For Whom This Bell Tolls – June 20th, 2001
by Bing Futch
[[toll1]] It took a while to continue this story, but then I had a lot of living to do before I would dare put fingers to keyboard in search of a way to make it seem viable. There’s been a not-so-subtle shift of consciousness in my life and mind since I last entered an entry in these cyber-pages; it has breathed a hot and feral scorch into my ear and parched my brain. So, dedicated readers, the morph descends again with the muse riding bareback, for this is no mere recounting of life on the streets of O-Town, no-sir. This is the story of becoming. It has little or nothing to do with the music scene, but then again – if you’ve stuck around this long or have done the research via the Ink 19 archives, you probably are well aware that hodgepodge is the name of the game. The column isn’t called “Dark’s Corner” for nothing, you know. Hell, from where I sit in this pocket, it has always been a case of balancing the light and the darkness and trying to figure out which each represents. Of course, I’ve never been shy about shedding a frail and subjective light upon subjects that most people would keep buried under warm, cozy blankets in order to present some facade of normality. I ask sincerely: who has the time for that anymore?
[[toll2]] Since I fractured my ankle on Easter Sunday of this year, life has been a curious collection of hidden messages, whispered intentions and neurotic orgasm. Oh yeah, I freely admit it. It’s not just that most artists are prone to fits of agonizing self-doubt and mental upheaval; I’m a legion of dysfunctional musings and crippling emotional undertow. With age comes knowledge and with knowledge comes pain. You can face it – if we were all still fresh-faced and stupid, we wouldn’t suffer nearly as much. But the more you learn, the more you burn and you can handle it badly or you can rein it in and ride the bitch until it bucks you off and when you sit hard down upon the ground, what then? The bass player for my band, Naked Head, Randy Kemp, has broken both of his legs and told me matter-of-factly at rehearsal not too long ago that acute depression is normal when you suddenly find yourself depending on others in a physical way. Those of you who have lost mobility in one form or another can identify with what I’m talking about, in fact – we are all part of an exclusive club whose membership lasts a lifetime. My temporary handicap, which is already nearly behind me, coincided with an extreme dropping of the scales from my eyes regarding who I was and who I longed to be. I owe a debt to Ecstasy for altering my mind enough one dark and interesting night to begin the process that continues to ripple in the most cobwebbed corners of the existence that I call “Bing.” The narrative will be stilted; you may become lost and confused. Welcome to this world without filters. Funnily enough, most people who take X tend to open up and just enjoy their feelings of love and appreciation. However, it takes me to the ultimate introspective woodshed.
Shortly after I posted my last column here, the honest me shouted something about “getting honest again” and the huge pile of shit on my plate wasn’t allowing any semblance of clarity whatsoever. It came as no surprise. Just about anyone I had talked to in the past four or five years had always expressed concern that I was attempting too much and usually asked the question, “why?” Well sharky, I may’ve been fooling myself into believing that I was on some sort of mission in the name of the Father, the Mother and the need, nay, the desire to become much more than just a cog in the wheel of the Great American Experience. America is an illusion, borne from the privileged promises of our first Republicans, those well-to-do nifties who anchored the original 13 colonies. What does the upper class know about democracy? Especially those so recently weaned from the British monarchy? If the United States of America was indeed a good idea, then it has gone to absolute hell in an elevator padded with the hides of those who believed naively.
The Fall Of Us
[[toll3]] You see, I believe that at one time, people had it all together. We lived off of the land, not beyond our means. There was a desperate need to communicate or nothing got done in those days before mail service, telegraph, telephones, telecommunications. You couldn’t skirt the issue with anyone, it all came down to a face-to-face, and if you couldn’t hack it, you ended up a loner on some mountain face destined to live your own solitary life. Family was important beyond any shadow of a doubt, if not for anything else, the need to carry on the bloodline in hopes that each successive generation would do better than the last. Well hell, now that we’ve gotten a good look at where we’re going, I ask what in the world is there to offer those we would bring into this existence? We learn what we’re taught, and in each new version of Family, the point gets buried farther and farther down in the mix like a bad vocal. In my fucked-up opinion (and that’s subjective), the death of the Nuclear Family in the early 1960’s was the death knell that brought about the state of dysfunction that envelops a good portion of the country that we live in. We were still a fairly ignorant people back in the 40’s, before radio, television and technology in general gave us a huge, wide open looking glass into the possibilities. Now, shit. Don’t get me wrong. Possibilities are the wellspring of hope. It’s the intentions that can screw you.
Some time ago, I decided to read Joseph Conrad’s “Heart Of Darkness”, the book that Francis Ford Coppola’s mammoth undertaking “Apocalypse Now” was based on. It opened a door to understanding what perhaps the “dark side” mythology was all about. Once Col. Kurtz, played brilliantly by Marlon Brando in the film, had seen the “possibilities” of human deeds, he remarked famously, “the horror, the horror.” What we are capable of, in the deepest, darkest corners of the mind, can be hidden from all. But hearkening to another great film, more recent (“Memento”), one cannot lie to oneself. As humans, we’re conditioned by our surroundings for the most part and a goodly chunk of “becoming” is left to us, or so it would seem. Whether you believe in pre-destination or complete and total control over your own actions, it all boils down to who we are and what we truly wish to do. Murder and thoughts of murder may be distinctly different in our mind’s eye – but what separates the murderer from the one who simply writes of murder? Is the heart capable or is it just pretending? Do you relish the thought of anything evil or are you just practicing ultimate empathy? Better still, what is the yardstick of humanity?
Sitting in the middle of the Valley Of Fire will do this to you, or then again – it may not. But it did it to me. I had already been wrestling with myself (like Jacob wrestled the angel, I suppose) about whether or not I was truly evil at heart. In my heart, I thought I could go either way. To me, Yin and Yang called for balance of the spirit. Man is naturally pre-disposed to be a self-serving, vicious creature – we aren’t far removed from the apes that may or may not be our predecessors. Man is also capable of great acts of love and compassion but I believe that both are present in each and every one, like male and female originates within every homo sapien. Good and evil in all. Who’s to say where the middle ground lie? All this time, I thought I was doing right by Something or Someone, but not all. In this life, my life, there was no yardstick. I made up the rules as I went along and damn the society that demanded I follow their example. One hit of Ecstasy, then two and all of a sudden – I’m trying to decide if I love my children or not. No-one had guilted me up to this point, I stood firm in my decision to sally forth and attempt to make it up to them with points on the back end. Based on my own experiences with my father, who split from my mother so early in my life that I don’t even remember him being there at the dinner table, I had conviction that was unmatched by anyone I had ever met. I never met Frank Lloyd Wright, who has gone on the record saying that he never gave a feather or a fig for his kids and that he much rather enjoyed designing houses. My own interest in my children sometimes echoed that, not out of meanness, but out of a detachment that found its way into other relationships as well. In fact, the solitary lifestyle was one that I embraced for the very reason that people, in general, bug the shit out of me.
[[toll4]] That doesn’t explain why I’ve been so active in the Florida music scene, so giving of my time, so dedicated to helping others. It’s a puzzlement, to be sure and it’s going to require therapy. But first, a vignette. As I traveled to the west coast to see my two boys, Vincent (10) and Patrick (9), their mothers and my estranged grandfather Eddie Futch, a world-famous boxing trainer whom I’ve hated for the past nine years, due to a falling-out involvingt the death of my father. Luckily, we were able to bridge the gap. Talk about your luggage. The hard cast came off three days before this trip, which would also involve me settling matters of my mother’s estate and producing yet another edition of Coast-2-Coast Coaster Tour. The doctor’s graciously wrote me a prescription for a removable boot-cast so that I could take it off for showers, jacuzzis, whatever. The journey was going to be a difficult one, considering that I had just shoved everything off of my plate in favor of trying to get my fucked-up head together. I had yet to visit my parent’s graves in California, was battling physical and mental co-dependency and my embattled wife and I were staring eviction in the face on the eve of my departure. Not only that, but I stood to lose everything that was packed into an Orlando-area storage unit (much like everything that I lost in a unit based in Los Angeles some time ago, loss is the story of my life to a certain degree.) It was sure looking like a fun journey. Hell’s bells, I thought. I packed a lot of reefer along with the rest of my junk and headed out to the airport with my friend Ken Pilcher, whom I’ve had a strange at-arms-length relationship with for the past several years. My wife, Chinesa, drove in lieu of another friend, Katie Hartmann, who had decided not to see us off because she thought my wife was a cold, heartless bitch.
Ah, this feels wonderful.
Gaiety and Self-Loathing In Las Vegas
[[toll5]] We arrived in Las Vegas on June 7th around 3:45 pm, Pacific Standard Time. After hijacking an abandoned wheelchair, we hightailed it for the National Rent-A-Car desk in order to have this big green pickle of a bus take us over to our choice of “intermediate” vehicles. The Chevy Malibu was suggested by the driver for its V-6 engine and great ice-cold air. But Ken’s eye was momentarily deflected by a blonde Pontiac Grand Prix with a spoiler on the back. We smartly deferred to the Chevy, which wasn’t a bad move – since it came with a decent CD/stereo in-dash with simulated mahagony marbling. The air worked nicely. It was 101 degrees in the City of Sin.
We cleared the little booth where a weary-looking attendant checked our papers and raised the gate. At that point, I opened the package of Honeyrose nicotiene-free cloves I had stashed on my person and pulled out one of the sweet-smelling sticks to reveal a hidden row of pre-rolled joints.
“Hello babies.” I said. Ken looked over and grinned.
I lit up and we trekked over to Tropicana Blvd., heading for our four-day reservation at the Golden Nugget downtown. After a brief discussion about whether to take the back way via Industrial or to hit the strip, it was decided we’d take the scenic route and we made a right turn onto Las Vegas Blvd. It’s always the best to see The Strip for the first time during the daytime. It runs the gamut from tacky to terrific and everything in between, but mostly eye-popping, outlandish, impressive. Then the sun goes down and you’re looking at what once before was merely asleep; it all comes alive after dark. Pondering this, we found our way to the Golden Nugget and checked in quickly, craving a respite from the travel.
I saved the elevator doors from closing with a well-aimed crutch. As Ken and I stepped in, an older man and woman also joined us, the woman carried a grey-tipped cane and she regarded me with amusement.
“It’s like you’ve got a third leg there,” she laughed.
“I’ve had lots of practice, I can use ‘em like chopsticks.”
“Did you break it?” she asked.
“Yeah, I fractured my ankle.”
“I threw out my hip, that’s why I’m using this,” she lifted her cane up.
“How long?”
“8 weeks”
“It’s difficult, isn’t it?” I said.
She nodded, and I looked over at the older man, who said, “I broke my ankle, I was on crutches for three months.” The elevator arrived at their floor and as he walked out, I said, “you had to re-learn everything, didn’t you?” Nodding enthusiastically, he turned and laughed, the old woman following him, making good time for someone in her condition. In her condition.
The Unbearable Lightness Of Bing
I was born to write these words. It doesn’t really matter what the repercussions are, what snap-back might effect my life and prosperity from here on out. It simply doesn’t matter. At one [[toll6]] point in time, not too far back, I shuddered at revealing more than I was willing to within these walls of words, the picking and choosing of images that I felt were digestible to all creatures who dared to click on the “Dark’s Corner” link. I dare say that there are many more of you who read this and harbor your own secrets, your own doubts and may never tell another soul that you did anything remotely decadent, deceitful, dispicable. But then again, that depends on your company, doesn’t it? A gang of thieves will boast of their boostings, but one thief in the midst of sheep will attempt to keep a low profile either because they’re afraid to be known as a wolf or don’t want the sheep to know that they’re about to be pounced upon. I believe that human nature, since it’s been corrupted by knowledge of what can be and what might be, has a natural predisposition towards mental larceny. And that could honestly be me painting a white door black. If you are inclined to believe the story of Adam and Eve, God told them they could do whatever they so desired, as long as they did not eat from the Tree Of Knowledge. For all we know – the two of them could’ve remained blissfully ignorant of the true nature of Man and procreated and done what a lot of ignorant people do – stew in their own juices and feel quite happy about it. But once Eve (bitch!) bit the fruit, the scales fell away and thus began a legacy of discovery which would lead just about every other human being in opposite directions. Theory. Speculation.
I applaud you if you’ve made it this far. You must have a really huge brain or some kind of need for your own brand of self-loathing. Or you could be a deranged fan, I’ve got plenty of those and I wish you would all just go the hell away. Call it “counterproductive” but these words are only for those who wish to use them. Not to form an opinion of me, but to spark the mind into wondering “what’s he on about?” I have thought about embracing misogyny, I’ve contemplated misanthrophy, strictly from a self-preservationist standpoint, you understand. I see the number 666 all of the time and it beckons to me from the strangest places. As a Christian (laugh if you will) and a logician, not to mention a screaming liberal, I sometimes think that I’m the Antichrist due to my severely unorthodox methods of thinking, feeling, acting, interacting, believing. Then, I think that I’m just being tricked and that Satan is fucking with my mind to throw me off the right path. But at heart, I’m a giving person. Misguided, oh yes, oh yes, oh yes. Selfish? Oh good golly, yes. Who else will admit it? Will you? If it applies? If it doesn’t ruin your attempts to make good? Not only is Man a beastial creature, but he is an unforgiving one as well and sure, there are exceptions. But speaking for me in my life, in this day and age, tell someone your transgressions and see if they look at you the same way, unless love is involved. And what is love?
That’s what I’m trying to find out.
Las Vegas: Ground Zero</font>
[[toll7]] The morning of the 8th found Ken and I already butting heads. Upon announcing that I was going down to the pool for my early morning ritualistic swim, he announced that he would be going with me. I had anticipated this, and let him know that it was tradition for me on these long trips to have a bit of a think while swimming in the drink – by my lonesome, and I hope it didn’t insult him. This has been an issue between us before, his need to draw close to me, especially on this trip – which is filled with angst and bittersweet conflict. My statement, as I predicted, came as a bit of a face-slap to him and he uttered a terse, “no problem” as he called the front desk about getting into a smoking room. Somehow, we had gotten into a non-smoking car AND a non-smoking room, not that I care all that much about such rules and regulations, but the presence of ganga in our repertoire of smoking materials warranted some cautious behaviour – it would not do to get caught covering up marijuana smoke with a clove cigarette if we were on an entire non-smoking floor. It would not do to be obvious, especially in Las Vegas where the cops are as hungry as the gamblers.
The swim was a fine one. The sun had not yet filled the canyon between the two Golden Nugget hotel towers where the small, not-too-impressive pool was situated. One side of the terrace was bathed in early morning light, but the rest remained in sweet shadow. I had crutched down to the lobby without my bootcast on, not wanting to be bothered with its many velcro straps and foldings. The water gives me solace, much peace. The cool enveloped me, sliding into the pool and laying the crutches within easy reach of the sleek, silver rail that guided the unsure of foot into the aquamarine depths. I was aware of a few eyes watching this dreadlocked anomaly as I glided across the pool, stroking with my arms and allowing my legs to softly trail behind. I was going to need to favor this ankle a bit more than I had previously thought – at the first gentle kick, I felt a twinge of pain. That might’ve been a leftover gift from sleeping in the too-tight constrictions of the hotel bedding. All of its housekeepers must’ve graduated from the Army Boot Camp school of “bounce a quarter off of it.”
This trip came at an emotionally queer time for me. A blend of happiness and regret forged into a half-baked question pie – there were plenty of deep thoughts circulating in my brain as we took the turbulent trip from Orlando. One, would I miss my wife? She was a major stick in my craw because I couldn’t come to grips on how I felt about her. It had been a long year of marriage, filled with an abundance of nasty times and a smattering of relationship fortifying goodness and sacrifice, on both our parts. But our neurotic natures combined to form an alliance based on suspicion, fear, jealousy and labyrinthine double-speak. She had resented the trip out to Vegas and Los Angeles and made no bones about telling me so. So, for my part, did I, to a certain degree. Despite most of our failings, she and I had, in recent weeks, worked our way to a level of mutual understanding and high hopes for the future. This was due in part to my finally moving out to Melbourne and living in the same tiny apartment with her. Once it was certain that we weren’t getting divorced, it felt safe, whatever that was.
It had removed a certain quality from Ken’s life and he had made it plain that I was welcome to return and enjoy the security of his home whenever. He had supported my endeavours for quite some time, believing that I would “become” and my self-esteem suffered as a result, since I felt my career was going noplace very fast. But that was allowing me to do what I was attempting to wean myself [[toll8]] from doing. It allowed me to continue being dependent. At least, living with my wife, there seemed to be a logical reason for a woman to pull out a purse and pay for dinner or to walk up to the receptionist at a hospital and advise me to “go sit down, I’ll take care of this.” Sure, I had a history of allowing the nurturing women in my life to take care of me. I was important, damn it! I had goals to reach and needed every bit of time I could muster to reach those goals. We were communicating better, my wife and I – or at least it seemed. My friends regard her as scheming and possessive, not that I refute those claims much. In fact, in recent times, I had come to look at Chinesa as karma for my sins. Being not the most agreeable person to have for a husband, travel companion or band-mate, I felt that I was getting exactly what I deserved in a wife and should learn to deal with it for all the sorrow and heartache that I’ve dealt. Sure, I have high hopes for more, but all of that is dependent on my maturation, some inner change in me.
Unfortunately, just as Chinesa and I began building a steadier bridge to the future, there began to show cracks in the caissons designed to provide a foundation for the traversing of Life’s Stream Of Consequences. On the Monday prior to leaving for Las Vegas, we visited the hospital and a doctor (not my own) agreed that the cast could come off and that, due to my trip, it’d be alright to have a removable bootcast.
“What insurance are you using?” he asked her, seeming to know that it wasn’t I who was most likely insured.
“We’re paying cash,” she said with a sense of regret. His face wrinkled in commisseration. “Ooh, they’re expensive,” he said. Nevertheless, that’s what I got, to the tune of $150 – on top of the $150 for the visit. Chinesa wrote a check and when we got in the car, she laid her head to one side against the driver’s side window and said, “that’s tapped the bank.”
When we got home, she broke into tears and began a lament – we were somehow $1500 under the surface of the water and rent was due. Not only rent, but phone bill, power bill, the storage unit containing most of my personal effects and the domain name for darkstudios.com. She hadn’t told me how tight it was getting because she wanted me to have the things I needed to get through this dark period of introspection that had begun three to four weeks prior after an eventful epiphany at an ecstasy party. I laid next to her, holding her head, as she stated that she didn’t know what to do and that I should probably just move back to Orlando with Ken as there would probably be no apartment to come back to after the trip. Irony. Just when I was ready to jump head first into the marriage with no doubts – along comes another tragedy of sorts. We couldn’t catch a break to save our lives, it seemed. One thing after another. They were threatening to auction off all of my stuff in storage, during the time that Ken and I would galavanting around California, which put a damper on my expectations. There wasn’t much fun to be had, in my estimations. I had to take care of the fucked-up estate that my mom had left for me when I came of age this year. I had prickly, bittersweet meetings planned with my two sons and their mothers, who had their eyes on whatever proceeds the estate had to offer. I was to meet up with my famous grandfather at some point, to bury a nine-year hatchet that was produced when my father passed away, but it turned out that he and his wife Eva would be out of town for the duration of our stay in Vegas.
[[toll96]] Then there was the production of the Coast-2-Coast Coaster Tour video, which would be difficult whilst on crutches, but I was determined to make something definitely positive come out of this trip if it meant killing myself and getting the evidence on video to send somewhere for money. A huge, swirling pool of emotions, coupled with the fact that I was going on the trip with a man who I had unresolved and uncomfortable feelings about. Ken’s a great guy – but his awkwardness tickles the self-aware side of me in such an extreme way that I find it sometimes embarassing to even be in his presence. Overall – the trip was a huge mixed blessing, a lot of things had to be figured out, felt, lived, tasted and re-evaluated.
But I wanted something tangible to come out of it, something short term.
Beers To You
I decided subconsciously at some point that I wanted to kill myself slowly. This is funny to me. Funny because I’m trying to be serious and my cat, Blackjack Savage, is absolutely demanding my attention, rubbing his head against the keyboard, threatening to jump onto my lap and delete something. In the present day (since a goodly portion of the Ken and Bing in Vegas story was written in Vegas) I’ve come to the realization that B.J. must be a familiar, like a witch’s cat, undeniably a person from a past life who came back as a feline. My wife’s cat, Domino, has taken to staring at me with a strange sort of fire in his eyes, like he’s trying to mind-meld with me. But B.J., whether it be just the love of a cat who wants more or the soul of a guardian angel, tends to stick to my side like glue and there are times, by-God times, when I swear we’re communicating. It is sad to me that I sometimes care more about stray kittens than I do my own children. But I do know that at least the mothers of my kids won’t dump them into the streets like some of the strays I encounter. I don’t like kids in general. They become interesting when they stop wailing uncontrollably and want to have deep conversations with you. In that respect, my sons are at the appropriate age and indeed, we have deep and wonderful conversations. My daughter Katrina is three years old and highly intelligent, but not yet to the point of discussing say, the merits of abstinence or the doppler effect of truth. Display it, she can. Discuss it, naught. What would you say, dedicated reader? Does this make me bad, sad, mad or out of orbit? I flay open my sides to you and invite you to stick a finger in the wounds to see if they’re real. It can’t hurt any worse than the questions already do. Suicide is no longer an option, though the thought dances in my head to a rhythm that I can totally dig. I’m too selfish to off myself and too hopeful that situations will improve. It is purely secondary that I append those thoughts with the idea that I have children who may want to have deep, meaningful conversations about love, death, war and the appropriation of knowledge with me. I shudder to think what I may be able to impart to them. I wish to draw the line, wish my father had drawn the line. Wish he had taken the course of his life that he wished to take and never had me so that he could’ve “become.” Part of my curse is that I feel, honestly, that I stood in my parent’s way. I
I blocked their road to happiness.
But not my mom for sure – she found Jesus and took solace in her faith. My dad died unhappy and lonesome (though he watched Fred Price on Sunday mornings, preaching from Crenshaw Christian.) Are you still here? What must you be thinking? And if you were to bring each and every thought to life, would it ever reach my ears? Okay, I know I’m not the Antichrist, because the Good Streak is there. I think.
A Purposeful Cripple</font>
Apart from the typical coaster tour footage, I was attempting to chronicle something else on this trip, maybe not on video, but in words. I wanted to write something along the lines of “Fear and Loathing In Las Vegas”, but not about drugs and sporting events and craziness and the rise and fall of idealism in a decade. Though there would be copious amounts of marijuana involved in whatever I wrote, it would not even be a shadow of Hunter S. Thompson’s inspirational book. Rather, I wanted the piece, whatever it would become, to reflect my mental fireworks as I embarked on a trip that for all purposes looked like it was recommended by God. The running theme was this: family. Where I’ve come from, what’s come from me – what I’ve adapted to, or whom. What I married into, whom I left behind. As an undercurrent – dependency. My depending on Ken, his depending on me, Chinesa’s depending on me, my depending on these damned crutches. And from out of the ankle injury came something fairly enlightening at the same time that it’s immensely frustrating. Living the albeit temporary lifestyle of a cripple in the City Of Sin.
There was a lot of fodder here for something good. Or at least insightful.
Unless you’ve ever broken an extremity that causes you to rely heavily on wheelchairs and crutches, you cannot know the change of perspective that takes place in the temporarily disabled. Besides the obvious sight line changes, it puts you in an exclusive club of others who have shared the same fate, thought some of the same thoughts and have borne the brunt of having to repair while attempting to go through life as before. It is a difficult, humbling experience that, as my band-mate Randy Kemp says, results in a lowering of self-esteem. The depression, the feeling of not being able to perform simple tasks easily, like going downstairs to get into a swimming pool. The inability to do things for oneself, like open a door or pull a book of matches from a brandy snifter on top of a piano. And the indignation that you feel, but don’t always display, when you’re attempting to do something for yourself and someone, out of kindness, pity, or a mixture of both, does it for you. This Cripple Club, it’s a lifetime membership. For once you’ve broken it, you hope to God that you don’t break it again lest you go through all of the rehabilitation one more time. You encounter those currently crippled, like the lady that entered the pool area just as I was leaving. She was on crutches and had a bootcast just like my own. Her husband, holding the door open for her, smiled and went to keep it open for my passage, but the lady and I caught look at one another and smiled.
“What’d you do?” she asked.
“Fractured my ankle.”
“Oh man, ouch.”
“What did you do?”
“I shattered my heel,” she said, and I cringed. “And I’ve got a torn rotator cuff” and she leaned her head towards her left shoulder.
“The crutching probably isn’t helping that much.”
“Well, the doctor said that it’s getting better because I haven’t been using it much, I’ve been favoring the crutches on this side.” She gestured again, as much as a person on crutches can. “How long do you have?” Then, looking at my unencumbered foot, “Oh, you’re done!”
“No, mine’s upstairs, I have three more weeks, but told them I wanted to be mobile for Vegas.”
“I decided to wear mine, I was afraid someone would bump into me – I’m not taking it off until I get to the pool!”
“How long have you been on?”
“Since January,” she said, and I cringed again.
We said our pleasant goodbyes and just behind the couple was a lady sunbathing who also inquired about my injury. She had just gotten her cast off three days before coming to Vegas, but unfortunately had to endure New York for the first time in the cast. She agreed that it was an experience that made an “exclusive club” out of all of us who had to go through it.
Before I made it up to the room where Ken was waiting, annoyed, at least four more people made comments about my leg and one woman said that her daughter had fallen off a swing and busted a hip. As we left the elevator, I turned and said, “she’ll be in my prayers.” The other woman who had left the elevator was headed in the opposite direction and I heard her say, “isn’t that sweet.” Keeping in mind that I’m a dreadlocked black man with a nose and nipple piercing on full display, it heartened me to see that when it came down to injuries – we’re all on the same boat, worthy of the same attention.
Sucking The Tit
I attract women who want to take care of me. It hasn’t always been that way and I haven’t always been open to it, but in the past several years of my life, it was more a means to an end. Hard-pressed to succeed so that I could raise my bounty to Heaven and proclaim to my parents that I had “done it!”, I buckled down over my computer keyboard, my musical keyboard, my mental keyboard and tried to figure out a way to make something out of this constantly advancing society. I had bowed out long ago, back when an ex-girlfriend named Kelly tried to entrap me into a paternity situation. Oh, I obliged for awhile, being the naive and foolish person that I was then (not that I don’t possess a certain naivete and foolishness presently) and paid child support but soon realized that I was being taken. The relationships between me and the mothers of my kids has always been an equal one. No-one, not Brenda, not Deborah, not Chris, had ever pursued child support because I was completely willing to pay whatever I could afford. That and the understanding between us was such that they knew where I was coming from with the whole “gotta be a pauper to pay the piper” angle. Kelly was the only one who decided to bleed money from a rock and only after prodding from her new boyfriend Josh Young. He had been a former admirer of mine from my days as a moderator on the Prodigy service. A strange, loping kind of dude from Georgia. When we first met in person, I was disenchanted with his view of me and didn’t particularly like him as an individual. As I choose my friends carefully, I decided that he was someone who needed to be excised from my inner circle. I simply wasn’t comfortable. Unfortunately, he took that affront rather personally. In the meantime, Kelly and I had already begun our descent into separation. We had been seeing other people and had even managed a threesome with one of the musicians that came into my studio down in Kissimmee to record. When she announced that she was pregnant, the timeline seemed to make sense. But after our estrangement, the birth of Casey and a good look at the child in court, I realized that I had been taken like an all-day sucker.
See, the Futch bloodline runs strong for one thing, and if you were to put my three kids in a room together, you’d absolutely count them for siblings. This child, however, had strong latino features and none of the standard Futch traits, like the round nose and eyes, caramel skin and kinky hair. So, I paid for awhile as I could afford it and then Prodigy laid off its moderators and I was stuck for income. Somewhere around that time, I began to do the math (it had only been a few months) and realized that all the facts were pointing towards Kelly’s railroading of me for lack of a tangible suspect. The timeline didn’t match up, we weren’t even sleeping together nine months prior – but she was sure shacking it up with guys from Universal Studios, where we met and where she continued to work. So, I protested, and they protested, and I protested, and they lashed back, and it disintegrated into a morass of legalise. All I needed to do was figure out how to contest paternity, because in my heart, from then, till now, I knew that I had a leg to stand on, so to speak. Word leaked, people in Orlando knew, child support came along to collect, sought out employers, threatened to garnish wages, tried to suspend my license. But I was already gone from the system. Disillusioned by how one woman and a vindictive ex-friend could wield so much power in a supposedly just land, the edict that the “woman is always right in the eyes of the law” simply stunk to me and still does. (I’m not alone, check out http://fathersrc.com/ or http://www.declaration.net/z-art-members-trapp-deadbeat.asp for two small examples of the seldom-heard counterpoint.) How do you like me now? Is this bugging you? They say the “truth hurts” one way or the other. And “ignorance is bliss.” It speaks volumes about how we process our information and seek out our justice, doesn’t it?
At this point, you may be wondering “why bother with such a long, drawn-out treatise?” Passion, longing, fulfillment and a need to purge so strongly that if words were truly bile, the screen should be black before you.
Does it all end happy?
I don’t really know. I haven’t finished living yet. Perhaps through one of my more reputable sources, it can be done. It might be worthy to note that just about everyone in my dysfunctional circle also thinks that Kelly’s claims are false. We’ll know soon enough, as the DNA testing will prove once and for all what the deal is. For the record, I’m willing to accept that I may be wrong, though every fiber of my being aligns with the idea that I’ve been wrongly fingered. Part of my journey out of the black hole of consciousness currently is to accept what is and to deal with it on terms that are near universal, if such a thing can be had. What is the yardstick? Where is that yardstick? Who do we truly use as a measure of what is good, right and true? If you burp and utter “society”, then you also have a long road to travel.
The Valley Of Fire
In the Bible, it is said that the Lake Of Fire is the Second Death. Anyone who hadn’t done something or such by this and that time, they were thrown into the Lake Of Fire. In desperate need of an experience with something real and deep to explore, I began rooting around on the Triple A Map and Go software installed on the laptop and began searching the area for something within fifty miles or so that wouldn’t involve neon, dancing girls, buffets or free keychains. I had selected a place that sounded promising and what it actually was is inconsequential. The fact of the matter is, we stopped at a store to get a cooler and some ice for the Silver Bullets stored in the back seat and when Ken came out, he had some story about the clerk who had told him of a place about 45 minutes outside of Las Vegas called The Valley Of Fire.
My first thought was that in any tripped out desert movie ever produced, it’s scenarios like this that get young men killed.
“The Valley Of Fire.” I said.
“Yes, apparently it’s one of her favorite natural sights in the area, she said it’s a shame that most people will never see it.” Ken said.
The last time I took some friendly advice from a stranger, we ended up driving through more miles of backwater country town than you could ever shake a stick at, and it took forever and a day to get where we wanted to be. Right leisurely. But on this present hot day on the outskirts of the Nevada desert, we went for the scenic route, suggested on a whim by some lady who might’ve had a “Blair Witch” streak or two in her.
When we arrived in the Valley Of Fire, the sun had just taken its last stand and bathed our vista in stunning, golden light. The ever-sloping grade that we were driving upon stretched out before us while huge, jutting flanks of red rock formed a solid wave in the distance and beyond, the outer shores of Lake Mead traipsing blue on a none-too-hot day in the basin. “Welcome to Valley Of Fire National Park” said the brown and white standard federal signage. Another one tacked timidly on as an afterthought said, “vehicles subject to fee.”
I really can’t think right now, though the morning joint helped quite a bit and the Coors Light longnecks that are serving as breakfast have kept me on a numb balance. After last night’s tete a tete about Ken and his mincing, doting, too-close-for-comfort behaviour in public, I wanted to spend a good portion of Sunday holed up in the hotel room alone, writing down thoughts and piecing together everything that’s taken place so far. At this point in reading, I’m delivering to you bits and pieces of the picture. The clues and overt references you may’ve figured out by now are nothing compared to the whole story, but you will have that before it’s all through. In any case, he is hovering, nay – shadowing me at this very moment. Standing in that awkward silence of his, finding absolutely no good reason to stand there, so he inspects a picture, doles about the window, all the while stealing glances at me that are not imagined, because I feel them against the hot of my neck. He is stoned now, and this has brought out the true Ken to a degree of finality. Laying upon the bed and watching me struggle with the AOL connection, he proceeds to giggle in small, fey fits, quite enjoying himself. I have never reined in any individual in the throes of a good mind-altering experience, as long as it didn’t create some sort of hideous, bad vibe. Well, my own strange, uncomfortable atmosphere around Ken was only heightened by his sudden regression into Right-Brain Land. And even now, as I turn with the excuse of wanting to do a sweep of the room, to catch that vibe, he is sitting there, head turned quickly to hide the fact that he was doing absolutely nothing but watching me sit here and type. Just laying on the bed, stroking his beard, he thinks I can’t see him, but my peripheral vision is absurdly good, though I’m quite near-sighted in general. This is madness, and I wish to tell him to go away, but am also fascinated to be able to record it all, to write it as it happens, as I try to puzzle out what this all means. So that life’s record will reveal itself and then perhaps, in the name of all things stupefying, they might also puzzle out what it all means. Dysfunction finds a way. It adapts just like humans. That was abundantly clear in The Valley Of Fire.
Just A Note</font>
Ken and I have never slept together, never kissed, never embraced the idea of any such union and I’m not a homophobic because I’ve done my share of experimentation in life. If I was gay, it wouldn’t be with Ken. It would be with David Tavin perhaps, but it wouldn’t be with Ken.
The Valley Of Fire (With no further interruptions from the author)
Ken says that he’s just trying to “calm down” and that’s a reasonable enough excuse to sit on a bed and stare into space. Unless you are the space being stared at, and that’s bound to fondle some neurosis. I have too many secrets, they spill out of my eyeholes, it’s hard to put up some sort of smoke screen, I really can’t tell a lie. I can act like I can tell a lie, but my voice and mannerisms will give me away every time. Perhaps then, it’s a small wonder that I can look someone in the eye and tell them something that’s completely untrue and not feel a damn thing. What is that, I often wonder. What can flip the switch so easily in my head? I saw Dan Rather on the “O’Reilly Factor” with that smart-ass host and Dan said something that was rather astounding to me, coming from the old school as he does. He said, “it’s alright to lie, sometimes.” And I paraphrase, but although he argued against a number of accusations about transcripts and the like with Bill, he wouldn’t refute that he admitted on national t.v., on Fox, of all networks, that it was okay to lie if the situation called for it. So much for your media pillars of moral decency. Call it the Fall of Chung effect.
Even Hunter S. Thompson admits to falcifying a good portion of “Fear and Loathing In Las Vegas” on the grounds that it made for great reading.
“I’ll get out of your hair, sooner or later,” says Ken as he lounges back on the bed and makes those annoying “whew” noises every once in a while. I remember being a young teen in the presence of my dad or someone that I thought was nifty – and I’d want to say something to them, but would wimp out and instead would use the built-up air in my chest to release a noncommittal “whew” sound. It was an easy way out, unless the person was on to you. I have done that, so I can spot it a mile away, and Ken “whews” a lot. Though I suspect that it’s half the renegging on saying something and it’s half a pathetic cry for sameness. A way of saying, “hey, I exist – acknowledge me.” That doesn’t work with me, especially when I’m in a creative zone. The juggling act of kinetic insobriety that occurs in my brain when the muse has been kind enough to give me a whack in the noggin, it’s no parlor trick. It’s got Copperfield written all over it. And I set to work, because I’ve been usually waiting for this moment for quite some time, allowing the emotional constipation to keep me from truly living through my art. I must be jarred, brought out of some routine, so adaptive to one way of living or the next. I’m the king of that. I’ve slept on couches, paid my years of rent, stayed with girlfriends, managed to get rooms rent free from friends and finally married a woman who lives to support me, not the other way around. It’s not that I’m unwilling to be productive, it’s just that I won’t settle for anything less than what I want. It should be a God choice, but who’s listening to Him now? I called myself “open” and figured on waiting a while to see what would happen. But I’m thinking about taking the helm again and raising hell. It may be too late to save my family. At least a percentage of me hopes not. This trip, so far, isn’t proving that I’m ready for any kind of a normal life, unless I’m truly seeing and feeling what someone else would be feeling too.
Now Ken is standing, chewing gum loudly and reading a Las Vegas magazine. He makes occasional breath exhalations that sound like he’s just finished walking up a flight of stairs, but all he’s been doing is wandering around the hotel room and taking random pause to check out what I’m doing in this corner. I somehow managed to veto my morning swim and jacuzzi workout because I thought he was reading my journals. Indeed, his pokings and proddings on the laptop are what woke me up, and I remained in a sleeping position with my back turned, listening to him type and sit, then type and sit. I finally got up to see what he was looking at and he suddenly clicked something and I caught a glimpse of Triple AAA Map and Go running in the foreground. Ken said he wanted to use the AOL for checking his e-mail, maybe I shouldn’t have left the journal on the desktop. He stands, chawing gum furiously, peeking out at the cityscape and pacing around the edge of his bed, hand going to his hair, one foot propped up on toe, as if he’s unsure he wants to make the next step. He peers around just over my shoulder, not ten feet away, perhaps waiting for me to look up, afraid of stopping the bullet train of words that pour out of me, hoping to maintain and record, maintain and record, then look over [[toll92]] it later and tell me am i FUCKING CRAZY? Would this not bother anyone else? A sigh there. He is circling in the space between the two beds. Glancing at the wallpaper in here as if he’s never seen it before, rubbing his arm, and giving a cursory once over of everything around. Now back at my side, standing, looking at the skyline, horking in short repeating breaths and now looking down at me, pretending to look at a picture just above the chair in front of the laptop. I take a swig of Coors and he has a chance to say something, but he doesn’t. He turns, legs still shaky, swaying back and forth and rubbing his hands together. He can’t stand still. He is filled with neurosis. I glance up at him and he says, quickly, “what?” in a dull monotone, a soft honking and then he’s moving across the room – “whew,” he says, “okay,I’m gonna try going out now, do you need anything?”
“Cigarettes,” I rasp. “if you run into them.”
“What would I do if I should run into them?”
“Run away, they’re evil things.”
“I should stay away, they’re addictive things.”
I should know. These horrible HoneyRose cloves that I had bought to mask the scent of green, savory ganga from my good friend Mr. B, they were nicoteine free and I figured that to be a safe and thoughtful move. But they smelled like dirty socks when they burned and there was no familiar sting of tar on the tongue and lungs, so they were a failure, and worth only as incense in our room. Our room that Ken, who has long since made his imminent exit known, is wandering through and looking into mirrors and smacking gum, unsure of whether to leave or to stay. One of my main problems with Ken, his seeming inability to commit to situations in my presence without my being there. I could see the desire to share time with somebody special, but to hang around and simply want to be in their presence? Not only that, but to
seem to want to devour their essence? To become like them?
He calls it “seeing the world through my eyes” and I call it “Single White Female.” Up until a few days ago, Ken was an ardent non-admirer of beer – yet, as I sat in the passenger seat chugging the contents of some cheap twelve pack of brew, he joined in on the festivities – bringing the danger of incarceration up a notch from the mere possesion of marijuana to criminal D.U.I. and in Clark County, they don’t fool around. But it didn’t matter, because my journey, however ballistic, was taking place in whatever situation it needed to and if Ken felt the urge to chime in, as he had wanted to with the Ecstasy, then he should be free, unless the situation called for his ass to drive, but not liking beer, he would hopefully just stop at two. By the time we had gotten out to Buffalo Bill’s to shoot some video stand-up in front of the Desperado rollercoaster, we were both fairly loopy, yet able to maintain when the security guy rolled over in his dusty white vehicle and suggested that we shoot in the adjacent parking lot. This was the same morning that Ken had foregone his natural dislike of pork products in order to chime in on a sandwich experience that he had previously denied that he would try. The Breakfast Jack is one of the world’s great breakfast sandwiches and Ken swore that it sounded disgusting to him a couple of days ago when we blew into town. But sure enough, by the second day of this long put-off male bonding excursion, he was there, heartily biting into his Breakfast Jack. What scares me is that if I were to ask Ken if he’d like to have sex, I think that mostly on his desire to be more like me, he’d agree, not because he really wanted to have sex with me. But that’s beside the point, though he’s denied it – he’s spoken openly of envy of my body, wanting to have a body like mine. And while I know that I’ve got a decent build, I spend most of my time carping like an adolescent girl about how I’ve got “a lot of work to do.” Ken does make me feel good about myself, but not that good. Though I’ve had my homosexual experimentation, they never involved him or taking it up the ass, that distinction purely mine to make clear. The face of it is, even if I were a homosexual, I wouldn’t be attracted to Ken. He’d be one of those that I see and think, “well, there’s someone for everyone,” and keep right on walking.
Good spirit, good soul, smart guy – a little nerdy, but then again, I’m laying claim to the “nerd” title. But I can switch out of “nerd” mode in a heartbeat. Ken, bless his soul, is stuck there until someone can start teaching classes on how to be cool. Ken’s cool in a different galaxy, problem is – it’s got low population. He shares a pretty good interaction with my ex-girlfriend Christine, who is mother of my three-year old daughter Katrina and also a good friend of mine. I’ve had the uncannily kind blessings to have been able to maintain friendly relationships with the mothers of my kids after the dissolution of whatever it was that we had. Chris has had her days of hate and bile, sent out in [[toll91]] searching, guilt-lined missiles of destruction towards a father who didn’t want the child or the mother for the long-haul. Honestly, I could’ve done with the Friend for life, we complicated things with sex and ended up with more than we bargained for. But because she and Katrina are in the same state, I’m more of a physical entity in her life than I am with my two sons, Vincent and Patrick.
They’re both looking forward to seeing me this week. It’ll be part of an annual reunion with Vincent, and it was always nice to see Debby again, though what I ever saw in her I’ll never know. With Patrick, it’ll be nine years since I last saw him, not by my choice, but his hotheaded mother Brenda, who is just as unscrupulous as I.
The hotel room is empty and it feels good. I’ve turned down the air conditioner and set it to “fan only” so that it doesn’t feel quite so artificial in here. We kept the a/c on while driving through the Valley of Fire, but I also had the window open, savoring the dry desert heat and the scents of open country, rock, the dusty scents of time. The late afternoon sun hung high in the sky still, ducking behind a big bank of grey cumulus as we paid our fee and began the scenic tour. With a Bob Marley disc in the CD player and a fresh stick of Jamaica’s Finest blazing, we ended up doing a video/photo shoot in front of a huge wall of red sandstone. The totality of aloneness is striking out there and the evidence of roads are buried within the sagebrush and heat refractions vaporing off of them. Suddenly, we were centerstage in a John Ford western and thoughts of survival immediately sprung to mind. Where was the last gas station we passed? Moapa, the Indian reservation store. How far was it from here and were there patrols that swept through this canyon of winding two-lane blacktop and gravel side roads? The 2001 Chevy Malibu performed in outstanding fashion on some of those slippery, chunky trails, its suspension handling the shocks like a champ. When we got to Atlatl Rock, it was clear that we were the only ones there – a vast three-story flight of stairs led up to one side of the towering, carved sandstone where ancient tribal petroglyphs could be spied, mixed in with the more recent tribal tagging of the 20th century. The area at the base of the monolithic outcropping was awash in red Martian-like sand and grey and white pebbles serving as bananas in the oatmeal. Furry desert critters scampered in living true-life adventures across the sands and into indigenous plants and bushes. Looking up at the observation platform, I was already crutching over the sand, sinking the grey-rubber tips of the crutches until they disappeared into the mix. A crunching of tires behind us and we turned to see a white Toyota Corolla creeping uncertainly into the parking lot, which was shaped sort of like a horsehoe. Ken and I stood and contemplated Atlatl Rock while the crunching of sand under foot and foreign female voices were upon our backs. Two oriental girls swung past us as Ken said, “hi” and they answered back in shy English. Climbing the stairs, they chattered and took pictures at every flight. Some sort of large fly took keen interest in my ears and I took my dreads out of the scrunchy that had been holding them off of my neck and began shaking them as a cow swipes its tail around. So nice to know the practical applications of dreadlocks.
Halfway up the staircase, we encounter the two girls and I offer up a hearty “hello” to them as we meet at a platform some 90 feet in the air. They echo my greeting and the one leading the expedition back down says, “that must be very difficult.” I have left my crutches below and am using only the iron handrail to steady my ascent. They told me I could use a little pressure on the foot in the bootcast, so I’m taking as much pressure as I can off by way of the handrail. Two days of scooting around Vegas in a wheelchair has helped prepare for this endurance climb. “It’s great exercise,” I say as I angle toward the third and final flight, which will take us right up to the petroglyphs at the top of the observation platform. Ken is behind me, carrying the video camera, his 35mm and my beer – which will cloak the dust of a 105 degree desert very nicely at the top. The two girls continue down and eventually hop into their rental car and depart, leaving myself and Ken at the top of the staircase, observing the ancient writings and marvelling at the stupidity of the people who somehow clambered over the sheeted plastic and mesh wall placed there by knowing state park engineers, and managed to scribe senseless hearts and dates drivel over the apparent hunting story of a long-gone Indian tribe. Of course, the petroglyphic message might’ve been nothing more than a proclamation of love just as the graffiti served – a testament to those that come later, just what took place here. A record, long-standing, so that your memory, your acts, your legacy outlasts your own, frail life.
Six billion people on the planet – and growing. But our planet shrinks.
I am amazed at your persistence. You are reading these words and continuing along the journey. I, of course, have given up everything. I bandied about with the concept of wieghing it all out there for the sake of supreme purging and have always scaled back with the argument that it was “too much information.” No matter. For I know that I will survive at all costs and even though this readership may expand beyond the borders of one state of the union, it would take more than a million people to bring me down. This text will be indexed and robots and spiders will file away my efforts. If I should die even at this very moment, I have been saving every paragraph and the spiders will find it. The spiders, if not the readers, will remember. Today, my wife brought up the subject of wet chips – the kind of computer memory that thinks like a human brain. We had a lively discussion about the possibilities. There, that word again. O, mankind – when do you find your plateau and does such a thing exist? Man, who is not content to simply exist, but must conquer as well? We have torn open the wound of understanding and brushed past it as a man brushes past marked-down blouses in a woman’s petite store as he flags down his wife. Not everyone cares. And not all the right people hold a key. We take our lessons from what we hear, see, feel and touch. There are other ways to learn, naturally – but by example, we take our behaviours and only a few human characteristics can be put down to instinct. Instinct has been sabatoged by intellect. The smart ones will tell you that.
No More Fire – Now, The Ice
You may be having trouble following this narrative and I really don’t blame you one whit. Part of it was written on the road in the early part of June as these events happened and part of this was composed over the course of six or seven hours during the early hours of June 20th as it crept over the country. My resolve to allow this sort of extreme laundry-hanging came about with almost a quiet agreement. In my head previously, I wasn’t quite ready to throw such a document to the multimedia winds. I wasn’t even sure how to start the damn thing, wasn’t sure of what I wanted to say. But the brief text that I composed in Las Vegas, before the lugubrious second half of the trip set in, I think is dead-on, unblinking, a perfect eye into the mindset of a man at a crossroads.
I hope I don’t come off as defiant, but rather as someone who realizes that plumbing can be switched-out. Whatever picture anyone paints of me, as long as I am honest about who I am and what I know, there is nothing that a body or a force can throw against me. This is the edge that so many hotshots crave and delude themselves against; this is the angle that could conceivably become fashionable at some point in time; how I wish that no-one had any closets and that we could all float our shit to the top of the well so that it may be siphoned off, scooped out and that only the pure would remain. Such abandon, such reckless abandon, seems to only exist in the hearts of the stalwart and the indignant.
In hindsight, I’ve shed light in the corners of this narrative and didn’t make it obvious because I’m trying to do two things at once here. Make a partial confession and also make something that is, questionably artistic. Maybe you will shutter aside your personal contempt or support and simply read this as some read the Bible as ordinary literature. I undertook this task with the idea that it might be the last thing I ever write and I’ve been unfailingly honest with the content as I was with what was written in Las Vegas. Aside from the stupidly extemporaneous chapter markings, this is a chronicle of humility and pride stirred into a soup that may never make a menu. But I am assured of one thing: it shall always make a meal.
For the record, I am weak from taking the hand-out. For the record, I am disheartened by my behaviour towards friends and family. For the record, I’m proud of my efforts in helping others to achieve their goals, especially those that I do not know. It’s easier to be somewhat ignorant and to give aid than to have enough time to formulate opinions and withhold your assistance, and that’s strictly the way I see things.
Denouement
We saw Penn and Teller at the Rio later that night. I had wanted to see someone from classic Vegas, like Wayne Newton, who was performing in the “Wayne Newton Theater” at the Stardust. Or something cutting edge for the new style of Vegas like Blue Man Group at the Luxor. However, seats and prices sucked for both of those shows, so we opted for somewhat of a compromise and settled for Penn and Teller, who have been around long enough to qualify for classic Vegas and also are hip enough to represent”new” Vegas as well. As the first Las Vegas headliner show that I’ve seen since going with my mother to see the Smothers Brothers at the Riviera back in the 70’s, I was a little dissappointed in the types of tricks and patter they performed, seemingly below the scale for the duo who have broadcast much more amazing and mind-blowing illusions on network television specials, the very villains that steal the fire away from live performances such as this. The show was well-done and Penn Jillette is a captivating showman, though the best parts, as he so duly noted, came when the pair was able to take a trick and infuse it with content, such as their apparent burning of the American Flag within a scroll of the Bill of Rights. Though they showed how the trick was done, the tri-cornered flag is passed through the paper cone into a pocket on Penn’s back and flash paper is ignited by a “magic wand” lighter to scorch through the tube and give the illusion that it has burned up. Penn stated that it wasn’t the question of whether or not they had actually just burned a flag on stage – but it was that they performed magic in a country that (supposedly) would honor, by way of the 1st amendment, your right to do such a thing in the name of entertainment. It was an edgy angle to a simple magic trick and it paid off, as Penn predicted, by being something to think about long after the show was over.
You have the right to feel what you feel. You have a right to say how you feel. It may not go over well in the face of popular opinion, but you should be able to say it without wondering if this will affect your life forever. People’s brains shouldn’t be so soft that if you counter their accepted method of living, that you lock yourself off and no longer consider them worthy of the same liberties that this country is supposed to offer you by right of drawing breath. It’s an old argument.
By the time Ken gets back to the room to “check on me”, I will be pleasantly pickled and able to handle some of his more grievously apparent public fumblings. If I care too much about what people think, it’s because I’m neurotic like that, and it’s a problem that I must work with. The need to shrink back and away from the rising tide of human society in action rings
