The Usual Suspects
Point and Shoot, FL (YU)—Superbowl
Sunday, Scrib was gunning through the channels, looking for something to watch,
and on BookTV was a panel with Amy
Goodman, Raj Patel, and Naomi Klein, talking about globalization, the economy,
the earthquake in Haiti, and carbon footprints.
He
thought of Brian Lamb asking Christopher Hitchens how he made a living, and
Hitchens saying, “Talking.” Scrib didn’t
want to talk. He had a fear of public
speaking. As Colonel Bruce says, “I am
basically frightened.”
Scrib
sat at home and thought up titles of drive-in movies about skateboarders called
Feeb-Ramp Fever.
A
feeb-ramp was a handicapped ramp. Scrib
called the Special Olympics the Feeb Olympics.
They don’t need to be encouraged.
As
Then
this morning on Morning Joe, he got
to see Peggy Noonan and Pat Buchanan.
Westbrook
Pegler. “Pump Graham.” Poor Patty Hearst.
The
rich are different from you and me. They
have more money.
Pete
Dexter and Randall Tex Cobb getting the shit beat out of them in a
Dexter
had written something in a newspaper column the hoodlums took exception to.
After
the game, Len Dawson carried the Lombardi Trophy to the elevated stand where
the league commissioner, the Saints owner, the Saints coach, and the Saints
quarterback, who was MVP, were.
Previously,
the NFL had inducted five (six?) players into the Hall of Fame. Scrib didn’t know who any of them were, or
who they played for.
Sic
transit Gloria Monday.
There
was a time when Scrib could have talked football with Richard Nixon and Hunter
S. Thompson. Now, he couldn’t talk
politics with Pat Buchanan and Tweety Bird Matthews.
He
didn’t know the players.
booksALIVE—why
wasn’t Scrib on BookTV.
He
didn’t know how to be on BookTV. He wouldn’t be any good on BookTV.
He would freeze and dig his toe in the dirt like Benjy on BookTV.
Scrib
went to Oktoberfest. He went to Philly
Zine Fest. He read his poems at the
Gallery Above, in
I
refer you to SCRIB, the previous book in this series.
Scrib,
talking. Scrib, making a spectacle of
himself. Scrib, coming out in the open.
Scrib
had gone back underground, as Duchamp advised.
It’s go underground and come out in the open fighting it out for the
earthly vehicle of the writer.
Of
every man. The writer just writes about
it.
In
his writing room.
Alone.
Facing
the blank page every morning. The blank
computer screen. The blinking cursor.
The
scroll unrolls. Mail art show at
1985.
A
lot of water under the bridge since then.
A
lot of other stuff too, as Dylan says.
When
people reminisce about “their” music, it wasn’t Scrib’s music.
Scrib’s
music was jazz, bluegrass, classical music.
Remember,
Scrib didn’t write belles-lettres, he
wrote crank-lettres.
Why
am I a crank?
I
got snubbed at the love-in.
Scrib
went to the love-in and people snubbed him.
Was
it because he was muttering I eat bull testicles?
Did he have a chip on his shoulder? The Cow Chip of Doom? Was he doomed?