Spaceships, Madonna, & Seraphim

 

The most difficult part of beginning a new story is beginning— the rest flows.

Writing to me is simply thinking through your fingers. 

I didn’t say it Isaac Asimov did— duck soup with teeth. But, I could think through my fingers for an eternity and never write a sentence of science fiction. 

I'm not disinterested in the stratosphere, occasionally I gaze at the stars like an ant looking up at a giraffe. 

But, my take on outer space is twisted, look for yourself, here’s a bit from a story I wrote a couple of years ago, Missiles, Fruit Flies, & Psychosis—

Further out in left field, let's mix Heaven with rocket science. 

As the Discovery shuttle jets through the outer regions of the thermosphere, it blows spent rocket fuel and ghastly smoke out of its propelling nozzle. 

The astronauts are altitude sick, puking spent residues of their wet food lunch into paper barf bags, unaware their craft is soaring uncomfortably close to the doorway of Heaven because it doesn’t show on the radar. 

The intrusion rattles the Angels, the sentries at Saint Peter’s Gate— Like Roman warriors, the Seraphim execute a simultaneous action. God’s Guardians lock arms, forming a circle around the thrusting craft, flapping their wings, generating a strapping force, and pitching the rocket out of Heaven’s sphere.

I don’t think you can call this science fiction, moreover, it’s an example of what happens when the working wheels of humankind enter the realm of Heaven uninvited— as you would expect God and His Guardian Angels have the last laugh on the hapless Homo sapien sapiens. 

There’s a recent snapshot of Madonna attending the student fashion show at the eminent art school Central Saint Martens in New York City.

The one-time material girl, who was materialistic before it was cool, is wearing her hair in double braids. A hairstyle I’m partial to, more than partial really— my heart goes boom, boom, when I see a woman with double braids. 

While Sean Penn was married to Madonna in the eighties, the couple visited his longtime pal, Charles Bukowski one afternoon, who was living in his two-story house in San Pedro, California with Linda Lee. 

The newlyweds show in a limo— as they get out a neighborhood kid spies Madonna and in no time there’s a mob of striplings standing in front of Bukowski’s house, hooting. 

Buk walks outside in his bathrobe to see about the racket— his neighbors weren’t aware he was a world-famous author because they were strictly whitebread.

One of the rug rats walks up to Buk, who's standing on the driveway, tugs on his robe, saying excitedly,  

Uncle, it's Madonna, Madonna's here.

The scene humbles Bukowski as he realizes his grapefruit-size balls only beguile a few, and when it comes to groupies, Madonna wins in a walk.

I couldn’t find a thing on the internet about the Bukowski, Penn, and Madonna meeting. So I made the preceding scene up, impetuously adding the bit about Buk's balls, nervous it might not go over.

As a jazz buff, I couldn't name one of Madonna's songs, but I’ve been falling for her for a couple hours now— regardless of her age and the nip and tucks, that fucking face dogs me to the bone. 

She owes her plastic surgeon one for the chiseled features, and those kissable lips, because the doctor created a masterpiece.

I followed @Madonna on Twitter half an hour ago and got a notification she followed me back—  my heart jumped, then I realized it was a copycat profile, without the blue verification badge. Going on to message me, a Janus-faced Nigerian says he's sending me 6000 dollars, seconds later the account disintegrates before my eyes, melting away, busted by the Twitter police, and banned.

I’m gonna steady my machete and say goodnight to the Queen of Reinvention.

It’s a new day and I’m back to not giving a tin shit about Madonna, the way it’s always been.

Here's a list of nine writing styles I'll loosely cover at this time, without a shred of seriousness. 

Comedy, drama, horror, realism, romance, satire, tragedy, thriller, and fantasy.

Horror— does nothing for me, take the worst nightmare you've ever had, do you want to relive it? Daily life is enough of a horror show. 

Comedy— most comedians aren’t funny, particularly stand-up comedians. 

Take Ricky Gervais’s stand-up hit, Supernature, it leaves you flat. 

Ricky’s introduced by Warwick Davis, his dwarf pal, can I say dwarf? Announcing, 

ladies and gentlemen, here’s a man who doesn’t know why he’s here, RICKY GERVAIS!

Indeed, why was he there? 

Gervais's handlers should have let Warwick do the stand-up routine, people are gaga for pygmies, going stark mad when they dance.

Or Seinfeld, maybe he and Larry David think being Jewish is a ticket to funny paradise. I never got it, there was nothing funny about the sitcom Seinfeld. And, the show had canned laughter, which is odd, like the guys in the control room are letting you know it’s time to laugh even though the bit is dying on the vine.  

Romance— honestly I don’t have a romantic bone in my body, my relationship with my girlfriend is habit that's all. Good sex for us has been over for a long time, and our conversations are limited to the dogs, what did you eat, and where are you going?

But of course women crave romance and men just wanna fuck. Take a long-term marriage when wifey, out of desperation, dresses like a whore to turn hubby on. Proof that romance is a fading commodity, headed downhill at the alter. 

Satire— now, that moves me, here's the dictionary definition.

The use of humor, irony, exaggeration, or ridicule to expose and criticize people's stupidity or vices, particularly in topical issues.

Have you met many stupid people? You won’t because there aren’t any, and by chance, if they admit to being stupid, trust me they don’t believe it.

Most stupidity is a put-on. 

Take the Southern Belle in Gone With the Wind, who’s wooing a gentleman caller, oozing diffidence, trying to reel the guy in, falling over everything he says, as though she doesn’t have a thought in her head. Who in reality is wicked smart.

As for people's vices, only a few divulge the secrets of their nasty fantasies. I'd rather hear about their fetishes and eating disorders.

Anis Nin made it clear in her writing that her primary concern in life was cuming. That was fifty years ago and things haven't changed, people still love to cum, OH GOD, DON'T STOP, OH MY GOD I'M CUMING.

Fantasy— take Disney's animated movies, favorites like Bambi, Pinocchio, or The Lion King, all of them are tragic, even the puppet Pinocchio was duped into a life of sin by Happy John, making a few bucks, then cursed by the Blue Fairy for lying about money with a nose that grew when he lied. His reality was a freakshow, blame the puppeteer.

Realism—  real writing about people's lifes. Personally, I don’t want to know the details and don’t want to look too closely.

Thrillers— there are too many Hollywood action films that are remakes of the same basic plots. Take Top Gun Maverick, can you believe they're digging the dinosaur up? It's all about money, like most things. Val Kilmer is half in the grave and the makers of TG 2 or Butt Wipe 2, are reviving his character using an expensive camera with 6 lenses.

The film has as much chance as pigs do flying at winning the Palme d'Or at Cannes.

If you’re looking for cheap thrills, go home and role-play with your old lady. Dress like whoever you want, a plumber, maid, bellboy, nurse, milkman, or your favorite Muppet. I liked Oscar the Grouch who lived in a garbage can because somebody thought he was deposable. No wonder he's a grump.

I’ve plum-tuckered out folks, time for some red curry soup and rice.