I have no idea what was running through Robert Benchley's mind back in 1925 when he wrote the sentence immortalized in my subject header, but let me take a stab at it anyway.

1) If Golden Corral had existed, he may have been referring to that ubiquitous third trip through the buffet line. However, the advent of Alka Seltzer around the same time would most likely preclude any proclamation of gustatory guilt. [Note to readers: Start at the end of the chow line and work your way forward, as buffets are notorious for front-loading with leafy green vegetables, pudding and such so that you don't have any room for the roast beef au jus, Manwich, or what have you.]

2) Benchley could possibly be admonishing one specific trip to the Algonquin the night before a particularly important editorial deadline. But seeing as I know a little something about neither bars nor deadlines, I cannot suppose.

3) Dorothy Parker, long noted as an insufferable companion -- and a sufferer, could prove to be a likely source for the above-mentioned quote for she was known to be a steadily bad influence on the writer. "Tontant Dwinker," I believe is the acronym.

4) A trip to anywhere in New Jersey. Enough said.

5) My final guess would have to include something to do with the workplace. Oh, how Benchley hated toiling in the confines of an office, as do most of us. But seeing as our present occupations enable our spouses to live in the manner to which they have become accustomed, work has become a necessary evil. Although, the thought of abruptly quitting to go live off of the free salad bar at Golden Corral can't be altogether discarded.

Reality, or illusion?

Seismic representations of the tectonic plates shifting in my head.

Sand moving, land colliding.

Revealing the fault lines than run through my mind.

Energy expelled from the interior out.

Forcing its way through rock and loam, to roil the surface.

Two worlds colliding. Fragments of the same piece.

Struggling to join fractured stone to stone,

Inches apart. Miles to go.

A century of silence.

Grass and soil bridging the years.

Cool to the bare foot, one ear to the ground.

Reality, or illusion?

Current Mood: cheerful

Car tires kiss the hot pavement of Loop 610 as a cool dusk settles in, blanketing the rooftops of the Houston skyline. I point out our hotel among the air conditioned glass spires filled with fluorescent lights and shadowy figures behind white curtains. Muted televisions beckon from behind closed doors. Other voices, other room keys. The carpet smells of disinfectant and perfumed hemlines as Doug and I roll our luggage through amnestic wallpapered hallways searching for "614." We will tell people that we have been here before, although not yet. The anticipation is almost palpable, and the night is just beginning four hours into our journey. Tussled bed, quick showers, black tee-shirts and tight jeans, hustlers in Montrose on our way to the bars, and a late night chicken fried chicken in a cozy booth at a diner that would have seated us separately forty years ago. He is my ideal, as I look across the table fork extended. This is where I belong, I tell myself between mouthfuls of artificially yellowed gravy. Words become suddenly incongruent. Letters placed randomly, just so, trying to approximate what my heart is attempting to spell out. We jump in the car and head west, toward the hotel, toward a sun that is setting somewhere in the world, no map in hand. Another journey.

Current Mood: happy

As seen at a recent exhibition highlighting art from New York City in the 80's:

Waiting room tables
Ladies Home Journal and Vogue
Expired subscriptions.

-------------------------------------
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
-------------------------------------

Renowned Scholar Cracks "Carr Paradox"

Austin, TEXAS, SEPTEMBER 14, 2078. At the turn of the millennium, a little known Texas author was posting to blogs and creating a name for himself on the World Wide Web, as it was referred to at the time. His treatises on life, sex, and the predicament of casual fashion as it directly correlates to the decline of Western civilization were hailed by fans and critics alike. For years following his death, researchers scrutinized these written gems for clues to crack the mystery that shrouded the reclusive writer's life. Now, after fourteen years of sleuthing, Portland author Francine Esther Harding — herself an artist — claims she has the answer. And her online reference work, OrWhatHaveYou.Org, will eventually reveal all.

You might call it “The Carr Paradox,” but a more accurate title would be “Brian Carr's Philosophy about Things on Places.” The term was coined by the Oregonian scholar herself. It is also the title of her essay to appear next year in "The Trans-Orbital Monthly," now available on most interplanetary shuttle flights.

The paradox, according to Harding, is that the War on Terror era scribe, Brian Carr, conspicuously flaunted his homosexual affinities throughout his entire life, but never became a recognized member of the gay movement itself. This factoid hints at a far more fundamental problem: the writer was consumed by his own sexuality.

“The only solution to the paradox,” asserts Harding, “is to keep your grip on both horns of the dilemma and never let go of either one. Carr was the propagator of ‘the institution of manly love’ yet he always felt on the periphery of the gay community. My research explains how this maddening contradiction was possible.”


And the answer to the Carr Paradox? Was Carr a Queer? “The answer,” quips Harding, “is no, Carr was not a Queer. He was infinitely too good of a Queer to ever be a Queer.”

For more information, contact:
Francine Esther Harding, Curator
OrWhatHaveYou.Org
75521 N Woolsey Ave
Portland
OR 97203
latetrain459@yahoo.com

Standing barefoot on loamy bank,
facing east, toes baptized in silt,
I watch the flames lick the sky,
a frenetic tarantella of ember and ash.

A house, once coveted,
longing to seduce me in the in blue light
of flickering tv screens.

Abandoned desires for kindling,
a blistering new tenant to replace the old.

I hold the match.

sometimes reality is stranger than fiction...

FROM: IVORY COAST WEST AFRICA
DEAREST ONE,

I AM MISS FAITH AKU FROM IVORY COAST AND I AM CONTACTING YOU
BECAUSE I NEED YOUR HELP IN THE MANAGEMENT OF SUM OF MONEY THAT MY LATE
FATHER LEFT FOR ME BEFORE HE DIED.THE MONEY IS USD 5.7 MILLION U.S DOLLARS AND THE MONEY IS IN ONE OFF THE SECURITY COMPANIES HERE IN ABIDJAN.

MY FATHER WAS A VERY RICH COCOA FARMER AND HE WAS POISONED BY HIS
BUSINESS COLLEAGUES AND NOW I WANT YOU TO STAND AS MY GUIDIAN AND APPOINTED
BENEFICIARY AND RECEIVE THE MONEY IN YOUR COUNTRY SINCE I AM ONLY GIRL AND 21YEARS OLD AND WITHOUT MOTHER AND FATHER.

PLEASE I WILL LIKE YOU TO REPLY ME BACK THIS EMAIL SO THAT I WILL TELL
YOU MORE ABOUT THE INFORMATION SO THAT THIS MONEY WILL BE TRANSFERRED TO YOUR ACCOUNT
SO THAT YOU WILL GET ME PAPERS TO TRAVEL TO YOUR COUNTRY TO CONTINUE MY
EDUCATION THERE? I AM WAITING FOR YOUR URGENT REPLY AND I WILL CALL YOU
AS SOON AS I HEAR FROM YOU. AND I WILL SEND YOU A COPY OF MY PICTURE. HEARING FROM YOU. WILL LET YOU KNOW THE PERSON YOU ARE HELPING.
THANKS.

MISS FAITH AKU

Well, I managed to drag my ass out of the house at the crack of noon today to go see that "American Twenties" exhibit over at UT's Harry Ransom Center. Personally, I do see what all the fuss is about seeing as I'm convinced that in a past life must have I lived through the Harlem renaissance back in '24. (Or the stock crash of '29... I keep forgetting which.) So, this excursion was like slipping on a familiar coat, visiting old friends -- or is that slipping up getting familiar with old friends?
In any case, I was greeted at the entrance by a wall sized placard with the sobering words of Frederick Lewis Allan that I found impossible not to roll around on my tongue repeatedly, like a hard candy that you can't help but savor:

" Soon the mists of distance would soften the outlines of the nineteen- twenties, and men and women, looking over the pages of a book such as this, would smile at the memory of those charming, crazy days when the radio was a thrilling novelty, and girls wore bobbed hair and knee- length skirts, and a trans-Atlantic flyer became a god overnight, and common stocks were about to bring us all to a lavish Utopia. They would forget, perhaps, the frustrated hopes that followed the war, the aching disillusionment of the hard-boiled era, its oily scandals, its spiritual paralysis, the harshness of its gaiety; they would talk about the good old days ...."

The exhibit was broken down into themes, each room more or less encompassing some movement or cultural shift that occured in art, literature, music, architecture and interior design. "Babbitts and Bohemians," gave way to "The Rise of Women," which in turn led to "The New Negro." The door on the left led to the bathrooms and segregated drinking fountains.

I was particularly struck by the artifacts in "Hollywood's Dream Factory" including an actual flapper gown and black and white gelatin prints of the likes of Gloria Swanson, Douglas Fairbanks, and Mary Pickford.
There was even a wall-sized lithograph of a Houdini poster entitled "Man from Beyond," that showed the magician being taunted by jungle natives in a block of ice. Most tantalizing -- almost like that night I got lost on E. 12th Street.


What really grabbed my attention though was a portrait of the inimitably bobbed Louise Brooks in a miu-miu that exclaimed "ANOTHER CHINESE DISTURBANCE!" It went on to say that Miss Brooks, a new player at Paramount Pictures exhibits the latest in Oriental style, with a jacket of brocade and matching mules unseen on this continent.
I, for one, can vouch that this is one trend that won't be making a return appearance at your local North American Target.

I cannot tell a lie. I must tell several, in quick succession. And why not? What else am I supposed to do when faced with this... "assignment," for lack of a better term. ("Dilemma" was already being used.) I was given the task to go into my literary closet and resurrect the dead. Poems and prose alike, just hanging there lifeless on wire hangers no less. Outfits once destined for the Salvation Army had to be stitched into a passable frock for daytime wear -- and cocktails at 11am. Hemline above the knee, if you please.
How was I to bring new meaning to these works that had found themselves couched comfortably in the confines of a dark 3x5 cell awaiting word from my executors for the date and time of my estate sale? These are the items that would be placed in -- what do they call them? LOTS, oh yes. A fancy catch-all term for "everything in this box $1."
Anyways, this whole ordeal got me to thinking about my own mortality. And the fact that I'm half past due for a Manhattan. They say that when you have a photograph taken, that it takes away a part of your soul. Personally, I think they are getting "soul" and "salary" mixed up, but that's beside the point. What I'm trying to say is that we writers pour so much of ourselves onto the printed page, certainly we must sacrifice a little bit of our life energy to the written word. Believe you me, there's a small charge to be paid the Reaper for every split infinitive and dangling participle. A short story is all good and well. But, a novel will just about fuck you up in the worst way. Hell, cigarettes only chop 7 minutes off your life, but a serialized book will top that by a good half hour.
The way I see it, there really is no use in going back to revisit the past and find it inadequate to the memory of the present. You can't unscramble an egg. The stories are still there, in the shoebox of my mind... but the shoes are missing. There, I've gone and done it. I've ruined the assignment. Allow me a moment to collect my thoughts and punish myself with a thirst-quenching cocktail.

Current Mood: creative