4 Hour Hard On

It’s no secret that Nostradamus is having the time of his life, in Ours. But try getting him to admit it! Take your best shot, and see if the curmudgeonly coot even gives you the time of day.

You might have heard that recently, working as a duo, we (being Nostradamus and me) released a trippy music video on You Tube, to the tune of 42 million uploads in one week alone. And it’s a cover song! Un-Fucking-Believable, I shit you NOT.

To nail this You Tube gig, I play an old school Moog Synth Bass, as accompaniment for Nostry’s spoken-word rendition of the classic Dr. John hit, "Right Place - Wrong Time", the tempo of which is slowed down, to about three quarter speed, perfect for accommodating Nostry’s oratorical baritone cadence. Not unlike the way William Shatner scored hella big with that freakish record of his, a few years back. Then, I added some cascading surf sounds to the tracks, over-dubbed a plaintive seagull screech or two, as well as a moaning didgeridoo, while Nostradamus looked sternly at the camera, laying down his verses like Orson Welles in those old Gallo commercials.

You know.

Where No Wine is Sold Before its Time?


-I was… in
the right place,

Nostry solemnly intones,

-But it must... have
been… the wrong…


Etcetera.


The best part of the video? Well, it's a testament to my own theatrical creativity, and occurs just after Nostry puts down the phrase:


Slipping, dodging
Sneaking creeping
Hiding out down
The street…


At which point comes a flash of Mr. Bill Style fisted handkerchief! This cheap prop is doctored up with a big red lipstick OH of open-mouthed awe, or shock, or both. Then, at the appropriate time, I shove this little handy Ghost Fuck Puppet into the bullet-headed maw of the Web Cam, totally in sync with the Colored Girl Keyboard Sample that rings out:

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOO!


A little later in the song, Nostry says:


Refried confusion...
Is a Makiing Itself
CLEAR…

Then, my Ghost Puppet jumps up, and goes:

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!


And Nostry finishes up:


What a way
To Wake I go,

Get on
out of

Here…


Or something like that. Whatever the fuck the lyrics are. We weren't concentrating so much on lyrical verisimilitude, as getting people's attention. Then, as an adjunct to the music, Nostradamus throws in a few standard Soothsayer Quatrains at the end of the song’s rendition. Just to let everybody know he’s for real.


-Yeah, buddy, Nostry said to me, as we were completing the production. -I don’t want any Refried Confusion, on that score. These god damned motherfuckers need to know who’s their Daddy.

-Refried Confusion! I snickered. -Yeah, that’s good.



Bottom line, now?

Me and Nostry are a HIT. Last week, Howard Stern had us on his creepy Sirius Show, for a ninety second spot to put us on the map, and old Art Bell has been ringing us up-- rather regular-like.

-Art Bell has a serious Hard On for you, I tell Nostradamus. -He called, like, 4 times yesterday. Four fucking times!

We are kicked back in my living room, watching a very strange infomercial.

On my wall-mounted, high definition digital screen, Sir Gordon Sumner, A.K.A. Sting, is going on and on (and on and on and on!) about these patented Tantric Sexual Techniques of his, whereby he swears he can stay ENGORGED for hours at a time, even DAYS if need be, to totally satisfy a bevy of horny babes, or, if one prefers, just a single lucky single lady wired on puppy love and bathtub speed.

We stare at the television, Nostry and me, our minds on other matters, while Sting lays it on, heavy slick and thick.

-Why doesn’t Sting just sing?- I wonder, -Guy with a voice like he’s got, and all of a sudden he’s no longer a musician, but the Huckster of Fuck. What’s up with that?

-Your people have Fuck All on the Brains, that’s what I been trying to tell you! Nostry replies, sighing and massaging his Silver Fox temples with long, nicotine-stained fingers.

-Man, I sure love that song called BALI, from the solo work of Sting Man. Hey! Maybe if we get rich enough off all this crazy shit we’ve got planned, we can hit the beach of Bali, for like, a fortnight. How does that grab ya?

Nostradamus shakes his large head at me--sadly, shaggily.

-You just don’t get it, do you?

Meanwhile the calls keep coming in, and I’m forced to give serious weight to the matter Nostradamus had brought to the forefront, the previous day— about shyster agents, so-called Representation and such. Although I’m not too keen on kicking down fifteen per cent of my sudden Windfall to some bottom feeder in a seer sucker, especially when I’m pretty sure I can handle all that, my own self.

Fuck.

Charles Gibson? Charlie Rose?
Montel Williams? Bring ‘em all on.


-I wanna get you on Montel's Show man, I say to Nostry, -have you go head to head with that Sylvia Browne chick, of the Pop Eyed Histrionics and six inch sequined fingernails… You could just about tear her phony psychic facade a brand new one, couldn’t you, Mr. N?

-Focus, kid, Nostry reminds me. -There isn’t much Time, so don’t fade on me, now.

Photo of the Iraq National Tomb Of The Unknown Soldier


Giving Back The Ghazals

3 SHARDS
(c) 2007, by John Bennett
All Rights Reserved



CPR

They gave him sixteen minutes to come to a conclusion and then triggered a stop watch. He choked on the ultimatum. He had a log jam of ultimatums, stuck in his throat like splintered chicken bones. The only outward sign he gave was a pained look he got up with in the morning, and took to bed at night. It was his prize possession--and it kept people at arm's length. When things got really bad, he could throw a switch and shut down everything.

The few people in his life who claimed to care plied him with self-help books; the one thing the books had in common was outside advice, which seemed to him to be the opposite of self-help. These people who gave him self-help books told him he had to get out of himself, which drew his attention to the vacant look in their eyes.

Trying to ignore the eyes, he made a play for acceptance; he built a bookcase out of pine for the unread self-help books and displayed it prominently in his living room, his version of coffee-table literature. No one ever came to visit, but building the bookcase gave him something to do with his hands.

The people who gave him the ultimatums and the people who gave him the books claimed to be different people, but he knew they were the same; this realization was like another chicken bone shoved down his throat, and it came to him just under the wire of the sixteen-minute deadline. The clock ticked into the seventeenth minute without anything happening, and he knew then, with the exploding certainty of an epiphany, that everything was arbitrary.

That's when they lost him and pulled the sheet up over his face.



Notes To Destiny


Sterilize pigs.

Genetically engineer ants.

Purge grapes.

Advertise for hit men in obscure journals.

Seduce homely women.

Strangle sopranos.

Club baritones to the ground like baby seals.

Practice the coy glance, the winning smile.

Hang out on the corner. Stop whatever it is you're doing if a passerby asks for directions; steer them wrong.

Join at the hip at least 22 organizations. Exclude tax exemptibles--isolate them and give them what-for.

Stockpile drums of crude oil to boil heretics in. They'll be easy to spot. They'll glow in the dark. In broad daylight they'll appear disoriented and will puke green if the sky clouds over.

Shake hands with anyone who gets close enough that you can smell their armpits. This includes heretics.

You are destiny.

Somewhere, someone is waiting to swear you in on a Bible.



The Big Tent's Closing Night

The take was down at the Big Tent. The circus was deep in the red. All the clowns and lions and promise of high-wire death wasn't enough to bring in the rubes. Lizard men and fat ladies and two-headed dwarfs couldn't compete with the glitz of cyber space.

The trapeze artist had sweaty palms. Perpetual motion was the only thin glaze of hope in this preposterous conundrum, but there wasn't enough rope left to swing into a net-less future. His partner had run off with a talk-show host years ago.

There was almost no one left who had grown up without television.

***

His nephew sent a picture of his ten-month old daughter sitting on his lap in front of an I-Mac. The child's eyes were gleaming and riveted to the computer screen; her small hand cupped the mouse. That's when he knew it was over.

He applied his make-up extra thick, and walked from his trailer to the Big Tent. It was two hours before show time. He climbed to the highest platform and drew his composure around him. In that moment he was one with the Buddha.

With closed eyes he did a swan dive into darkness, and a packed house of memories gave out a gasp.

It was the end of an era.

Sorta like
what might happen
if you made a bunch of
pot brownies for the
Traveling Wilburys,
and gave them Jugs
of punch with which
to wash those
gooey treats


DOWN

expression is the need of my soul
i was once a vers libre bard
but i died and my soul went into the body
of a cockroach...

it has given me a new outlook upon life


--Don Marquis, from "archy and mehitabel"