If not for a WARREN ZEVON album photo, I would never have figured it out in NH. Mafia! They sit and wait on you, don't they? "My Ride is Here," eh? No, as LOU REED sings, "Baby, I've got stats," on the number of White SUV's purchased since Mr. Hughes hit town. Why? They all know of my photo depicting JOHN KERRY'S Secret Service Detail standing by a White SUV with the doors open, gawking at me. In 2004, I thought they were airing-out the vehicle. Who wants to go to court and allege otherwise?What happened in Thousand Oaks, California when Hughes picked up a pen to detail the space-based torture program? The big man in the red beanie changed into an orange sweatshirt, and subsequently offered transport to a high school where free Christmas vittles were located. Thanks, but no thanks, because HARDEE'S beget CARL'S JR., which is open all day. Heat, light, and a "writing surface" is all this man asks for, amid a Marx Brothers movie, Plan #9 From Outer Space, Invasion of the Body Snatchers, Night of the Living Dead, and Stepford Wives all rolled into one.
Oh, don't forget money for coffee, and it is now another icon in this adventure, because the policeman is looking a little too much like the Maf-IA Man, in that the H-man is pounding with bare kcuckles, yet peace officers in the unmarked car don't get out with dramatic updates, they merely raise the cardboard coffee cup as another T.O. crosswalk is utilized along with foul language that surely must have the man from Yorba Linda smiling from above.
Getting right down to business, on Howard Hughes' birthday (12/24), the innovative attack from orbit involved lying in wait like astro-rodents, then disrupting my inner ear on the narrowest stretch of sidewalk Janss Road has got. Are you misbehaving on Janss Road? The policeman may not care, but the letter-to-the-editor writers published in The Acorn are bristling with tales of both the policeman hiding behind trees (a Loo inside joke) and rowdies going 65 in a 45. I have felt the breeze from these vehicles, and between the inner ear thing, and micro-grav fun run on the big red, crème, and black backpack you all love to hate--hey, hey!--I did not die on another Christmas Eve, which led to some New Year's resolutions.
My fellow Americans, the mighty "they" have convinced me it will have to be the top floor of your neighborhood Hilton, with select guys guarding the elevator & stairwells, because there is no sense in re-inventing the physical wheel, and as for the Karma wheel, that "is what it is." There will be some modifications, however, such as no curtains on the windows, because I am only scared of heights when I am sitting on patio furniture that is way too high off the patio nine stories up, and I am sipping coffee with a spygirl who billed herself as a middle-management box on the real CIA's flow chart. That's a long way down; for her, not me.
Not to the concrete, silly, I mean the jailhouse. Returning to the Hilton, Paris is optional, because I'm not all that, but I did note with the girl from the neighborhood, Sheryl Crow, I requested a photo shoot with UPS short-shorts & work boots, but got a pretty naked Crow on the cover of LA Magazine. This represents progress, even if it is all "deniable." Does every single person in New York City know about me? How about D.C.? You know I love to gridlock 'ya. How about Nashville, home to the tentatively titled "8-9 Millimeter Films"--that's my new studio, and just like my aerospace company near Lyon, France, I think many are ready to fill-out an application, but I'm still stuck in T.O. and.....never mind.
On we go to the rationale for a "SKYLAB II DE-ORBIT EVENT," during which I will not say "burn," or "burn-up," lest some misguided, fat, backwater federale hiding at the Newbury Park La Quinta think I'm talking "spy code." Ready, Planet Earth? Here are the "operational capabilities," in order of disclosure to me:
1. HEADACHES FROM SPACE: Why did the USAF girlie and I suffer from them so much? Don't know, but she had the good meds, while stuck to Excedrin. Yes, I asked my PCP (Primary Care Physician) for the "good stuff" to relieve my pain, and was told I did not need it. This was the same M.D. who said, "You writers know things," and as it developed, so did she. It's a bit like the Canadians spinning me and the Black Ford Focus around and back out the chute goin' south with this quote, AND THERE WERE PLENTY OF WITNESSES IN UNIFORM: "Mr. Hughes, do not go and buy-up Canada."
What did I say? Hey buddy, the surveillance record supports it: "No, I wouldn't do that. Prime Minister Harper would be unhappy with me." U.S. Marines on the other side of the bridge? "Don't they have anything better to do?" I wondered. Sorry, it's easy to drift off the topic when your life is like a damn movie.
2. SWELLING EXTREMIDIES: Girlfriend, and certain other family members, went to an M.D. and got diagnoses on this one, but not William, because this is what I call a "fake medical problem." Oh, it's not only illegal drugs being sold to alter your reality and ease the pain. How about the explosion in pharmaceutical drugs for pain in the USA? This reminds me of how a relative dissuaded me of a DJ job with one line: "That's a good racket," and so is Oxycontin, right? Right! How about the old American murder-suicide? I feel the deceased assailant's pain, literally and spiritually, but I'm afraid suicide-by-cop is not in my weekly planner. Oh, I'm wrong? How about the march from Jay's Best Value to the Debut Inn? Feet as big as watermelons? For the record, I don't like watermelon, even if it is sweet.
3. HYPERTENSION: Feeling like you are about to throw a rod? Maybe you are, and while I cannot legally give medical advice with only an MSW and no license due to Homeland terrorists, you might want to consider the 81 mg aspirin regimen to prevent a "potential" heart attack or stroke the ISS crew is attempting to throw down on you. My PCP calls it "body aware." No vampires, no space aliens, no secret devices--it's just genes, because when you poison the king, it gets spit out, because he knows what you are doing. DNA--ain't it wonderful?
4. NOSEBLEEDS: Wasn't this one out of the Edgar Casey/Art Bell file? The CIA marchers were approaching what I called "Pastor Sudan's non-denominational church by the highway," but California calls it--zzzzzap--"Get off the freeway...get off the freeway...get off the freeway." Free? Anyway, a girlie who was in the running for a canned ham as either a schizophrenic, or a female from outer space, passed Mr. Hughes and his freshly bleeding nose and said, "You're moving too slow." Maybe, if you are the "next generation" of SDS, but I'm not. Later, an old Navy boilermaker said, "Your nose is stopped-up with bloody crap." "I know," I replied, and carried on. Why? mess with that impacted stuff, and it would bleed again. What? Me worry? Not when I know exactly what you CA terrorists are doing. And, as a bonus, the church where that comment was made later had its trees trimmed by a Navy helicopter and a C-130, whatever that meant.
5. MUSCLE CONTRACTIONS: These are very powerful, and can knock you off your feet. They are also commonly nicknamed a "Charley Horse," which is another bit of an inside joke at this point. Can you feel the power of The Loo?
6. COLLAPSED LUNGS: Many are headed to jail and the brig over the by now very famous "30 Centre," where Asian corpses did smell bad, and Mr. Hughes almost died on 12/24/2007. Let the record show our resident Army Man went from stomping up the back steps in uniform to sneaking up the steps like a cat burglar. As I often bellow, "These are the facts!" and so we must get to courtrooms over the breathless facts of New Hampshire living. Take notice, USA, if I ever get my Harry Truman made by a tailor suit, they will be breathless up there again in 2012 for very different reasons.
Now I've found, due to laying around with coyotes, moles, squirrels, rabbits, foxes, and rats as big as beagle puppies, the low Earth orbit "they" I call "Gravity Boys" have a way to squish the air right out of your lungs, no respiratory arresting toxins required. This is your version of a Civil War? Please, dear God, where is my pre-owned F-15 with low miles?
7. SHARP PAIN: Ouch! Got trouble with your nervous system? No, you've made some corrupt spookie nervous. Good job!
8. CHRONIC PAIN: Here, we enter the world of legal drug dealers. Fibermylogia, my ass! What did you do to run afoul of the Prussian Secret Police? Did "The Arnold" know I'm partly from Austria, but they moved the border, so now that town is in Hungary. They do that sort of thing in Europe fairly often, but you can't do it here. Why not? Because I said so.
9. ARTHRITIS: Are you in your 40's or 50's? You probably don't have arthritis yet, so do not blow-out your liver on ibuprofen. Instead, follow advice from the main Mike on the podium, and just "Keep moving."
10. BLADDER & BOWEL PRESSURE: A beloved client of mine called it an "accident," and when I figured out his beautiful secretary and smart-assed attorney were hiding big money, I merely, as we said in the 1970's, "Shined it on," but now, my life is more complicated. Now I know why that enterprising but mentally ill fellow often wistfully said, "That's a lot of money," because he was talking about my money, not his.
Yes, it is true. No expedition to Mars, but NASA can brown your britches? It was John McCain who coined the term "exquisite torture," was it not? Yes, having the urge to urinate and defecate at the same time is painful, and a strange kind of pain to have. But, when homeless in T.O., you must scowl and bear it, or the policeman will roll-up in his black and white car and be "shocked, shocked" at the mess you've made. In California, "round-up the usual suspects" is a procedure they don't even bother to execute, because in the spooky dark they can just execute you, period.
Did McCain really dump a few planes in the ocean? Navy, I would not do that, but it is a bit late, and I'd rather mothball your aircraft carriers, to tell you the truth. Well kids, that's it for the ISS round-up, but a Hughes' work is never done, and the number kooks must want to see a #11, so we can add:
11. NUMBNESS IN THE EXTREMITIES: You jerks, go ahead and try to convince me I have diabetes, but I don't. Free clinic? They're as good as busted for fraud, but that's the easy part. Nutcases with a colony in orbit are a bigger issue than my $20 and Food Stamp card can handle. Then again, why be pessimistic? There are no cherries on the Space Shuttle, so maybe I'll appoint myself "Space Marshal." As the homeless guy with obnoxious Mormon relatives on his ass said to me in front of Carl's Jr. the other night, "I got money."
No comments:
Post a Comment