The set: a large table with a bowl or two of spaghetti, or at least some bread and cheese. All musicians and singers are behind or on the sides of the table as in sitcoms. Microphones near each singer. Also on the table: candles, a telephone...
ACT 1. Cats gotta eat big!
(Into telephone) Grandpop? GRANDPOP? Listen to me, Grandpop! No, no, they call them TOMATOES nowadays, Grandpop! (Hangs up)
Sooner or later, I gotta eat. We all gotta eat. It's not just a question of having food, it's eating it. Which means cooking it. So here's a recipe I have for food. It doesn't matter what kind. Buy four pounds of it. Stew it in a crockpot for eight hours. Flame it with a bunsen burner. Get a big oven and put it all inside for three days. Allow to cool. Peel off the crockpot. Season with poultry seasoning. Add a quartet of boiling goo. Place in an inferno for a day and a half. Then eat without serving. The goal is not to have to stir it and annoy the anti-stirring forces in the universe, who can cause your stomach a lot more trouble than a whole bucket of goo.
Big fat bloated chocolate. Idiots munching on a lemon peel instead. When chocolates abound. I must be dreaming. Such idiots cannot exist without a transposition or a modulation or a chocolate embargo coupled with a dramatic improvement in lemon peel.
ACT 2. I'll be a damned sheep pretty soon!
My organizational talent is the first thing I'm going to tell you about myself. People notice that I am a prolific composer of operas, and they complement me upon it. I tell them that it's due to my organizational skills.
``When were you born?'' they ask. And I say I was born in some dumb month. And then I expect that it's due to my proclivity for attracting birthday presents that they've asked, but it's not. It's that they want to know my astrological sign.
The reason that everyone wants to know my astrological sign has to do with the massive amounts of information which they must have. Not me. There's no topic upon which I can discourse. I forget most of what I'm told.
My skills lie in other areas. I am able, for instance, to take a nothing day and suddenly make it all seem worthwhile. I do so by turning on the television and by watching Mary Tyler Moore.
Since this is an opera, I can tell you about the time that Mary Tyler Moore fell in love with me. She had to call me ``Mr. Grant'' in order to explain to herself the strange fascination she had for me. We used to smooch in public, and lots of people were shocked.
Then her jealous brother came along, and swore that he would kill me. That's because of how I had killed their father. I had tied him to a bed, dragged the bed into the middle of a busy intersection, borrowed a bulldozer from my pal Scotty (who used to be on the original Star Trek), and then I flattened him with the bulldozer. It used to be a steamroller, but I converted it afterwards because I needed to dig a long shallow grave for the man, because I'd flattened him out to fill seven normal graves.
I had to hide in a convent. They made me take off my makeup and observe a vow of silence and poverty. I endured this period only by complaining majorly, to all who would listen. Because they couldn't talk back, I got to complain all day long sometimes. Sometimes the other nuns would hide behind rocks.
I was later tied to a rock alongside Prometheus, for having lit a barn on fire and for having burned down the church and for having laughed about it and for having slapped some of the other nuns when they acted shocked and for having stuck my tongue out at the Pope when he came to investigate and for having had several of my friends pelt the Pope with eggs and for taking the Pope's hat away and starting a ``pickle in the middle'' game with it and for having married the Pope and for divorcing the Pope and taking all his royal money in a settlement.
I was punished for having given a horse to a man who was afraid of horses who died on the spot and for then laughing about it and then telling the public about it on an episode of ``Talk with some Priest about Shit.''
I was ostracized for having made a delicious pudding and then for having eaten it myself except for the skin on top which I draped over a sleeping man's eyes, so that when he woke up he thought himself to have been prematurely buried which caused him to have a near-fatal heart attack, and for having done exactly the same thing to him again when he was recovering in the hospital, and for having sworn to keep on doing it until he finally dies.
I was reprimanded for having had a bed of nails made out of screws, and for having turned all the screws with an electric screwdriver until a penitent person I knew could not get off the bed, and for then having taunted him for being a lazybones and for then having forgotten where I put the electric screwdriver so they couldn't ever get him off and for then buying up all the sheets and blankets in town which he had planned on using for clothing.
I was placed in a box for having attempted to fly an airplane without a license and for equipping the airplane with flotation devices which were under the seats of the people in the row in front of you, so that the people in the very front row had to run all the way to the rear of the plane in order to save themselves when I landed in a sewer pipe and cranked open all the doors and windows---which I did surreptitiously.
I was given a hard time for having taken cans to the recycling center and for having mockingly dumped them on the ground and for having steadfastly insisted that the cans had contained California wine and for having put them in with the California wine bottles and for having mixed them all up so that no one could tell which was which and for having talked loudly and incessantly about people who had cut their fingers on can lids even after several people winced and told me to stop what I was doing and saying because it disturbed them---which only made me want to step on their toes---which I then did and which didn't satisfy me, so I ran over their toes in my car---which still wasn't good enough---so that I had to load up my car with all the recycled newspapers, set fire to it, run over everyone's toes, and then park in the magazine dumpster where several people were searching for magazines and then for laughing when the car blew up in the middle of the dumpster and then for not doing anything about it, even though several people present believed me to be the city fire chief.
I was placed in a jar for having successfully infiltrated a grove full of entomologists and for having portrayed a butterfly so well and for then eating everyone's picnic lunches and for setting a herd of ants loose in everyone's pants and for throwing food into the pants too and for not wearing any pants of my own and for wearing the original copy of the United States Constitution instead of pants out of a blatant disrespect for what this country stands for and a desire for communism to be everywhere.
I was divided among four tribes for having deceived the gods by portraying an anteater and for eating the real anteater's ants and for then having laughed about it and for then having told a much-exaggerated version of this story about my exploits to a pub-full of credulous tourists who were looking for a good time, and for having locked them up in the bar and for then calling NASA and for having had the entire bar blasted off into space where it is today---being too flammable to risk re-entry, it's become a new constellation and astrological sign---which I had named after me since I discovered it.
I was tossed out of a barber shop for having put concrete hair on my head and for destroying all the scissors in the place with my concrete hair.
I was remonstrated for having taken a job making doormats out of cheese and for having used a sort of unpopular cheese which stinks and which also has the property of being able to imitate one's handwriting in order to write whining and pompous letters to one's family and which is also uncomfortable to walk upon, being very hot and spikey, and which digs a pit under itself and then collapses, causing the mailman to fall thirty or more feet before becoming wedged into the moist earth, and which cheese then applies a layer of grated Parmesan upon anyone who comes to investigate.
Yes, I have been punished and I've been ostracized and I've been reprimanded and scolded, and I've been told not to do things like when I posed as a farmer and degraded the crops with foul language. But I've done many other things too.
People notice that I compose and perform music, and when they do, they sometimes notice that I am not famous in the slightest. Then they say, ``Why are you not famous? Could it be that your music is noxious to life forms?'' And I have to admit that I do not know.
My mission in life is rather obscure. I think I have to have a banana split before I can even begin to talk about it.
ACT 3. What is nautical about anything?
I would like to take you on a trip down memory lane. Remember that time we occupied Florida? The Post Office has commemorated the event with purple, orange and green stamps. It was in Florida that I learned the true meaning of freedom, the true meaning of idiocy, and the seventeen false meanings of eggplant.
The first and foremost false meaning of eggplant is curmudgeonly. A curmudgeonly gentleman is said (falsely) to be an eggplant.
Also, eggplants rule the world with Bartlett pears. Also, Eggplants rule the world with Bosc pears. These two meanings of eggplant are false, but similar to one another, which lends them an aura of truth not found in any of the other meanings.
If I was an animal, I would be a cow. Everyone knows this about me.
I painted a bunch of eggplants. No, I didn't really. That is false meaning number seven. Some people wonder if that's a false meaning or just a lie. I say it's a false meaning, and I also say that if it isn't, then the fact that it isn't (when I said it was) is false meaning number seven. Either way, number seven is covered, and much better than any of the other numbers.
My clients are getting nervous. They find my patter disconcerting. They wish they could get away and fly away with a beautiful balloon. They want candy and alka seltzer flavored ice cream. My clients are all cowering in the vault. You can see them later when we turn out the lights. They glow from exposure to brightly glowing stars.
The universe is composed of many brightly glowing stars, with some random bits of space in between. Also, there are eggplants, but by now eggplants are a shabby substitute for the substance which we all search.
Look, if I could tell you anything about anything I would. Are the bad guys going to win? Is there anything we can do about it? Is this a good time to buy a new car? I'm not here to answer such questions.
I am here to present arguments in favor of there being a new political party, to be called the Blue Party. This party will serve the needs of all who are blue. That's just about everyone, just about all the time. Whatever the ultimate fate of our souls, without a doubt we are glum today, yesterday and tomorrow. Those of us afflicted with melancholia deserve a party to represent our wish that everyone leave us alone and let us suffer in peace. What I'm calling for is a less demanding world, one with lower standards, less television, fewer channels, fewer items on the menu, and sufficiently dim lighting in the workplace to facilitate the snoozing we must do. Taxes should be raised to 99%. We don't need to have to worry about spending money. Let's return to the carefree days of childhood, shall we?
Suffering is necessary if we want to develop character. However, development of character is not a concern for us. Let's go the escapist route, shall we? More good science fiction novels must be written, at government expense.
ACT 4. Mr. Henry, can I see your invisible dog?
Slow down the music! Music is too fast and too loud these days. Lets have some music that sounds like a distant avalanche, that will remind us that the crumbling of Earth is a reality, but somewhat far away.
My stomach hurts again. I need constant medical attention. I don't want to feel better; I just want to know if I'm dying and if I should do anything about it. I don't like the way the world looks. I don't like the rain clouds, and I don't like the buildings, or the way people dress or the way they move. I wish everyone was bigger and I wish their face muscles would move up and down in slow undulations. I wish there was a river everywhere that we could row boats on. Let's flood the streets, shall we?
I want there to be a disco where dancers walk straight ahead until they bounce off a wall or some other person. I want everyone to be singing simple riffs in low voices. I want beautiful purple, indigo, and blue drinks to be served, garnished with mint.
But: bo-bo-bo-bo-bo! But: bo-bo-bo-bo-bo! But: bo-bo-bo-bo-bo!
But: bo-bo-bo-bo-bo! But: bo-bo-bo-bo-bo! But: bo-bo-bo-bo-bo!
Am attempting to climb out of deep melancholy slump. Am taking medication. Am concerned about my future in a very practical sense: how am I to live?
Am aware that uncharted territory has all but vanished. Looking for a fantasy-land on this planet. Unwilling to travel to the moon or nearby planets.
Am headed to the car to go to the store for matches. Must light a fire. Must get practical advice on making weapons. Must build an arsenal. Feeling threatened by the local government.
There is too much information for any one person to assimilate. I feel oppressed in libraries, book stores, record stores, museums, open places, in certain parts of town where English is not the primary language.
Feeling sick from having been in the sun for so long. Stomach ache from eating fish. Stomach ache from drinking water. Feeling tired now. Tired all the time. Difficulty sleeping. Gaining weight. Sneezing. Developing an allergy to dust and mold. Drowsiness at work, cannot concentrate. Making frequent mental mistakes. Forgetting words. Forgetting what I was going to say.
I hear complaints about the performance of my department. I take such complaints seriously. Morale is way down. People are calling in sick. I haven't been well for five or six months myself. Computer problems. Printer jamming on card-stock. Multi-color copies no longer possible, perhaps prohibited. No one I can ask. Running low on colored paper. Difficulty understanding new assignment. New personnel measures in effect, without proper period for study and discussion. Weekly meeting cancelled. Two young men in dark blue suits peer into my office for several moments, then leave without speaking. I think have lost the technical rider for an upcoming concert, but I don't want to search for it just yet.
Cars pass by, and sometimes school children, walking on opposite sides of the street, shouting at each other. I can't understand. One boy tosses a candy wrapper, and his girlfriend drops her Styrofoam nachos container into the juniper bushes. A woman pushes someone else's baby in a carriage. Bicyclists in upscale skin-tight bicycle clothing zoom past, talking business. Jehovah's witnesses come to the door. A young boy delivers a bent package for the post office. The afternoon grows late, and my deadline draws near.
At Kinkos, first one copying machine jams, then another. It's almost midnight. A girl with braces on her teeth and blank eyes opens and closes the machines, searching for paper in the paper path. I turn to face the multitude who wait for me to finish with my machines. I say, ``The copying you would do will have to wait a while longer; these machines do not seem to be able to process my originals.''
My originals are hazy. My originals exist beyond the realm of sound. There is no place on this earth for my originals.
Lest I become incurably maudlin, I have taken up my pen and I have eaten it. I have eaten thirty-seven pens this week. My stomach is brilliantly adapting to the task of turning plastic and inks into nourishment for my body. I have grown taller, and people complement me upon my fresh-faced appearance.
I go to the mall to buy new clothes. No one is working there just now. Perhaps I missed hearing the air-raid sirens, or perhaps they are all in a sales meeting or seminar. I notice that none of the clothing is particularly new. Some is well-worn, and nothing that I see complements my new fresh-faced appearance.
A package comes to the door. A pair of shoes! Who sent me these wonderful shoes? Too bad they don't fit! Too bad there's no way to exchange them, since they come from Italy! Too bad they're made of pig hide! Too bad my religion forbids me to eat these wonderful Italian shoes. Who is mocking my very existence today? Is it the local priest who dares taunt me so?
I have a beautiful lambs-wool sweater. Yesterday I was walking home from work, when I passed a woman walking two awful little dogs. One of the dogs leapt upon me and took a bite out of my sweater and my wrist beneath. I kicked the dog as hard as I could, and then I kicked the other dog too. The woman got into my face, yelling, ``You horrible person! I'm glad my dog bit you!'' The police arrived upon the scene, and now I have a court date set for next week.
``Does deep-breathing help?'' I ask her. ``Haven't you noticed how constricted you've become? You're all tied up in knots! What do you think deep-breathing will do? When you've filled your body with energy?'' So I fill my body with energy, and then I want to go home, but I can't: I'm stuck up here, reading this shit.
I saw a dead squirrel the other day. Natural causes? Probably not. Probably some little joker with a BB gun.
I know a woman who is so mean that I want to strangle her. But I can't strangle her: I have to pretend I harbor no ill will for her, because she could make my life much more miserable than it already is. I can't even talk about it any more.
There are so many things we cannot discuss for fear of reprisals. Honesty is prohibitively expensive. Why am I taunted by the desire to be honest? It must be some sort of desire for self-destruction.
I take a picture of my spouse with a special camera. When the photos return, my spouse is unrecognizable---but that's hardly the fault of the camera. The fact is that I can no longer recognize my spouse, and so am constantly afraid of this strange person in my home---a home which I paid for myself, by the way. A home which I can't afford to leave, no matter how deep my strange fear becomes.
Old clothes are strewn about the floor. Perhaps I can put off taking a shower---last time I drowned a spider unknowingly. I scratch my head for a while.
Have you noticed how bad pretty much everything is? Are you able to reach your friends by phone?
I'm in an office with two friends.We're all apprehensive. They seem to know more about what's going on than I do. An official comes in. Maybe he's a doctor. He pats my friends on the back. They open their mouths and a moth flies out from each of their mouths. This means that they are as good as already dead. I leave the office, rather shaken, but grateful that I was not chosen for a pat on the back.
A pat on the back in this life might as well be a the death sentence. No jury, no trial, just a pat on the back and you're gone. A lot of worry and mental anguish, and then ``poof.'' This isn't something I'm prepared to discover, having grown up in a gentle suburb of Cleveland Ohio.
In other words, one's accomplishments---or rather, the official recognition of one's accomplishments---are the kiss of death. Fortunately, I've made a practice of sneaking out of any situation in which I might receive any recognition.
Fifteen years of graduate school. Three in, twelve out. One disaster to look back upon. Who was that composer who emulated Charles Ives---until the day that opened with John Adams on the morning radio, waking him up out of bed at just the wrong moment? Ever since, music has been so very inconsequential to him that writing is no longer possible: no ideas.
I did not know I would be participating in this little scenario. It is not what I expected to be doing this evening. I had no plans to be in a scenario such as this one.
Somewhere upstairs, a stiff little man with no sense of humor and a sour disposition is teaching a seminar. Let us call him Mortenson. He pays $400 to teach power advertising as a means of selling a product. If he gets sore about the noise from down here, he can call our landlord. Our landlord supports the arts by giving us this place for free---provided it not inconvenience Mortenson, for if sour little conservatively-suited Mortenson gets peeved, he may threaten to withhold some of those $400. Of what use is this place to us if the Mortensons of this world get to tell us to stop bothering them? But is there anyone here who does not understand Mortenson's point of view? Here he shelled out 400 bucks to be at this place; parking's not so great, and now there's this noise. Sure, he believes in the arts too, but he's got a seminar to teach. He has a mission: to spread evil in a thin but palpable layer across the city of Berkeley and beyond if possible.
I met Mortenson once. He did not exactly acknowledge my presence. He is a whiner. Unfortunately, he is also my father, so I have to be nice to him, even though we hardly ever see him. He left my mother and me when I was a baby, because we meant nothing to him. But, see, he's got money. And a presentation which includes slides and tapes with classical music. Didn't I say the guy appreciates the arts?
I am concerned about my participation in this scenario. It seems rather confused. It's neither funny, nor is the element of melancholia as present as I would have hoped. I can see how it might be construed as being rather depressing, however.
I would like to be excused from the table.
ACT 5. I derive benefits from placebos.
Do do do do do do do do Do do do do do do do do Do do do do do
do do do
Do do do do do do do do---
Do do do do do do do do Do do do do do do do do Do do do do do
do do do
Do do do do do do do do.
The big thing is the universe. The small thing is you. I'm not even talking about fashion! Today big is in, tomorrow it may be small. But regardless, every day it's the same scene: big thing-universe, small thing-you. Things that are constant like that cheer me up when I'm down.
Lang lang lang lang lang lang lang--- Lang lang lang lang lang
lang lang---
Lang lang lang lang lang lang lang--- Lang lang lang lang lang
lang lang---
I was playing a card and board role-playing game, in which one plays oneself, but unconsciously. That is, it was readily apparent to me that the others were playing themselves, but were unaware of it. Presumably I was playing myself, but I would not believe it. At the start of the game, three cards were dealt to each person, to define their character. Two were primary, the third hung back in the shadows, vaguely sinister. Before the game started, I was advised by the others to relax and sit back; I needn't be so close to the game board, I could play from the couch.
The highest note one usually sees written for the saxophone is an F, three ledger lines above the staff. On occasion, a higher note is called for. The saxophonist who would play such a note must write a letter in quill, upon the finest stationery, to Detective Lieutenant Frossbinder, at the corporate headquarters of Jello Instant Pudding, which is owned by Gatorade Thirstquenchers. Frossbinder will investigate. It is fortunate to have such a fine man as Frossbinder taking care of these matters!
The radio blares the same dumb songs all the time! How wonderful it is to live in a city which has radio!
Every now and then a person who you thought of as a close friend reveals themselves to be truly insane. You've never seen this side of them. They start yelling at you, and blaming you for all kinds of shit, and then they start crying and they threaten to kill themselves because now it's all their fault. You don't know what to say, so you keep quiet. Then they rip into you again, with all sorts of wild accusations. Then it gets maudlin. Then the next day, it's as if it never happened---they're your friend again and everything is fine. And everything really is fine!
My bowels are easily inflamed. The other day, I ate a ton of garbage, and became quite sick. On the advice of my doctor, I had seven feet of bowel removed. I felt a good deal better afterwards, and I celebrated by eating gallons of delicious Waldorf salad.
In elementary school, during recess, the other kids used to follow me around. I think they must have liked me a lot! I think I must have been the most popular child in the whole school!
Whenever I feel a cold coming on, I eat a few blades of grass. I've seen cats and dogs doing this, and I figure that if it works for them, it should work for me. Believe it or not, I've not been sick in five years!
Whenever I'm down in the dumps, I take out my frustrations on my subordinates. They can call me grumpy and vile all they want, I don't care---after a little yelling I feel great!
When I'm sad, I draw a happy face, and then I feel happy again.
I'm rather peculiar, but I don't mind. Everyone hates me, but I don't mind that either; I have an idea that I think will work: I'm going to buy everyone nice presents, and mail them to their houses.
I'm afraid of being hurt or shot or strangled by the people who live next door. Actually, I'm no longer afraid, ever since I put up a chain-link fence and a ``watch dog on premises'' sign.
I keep cloves of garlic around the house, and it protects me from evil, from the most monstrous down to the most nearly-innocent. It's also good in olive oil on spaghetti.
I had religious training as a child, so I'm sure I'll recognize the Messiah when He or She arrives. I'm certain to be saved.
I don't need to re-read anything I've written. Hell, I've run it through the spell-checker! I'm sure it's wonderful. Why wouldn't it be?
Life is endless fun for those of you who are creative. You can amuse yourselves with the workings of your own mind. You can let the thoughts flow over you like a warm bath. Surely your lot in life must be the easiest, since you are the ones most blessed by God: the best beloved!