Wednesday, May 07, 2003

I am not so smurfing insensitive that I think I tell stories well. I know I am bad at telling stories, like I ain't much good at anything, but check it out: the guys who are good at doing things, Leadership Men, the Credits to Their Stinky Races, they're good at things and good at things and it all just ends up blowey uppy over Baghdad. Leadership Men thrive in an environment of Quality Fiction. They are churned out by the Institutions of Literature. Skanky Yale University. Leadership Men love Jesus. FAITH and TALENT and DUTY always seem to end in MURDEROUSNESS. The Institutions Of Literature are hypocritical and goonky and we need to leave them alone and let them fall down. Instead let's promote an anarchist home and garden aesthetic of Cockroach Sculpture Installation. We need a Fiction of making movies for ants. We seem to be stuck here in this dirty ashpile so we might as well conceptually decorate it for our brethren vermin. The thing is: when Koo was playing on the Radio he was playing the Half Million or something watts burning into the Desert Sky, and the ukulele was just something he happened to have hold of. Koo played sad because he was sad, mostly, and the electricity cried. Crying electricity skipping along the barb wire fences out in the Texas Desert Night. It was like once upon a time you heard a sound that was pretty good and it came back to you. I am trying, mostly, to remember what that sounded like. Koo played guitar flat on his lap, generally, when he played guitar. Koo played sad because he was sad, sad and tired. All the years of Murderousness had pressed on him. You can hear the sadness skipping in the white noise. When we lived in Nacogdoches up on the hill on East Austin was where I gave myself to Jesus the first time after hitting an existential hole following a viewing of the first half of Billy Wilder's Ace in the Hole on CBS Night at the Movies. Billy Wilder and Billy Graham come in at me from the same box. Bob Dylan appeared first for me in that same house. I read my first Playboy in that house. They all of them skank bit players in a variety culture show aimed at making me feel sad. I hate all of them. Preachers, and Teachers, and PopStars they have all of them failed me. It was in Nacogdoches in that house up on East Austin that one day I came upon Poppa spinning the dial of his fm receivr through the white noise. "What you doing?" I asked. "Listening for Koo Kowlick." 12:57:56 PM    comment []