Dog Poet Transmitting.......
Let’s be honest, I used to think about the time when I would win the Nobel Prize for Literature. I remember watching the Paul Newman movie, “The Prize” when I was younger and living vicariously therein but since I have grown out of my teenage years and am now in my early manhood, the scales have somewhat fallen from my eyes. Yes, there was a time when I would imagine my Playboy interview and all of the things I would say; how they would catch me in my day to day and make those cogent observations that the interviewer always made, in the little snapshot vignettes of intimate moments with the enfant terrible, or idiot savant; whichever one of those I turned out to be.
There were the times when I considered traveling to the south of France to see Maugham in his dotage or T.S. Eliot, when I was coming down from an acid trip. I once ran into Herman Wouk getting his newspaper from in front of his townhouse in Georgetown and another time it was Jean Dixon out watering her flowers. Both times, I was at some point of an acid trip and in both cases it was agreed that, “we’ll get together for a chat later on”. Apparently I didn’t follow up on that, probably due to yet another acid trip. I did manage to see more of Elvis in LA and Palm Springs, probably because I wasn’t tripping at the time, although I might as well have been. I don’t know what kind of acid the Nobel judging committee is on but I’m pretty sure it’s bad acid. It’s probably a lot like the brown acid that was going around at Altamont. I didn’t take any of that.
There was a time when I though honor and recognition had some sort of value. I believed they conferred legitimacy; an artistic imprimatur, though I’ve always been more Giordano Bruno than Thomas Aquinas and I’m not Catholic anyway... staying within the strict definition of the term. Still... the beckoning laurel wreath, the admiration of my fellows had its appeal in my callow youth. Something has changed along the way. I saw what the Royal Academy did to the people who really deserved the recognition. I saw the sort of people who got honors and the kinds of certificates The Wizard handed out to The Scarecrow.
The Nobel Prize was always the crème de la crème of awards and I hung on to that for awhile, along with the Academy Award for best song but... those have tailed away into insignificance as well now. When they gave the Nobel Prize to Kissinger, Begin and Eli the plagiarizing Weasel, the bloom went off the rose as the wart grew on the nose. If I remember correctly, Lil’ Georgie Bush and Debonair Tony Blair were nominees/ sorry for the interruption, I had to go outside and throw up into a potted plant. I feel better now.
These days I can’t think of any award I’d be likely to get tumescent over. They say that when goats get in rut they piss all over themselves in the process. I wonder if there’s some kind of connection there. Nah... like so many things in life that aren’t, it’s probably just coincidence. These days, I think if I were to get a Nobel Prize, it would be an opportunity to donate the money to The Charlie Manson Fund for Undead Mothers and the chance to give one of my Clive Barker channeling Mother Shipton speeches. At the end of the speech, I’d moon the august assembly with some pithy statement stenciled on my ass. It’s not like I didn’t do things like that in earlier days on smaller stages. Some of us have more Martin Luther in us than others.
So they went and gave a serial killer of a used car salesman the Nobel Peace Prize. The rollicking irony is just too much. I keep snorting and chuckling to myself and then shaking my head. The sheer beauty of it... ah... (shaking head yet again) well... sigh... I’m thinking he might have got the prize for all those unmanned drones in Pakistan. That saves lives, if you consider the possibility of one being shot down and there being no dead pilots but... I’m told the votes were cast two weeks after he got shoehorned into the White House.
See, this is more of The Apocalypse at work. Day by day you see the dramatic exposure of modern corruptions. Day by day, the creatures of the night are being dragged into the sunlight. In many cases, they are waltzing out on their own and waving for the cameras like your friend Mitterrand just did; gag me with a rent boy.
It shouldn’t be too much to ask that Boris Yeltsin gets an award from Alcoholics Anonymous for Distinguished Service in the Afterlife or something posthumous for Pol Pot; something to do with humanitarian service. Roy Kroc, I’m sure, got a lot of awards and Bush and Blair are going to keep getting awards until they go to their reward which... I have the suspicion is not going to be along similar lines.
I’m reaching, I know, but what can anyone say about things like this? The absurdity has gotten to the point that it’s truly difficult to come up with workable satire. Satire is a form where you blow something out of proportion to highlight the truth of the subject. Ridicule and exaggeration are often employed but it’s like when the limbo bar is laying flat on the ground. You have to dig a trench to get under it. There’s serious work involved.
A reader informed me that it was a good thing I wrote my ‘snake-eyed liar’ post when I did because if I’d waited it would look like sour grapes now.
Members of the Nobel Committee, you are a pack of ignorant sluts. You ought to be producing infomercials or working for one of those home shopping networks.
I can’t find the names of the judges and I’m not surprised. It’s funny when you go looking for who did what. Sometimes you just can’t find out. Try to find out who actually wrote those Homeland Insecurity documents. Try to find out who gave the orders given by the people who got the orders and passed them on to the people who carried them out. There are a lot of mysteries in this life. One of those mysteries is; why do you never see a Rothschild on the Forbes list? Come to think of it, I can think of a lot of names that get left off that list. It’s easier to find out “Who put the bomp in the bomp shibomp shibomp? Who put the ram in the rama lama ding dong?”
We have some idea of who the man is “that squats behind the man who works the soft machine”. We can toss names around but there’s always that shadow land thing where you can’t quite make out the faces of the actual individuals who actually made certain things happen. You know it came out of a certain department or foundation. You know that it benefited certain people but when you go looking for the salient details, you see the umleitungen sign and you automatically follow the lead of the path of least resistance, due to the programming that build the roads and the mindsets of the world surrounding the automatic confinements of the boxed in minds.
You want irony? Mahatma Gandhi never got the prize. Imagine that? When they gave the prize to the Dalai Lama they said it was, in part, to make up for Gandhi not getting it. I’ll bet that made the Dali Lama feel pretty golden about the thing. Of course, he’s already the Dalai Lama so it shouldn’t hurt his feelings that much. However... ponder all of the ramifications of this paragraph for a moment. I’m thinking, even though they didn’t say so that maybe they gave Kissinger the award to make up for overlooking Molotov and Ribbentrop previously.
Bob Dylan wrote a song called, “The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll”, there’s a line that goes, “take the rag away from your face, now ain’t the time for your tears”. At the end of the song he varies the line just a bit. Well... life over the last several decades has been a lot like that line and, with every passing day, we seem to be getting closer to the altered portion of the closing line. This ugly travesty of a whore in bridal white is one more example that most people don’t mind eating shit if you serve it to them warm.
'I'm in my Car' is track no. 2 of 12 on Visible's 2007 album 'Almost A Capella'
The New Shangri-La.
Petri Dish oil slick Reflecting Mirror.