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by
Adam Engel
May
31, 2003
I’m
bad. Bad to the bone-marrow. B-b-b-bad.
Nevertheless
– and how’s this for “Un-American” sour grapes? – THE MAN is so deep inside my
head I can’t even croak-out without melodrama, without conjuring up some
fantasy scene outta one of HIS TV shows. True, I haven’t watched television
regularly since I was about fifteen, but those first fifteen are formative
years. While Europeans my age were learning languages and culture, there I was
– and I sure wasn’t alone – watching “Three’s Company” and “Happy Days,” so now
I can’t even check out with dignity. My head’s full of sentimental romantic
fascist crap. It’s an insult to humanity, a fart in the face of life
itself. Enough to drive a man mad. For instance, I’m thinking
(we-ell
maybe not exactly)
wild
west shoot’em-up war movie, I’m the
hero saves the day, sleeps with all three Andrews Sisters, rolls mean old Mr.
Potter off a cliff, smiles and waves for the camera for viewers of the FUTURE
(uh…that’s probably you)…
but
possibly
me
and those women from that “Friends” show up all night talking about life and
love and sex and death and whatever minor plot twists they typically cram into
a twenty-minute episode and I won’t have sex with any of them we’ll decide
we’re too vulnerable or some shit like that and it would ruin our friendship or
god knows what perversities they indulge in – really, I’ve seen snatches (heh,
heh) of that sit-glum while passing in
and out of television blue-lit rooms: their spiel is sicker than de Sade’s, who
at least wrote about HUMAN situations
or
I
hit the game-winning HOME RUN match set love (or whatever they do in tennis)
forty yard serpentine rush to the end zone TOUCHDOWN
but
really more like
(Zee
Plane! Zee Plane!)
Thomas
Pynchon reads the same zines and websites I read and write for. Why not? If
he’d read anything online, it’d be paranoid, lefty tirades, eh? So Pynchon writes to me:
“Really
dig your stuff. Keep cool, but care.
Best,
Tommy
Boy”
And
for a moment I believe it. It’s like
when some guy offered the Beatles $50 million to reunite for one concert tour
or something like that when I was fourteen, or when I went to visit Keats’
house on my first and only trip to England. Only, the Beatles didn’t get back
together, and Keats’ house was “closed for renovation we regret any
inconvenience,” and that’s the way it goes. Then again, there was that one
Sunday in the early 70’s when Charles M. Schultz accidentally put a real phone
number in one of Lucy’s cartoon bubbles and millions of readers flooded the
lines – “Hello, is Lucy there, what about Linus?” – and the flesh-and-blood
people who actually “possessed” that seven digit code had their phones
ring-ringing off the walls all day, and when they answered there was a
nano-second pause on the other end, a pause of, I don’t know, hope maybe? That
maybe, maybe, this could be, like, real?
But nothing in America is real, is it? Yeah, yeah, I know: Death and
Taxes. Fuck ‘em both.
So
I get this email from Kenosha.Kid@blicero.gov
and after I get over that cocaine rush of hope and excitement I fall deep into
cocaine blues. Dark moon reality cold-clocks me upside the head.
I
write back,
“Whoever
you are, thanks for the lift. But, as Nancy said, “Say No to Drugs.” Too old – really – to deal with this kind of
game. I’m sure the real TP would appreciate the humor.”
Then
he writes back,
“No,
really, really. I AM Thomas Pynchon.”
And
since I happen to know a guy who not only knows TP’s wife, but worked on some
kind of digital literacy program where TP’s kid went to grade school, I write
back,
“If
you’re Tom Pynchon, ask your wife, or your son, who Kevin Kanarek is.”
And
he write back and tells me. Not only
that, he invites me to lunch.
“A-and
bring Kevin along too, if you want,” he adds.
The
fantasy progresses to me and Tom becoming pals. He encourages me to work on a
book and gets me an advance and I go into remission just long enough to write
the book, and Pynchon and Don Delillo and Ishmael Reed and Robert Coover write
rave reviews, and it sells, and I have some money to leave behind for my wife
and dog and a legacy for the readers of
“The Imperator,” the Jericho
Senior High School year book, 1983 (why do I still want to impress those
people?).
Yeah,
well. Back on earth…
I
actually was a celebrity a couple of weeks ago, when I went to the National
Institutes of Health (NIH), in Bethesda, Maryland, just outside D.C. Not only
had I actually lived to the ripe old age of 38 (so far) with Diamond-Blackfan
Anemia, but in 1966 or so, the infant Adam Engel was actually one of the first
to receive and respond to the Prednisone treatment by THE Dr. Diamond
himself. Needless to say, the NIH wants
me to undergo some of their test treatments (they call them “Protocols”) with
nasty drugs – For FREE! – so if one of them does the trick the government can
give it away to some drug company which will charge me two billion dollars to
use the “treatment” if I’m still alive two years from now. Just call me Slothrop. And don’t call the
NIH at all.
But
why this need for the game-winning home-run?
The Super bowl-winning touchdown and spike in the End Zone, all cameras
upon me? I thought I would have grown
out of it by now. No, that’s a lie. I thought I would have done something of,
for lack of a better word, VALUE, by now, and that thing, a book or something,
would have allowed me to grow beyond the tired sports metaphor and die in
peace.
But
Americans never die in peace. Most of
them, at any rate. They’re too burdened
with all the shit they were told they were supposed to do but never did and
probably never could. They’re too
guilty, too ashamed to die.
Like
in that book, “A Fan’s Notes,” by Frederick Exeley. Guy can’t live his life cause he’s not Frank Gifford. Never gonna make that game-winning touch
down for the New York Giants his father so adored. No spike and dance in the End Zone. Just booze, cigarettes,
anxiety, depression, roast beef, meaningless labor, death. Like Daddy.
So
it was Daddy’s fault all along! Then again, who’s Daddy, usually, but another
incarnation of THE MAN? A mannequin
with tapes in his head. DVDs, now. Microchips.
Terrible,
but true: most people you meet, particularly in a “professional” capacity, are
recorders, digitized to interface in real time, albeit somewhat limited by the
unfortunate sloppiness of wet-ware. Meat-puppets fronting for THE MAN. HIS very
own kazoos.
Here’s
a fun experiment: watch a night of TV News, if you can stand it, then go around
asking people, particularly “professionals” in suits, official-looking coats,
arm-bands, uniforms, funny hats etc., what they think “about stuff.” You’ll get minor variations on what you
heard and saw the night before. Maybe a harsh opinion or two added courtesy the
NY POST or Rush Limbaugh or Bill O’Reilly or whoever. Like that kid’s game,
“Telephone.”
After
all, it was THE MAN, or his white-coated representatives, who condemned me to
death. Tell you the truth, I don’t feel THAT bad. They tried the same thing with Pynchon’s Tyrone Slothrop, but he
escaped, sort of. Why not me? Is it not
my right as a “free American citizen” to skeedaddle when the Reaper (or THE
MAN) comes a knock, knock, knockin on my door?
Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin, I say. Go away. Piss off. Die,
Death, and yer little MAN too.
Okay.
It’s settled, then. “I’ll die on my own time,” as my friend, Paul, said to THE
MAN’s white-coated toadies when given a similar prognosis almost a decade
ago.
Now,
it’s one thing to cheat Death, but THE MAN is a bit more wily and cruel. How to escape the corny, mawkish scenes THE
MAN put in my head, the sentimentality and illusions? Don’t think they’re
harmless fun, those corny greeting cards and clichés. Out of such cerebral dysentery patriots, Liberals and talk-show
hosts are made. False feeling. The soap
operas and sticky sweet flash-backs (often of experiences you’ve never actually
had) the MAN and his Media slather all over your brain like Aunt
Jemima’s-plastic pancake syrup. Looka dat nice smiling auntie Jemima (a bit
updated: thinner, especially the nose and lips; capped teeth; cleaner kerchief;
lighter hue) jest so happy to be cooking home style Frankenfood for THE MAN, pouring his sticky brown
maple-flavored lab-fresh chemo-spunk all over your frozen waffles.
That’s
the real sickness anyway…all the rest is just biology.
Adam Engel can be reached
at bartleby.samsa@verizon.net. But Death be not SPAM. He has your IP number, Death, so don’t try
any of those cute aliases like light@tunnel.org
or gotcha@butterfly.net. It’s “Block Sender,” all the way, dig? Anything You send gets the bum’s rush
straight to Engel’s “Delete” file.