dedication---
which I will write at your first indication of distress---
you will be reading your own recipe
which once you gave me
and which I have gone and modified.
I have gone, and come back with it.
I have fired the chef and I have admitted
a mental midget in his place.
And it has been an improvement in quality.
The sauce is quite sweet.
Service is neglectful and rude and spiteful.
The changes, once made, are irreversible.
For example, we have cooked owls
to the point of extinction.
The point being extinction.
We had a lumbering bear come in to chop down
our own lush forest.
He didn't do it justice,
so we had a celebration on our hands that we had to cancel.
At the very last minute.
Which occurred just now.
Everyone is invited,
but it's off.
So instead, let us sit in relative silence.
For a while there I was thinking of myself as a bully.
Just because I wanted quiet during the concert.
And then I thought.
To myself.
Which is where I do my thinking to.
Being as it is a place which I can reach.
(Being as it is between my legs).
Although, taking it seriously all of a sudden,
I wonder if I can.
I wonder if---
and in wondering---
I am blundering---
and plundering---
the Dark Continent.
I am thinking to myself that I have a right to
a piece of the rock
and a little piece of the quiet,
that's going on 'round here.
Even if I must bully to get it.
Especially if I have no choice in the matter.
Especially if I am reading from a script.
Especially if the script tells me what to do.
How then can I be a bully?
I am thinking those thoughts to myself.
I am keeping my true thoughts from you.
I am sharing my false thoughts generously.
I am thinking a question.
I am posing it:
Does anyone remember that I am still speaking the part
of a Lady Elephant?
Who is the real me?
The real Amy X Neuberg or the imaginary elephant?
If we consult with the great authorities
we will learn a thing or two.
That is why we choose to consult with them
rather than with someone at the bar down there.
One of those-who-will-not-be-quiet.
However, there are certain advantages
to consulting with those at the bar who talk incessantly.
The primary advantage being that they are already talking.
We would not need to start them off.
For then they would be off and running.
We do not want them to be running off.
Knowing as we do that
the Doppler Effect of running consultants
is the basis of the red shift measurements
in Modern Astronomy.
In Ancient Astronomy, it was not.
They did not know who to ask.
Plato was available, sure, but he was ignorant on the subject.
And he kept his big trap shut.
No one knew about the red shift.
The color red did not even arrive in Italy
until Marco Polo brought it back with him from China.
No one knew what to make of it at first.
Then they made part of their flag of it,
and with the rest, they made bandanas for cowboys.
Uneducated people are always an obstacle for performers
at a place like this.
That's because of the Doppler Effect,
which states, in effect,
that Doppler was the maker of spaghetti and meatballs.
And that he was around in the kitchen during the last set.
You see him on TV pretty often in there,
in the Hotel Utah kitchen.
He has a cooking show that they work off of.
And in a similar vein,
we have a music show that we work off of.
It's called, "Crudbaby in Hell, the Hills are Alive."
It's the closest we can get to music in here.
Reception is terrible.
It must be because people don't like us to mess with the antenna
on the roof.
It's steep and slanted,
and we fall off
and hurt the people we fall onto.
One such person showed up at my doorstep last night.
She wore an overall and was there for no good reason.
She was a cantankerous bitch.
"Amy X Neuberg," she said.
"I want to do some dumb disrespectful
unspecified vague thing," she said.
I smiled in that puzzled way I have
for smiling at the brain-addled.
And I said that as her request was vague,
I could only conclude that I had jostled her brains
when I fell on her,
adjusting the antenna as I was.
She admitted that my conclusion might or might not
be on, in, or somewhere in the vicinity of the money.
And then she looked into her purse for money.
"Amy X Neuberg," she said,
"I can't find any money to give to you,
but when I find some, I'll send it,
in an envelope
with your address poking through that little
cellophane window."
"Why do you use cellophane-windowed stationery?" I asked,
and her eyebrows lifted knowingly.
"It is so that we can see you from inside
when you start to fall off the roof.
Then one of us can run outside and break your fall."
"Even though it's dangerous?" I asked her.
"Yes. Well, see,
we don't care."
I pondered the intelligence of hers which was mine now.
The incident we are speaking of
occurred yesterday at six P.M.
And you can ask Herb if he remembers what happened.
But first, I would like to ask Herb to come up here
and play the bass for a bit.
Meanwhile, I would encourage you all to buy drinks.
The Hotel Utah is a free enterprise zone.
In this so-called "joint,"
one may buy drinks.
They taste delicious.
I recommend the "Pink Squirrel."
Quite nutty in flavor, I am sure you will agree.
When you taste the drink.
Absolutely ravishing to look at too.
Remember: "Make Mine a Pink Squirrel."
And I'll bet a bundle on the horse-sense within you
to beat the horse-sense within me
after I've polished off that squirrel-aholic concoction.
Thank you!
I'll be around if anybody needs me to read anything else.
I'll see you all later,
in the after hours jam session at Stooges.
Where musicians go with machinery.
And where you can go with your cat on a leash
for a little exercise.
I will be there, in the back room,
taking out an ad in Stooges' newspaper:
"Looking for a `Pink Squirrel'"
So---you'll know where to find me.