Friday, February 27, 2009

Masters Rule The Game

Death pokes me inside. Softens me up for the big strike. How swift will it be? How painful? Ideally, my brain will suddenly disconnect and that'll be it. Meat for the crows squawking outside my window. Instead of cremation, I'm turned into crow shit, splatting a car window, rinsed away by wiper fluid. Do they have greeting cards for that?

Her eyes fooled me from the jump. Her stiff date for the wedding wouldn't dance with her, so I stepped in and spun her around. Dipped her, grabbed her tight waist, lifted her up and right into me. She blushed, stared at me unblinking. Rita Hayworth features. Juliet Binoche eyes. Those motherfucking eyes. I had her, and she me. Later, at a post-wedding party, we made out in a small bathroom. I lifted her short skirt, ran my hand along her panty line. No resistance. Her eyes were open, tender. But too much noise outside for me to relax. We exited the bathroom separately. She kept staring at me from across the room, holding her date's hand.

Years later, we met again. Her eyes still beautiful, but her soul chained to the floor. Tight-assed. Prissy. After awhile, I started in as I had before. She acted shocked. Lectured me on my boorish behavior and contempt for women. It was over. It would never happen. I blew it back in that bathroom. But Christ, those eyes stay with me.

Arguing on Manhattan streets was often the best release. One girlfriend and I did it constantly. Let each other have it, in full public view. Fuck you! Asshole! Bitch! Prick! At the top of our lungs. And the beauty of it was that no one cared. Sometimes a young black guy or group of Puerto Rican kids would laugh and urge us on, but usually we met with widespread indifference. You'd think that with all this passion spilling into the street, our sex life was wild. Uh, no. I grew to detest her physically, even though she was somewhat attractive. She would've done anything I desired. I preferred to argue. Fucked in the head was my pussy.

After posting my little Orson Welles festival yesterday, I realized I omitted the best clip.

And here's Gore Vidal spanking Lincoln and assorted American authors on a 1984 edition of "Crossfire." Old Tom Braden. An ex-CIA man playing The Left on CNN. I still do a pretty good impression of him. When Phil Agee appeared on the show, promoting his book about his break from the CIA, Braden opened with: "Mr. Agee -- why are you such a RAT?!"

Finally, Sparks on SNL, May 15, 1982.