The Chitterling Circus

At some point today I will have no choice but to watch my surprisingly crisp bootleg of the great 1955 Turkish film Ucan Daireler Istanbulda, better known to American audiences as Flying Saucers Over Istanbul.  Then I will watch La Nave de Los Monstrous twice in a row while falling in mad love all over again with both Gamma and Beta and perhaps afterward I will watch a film with Yamila Herrera, maybe El Chacal de la Frontera.  Yamila, where are you?  Who are you?  Why did you come into my life?  You are the great mystery behind everything, the piece that doesn’t fit.  

These films make me happier than a mangy dog rolling around in a steaming pile of pig shit.  Or for that matter happier than a mangy pig rolling around in a steaming pile of dog shit.  Take your succulent pick my juicy followers for the hour of truth is nearly upon us.  

I was about to murder this messenger of doom when he obliquely informed me that although I consider myself to be the alpha male in this universe there exists another who is coming and I will not survive his arrival.  I know there is a doppelganger of me out there somewhere in the ether and I am doing my best to locate and execute him.  

I snapped my fingers to the tune of the thing that comes into my room at night and takes me away.  I refer to it as a dream and I the dreamer but this is nothing more than a defense mechanism to cope the suffocating terror I feel when it arrives.  I wonder what I did to deserve this but I suppose that doesn’t really matter.  

There is a dragon at the end of this summer and I have seen it in the park.  No one else sees it but me.  Families have picnics, children run and jump on the playground and no one sees this beast lying in wait right there in front of them.  Does it want the children I wonder?  I always see everything and am always helpless to stop anything.  

That rope hanging in front of me looks mighty tempting, especially against the lovely black and white backdrop.  What kind soul crafted this noose for me?  Oh God, there’s that thing in the doorway again.  I think it’s smiling.  Tears run down my face.  Why do I keep seeing it?  Please don’t come any closer.  I have a little chair.  I can reach the rope.  Please don’t come any closer.  

I think very soon I am going to purchase the first season of the Bill Bixby, Lou Ferrigno Incredible Hulk TV series.  I will then watch several episodes with a drink in hand, alternately laughing and bursting into tears and pausing on occasion to stare at the moon in fear.  I cannot recall a time when the moon did not frighten me.  I say a quick a thank you every night that passes when I cannot see the moon or when it is only a tiny crescent.  I can handle the crescents but anything half or full is terrible.  I think I will also purchase soon an album by Paris (the rapper, not the city in northern Paris).  

I wonder if I will put on the album Lodger in those final moments.  I think that would not be such a bad selection.  People can trash on it all they want and I’ll fight anyone in the streets who wishes to throw down about it but I say I prefer Frank Miller’s The Dark Knight Strikes Again to his original The Dark Knight Returns.  I just love the bombast, the outrageousness, the sheer audacity and ridiculous gonzo nature of the work.  The art is also much more beautiful, particularly with Lynne Varley’s bizarre color choices.  I encourage any fanatic of pop art or great experimental works to check it out.  

There are probably very few things in the world I love as much as fishnet stockings.  Even the words themselves bring me such undiluted and admittedly perverse delight to say or type out.  Oh fishnet stockings, you truly are a thing of beauty and wonder.  Your very existence has made my life worthwhile.  

It is very possible I will eat a peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich today but I have not yet made up my mind about that particular business.  I am keenly aware that I do not have any milk in my refrigerator and this is most disconcerting as it is my beverage of choice with such a meal.  Perhaps a trip to the store is in order.  I will paint on my best smile and zip up my best suit of skin and hope no one looks at or speaks to me.  

Trumpets blare inside my head as I relive all my failures.  It is too easy to feel nothing as your life flashes before your eyes.  I keep trying to escape this dinner but all efforts are easily thwarted by forces far beyond my understanding or control.  Doors only lead to other doors; an endless maze of dark wooden passages.  There are people inside the walls and there is an endless applause before any show has even started.  Someone keeps whispering in my ear but I do not know who they are.  

Mommy doesn’t love you and she never did.  Mommy had a temper and she said bad mean things and made you do bad things.  I don’t think mommy liked children very much and I think she maybe hated herself too.  Mommy was ugly and scary and her eyes were hard to look at and you always tried to avoid them.  She sat by the side of your bed.  Mommy was even scarier at night.  Her eyes would bulge and her face would contort when she screamed.  Mommy hated you and told you to go rot in hell.  Ugly, mommy was so very ugly and scary and there was always that flight of stairs nearby but you were too little and scared.  Bad day for everyone.  I hope you’re fucking happy for the fucking mood you put me in!

I did not sit on any flagpoles today.