was the Abyssal Eyeballs.”
“Which you were a part of.”
“Like I said, I just had a feeling,” Roderick said.
“Is that what they taught you in Catholic school—to get in touch with your feelings?” I wanted to smile at him, at both of them, really. But I couldn’t.
“I’ve been doing house shows for a while—”
“Out in Huntington?” Greg said.
“Yeah. Catholic-school girls like anything transgressive,” Roderick said. He shot me a look out of the corner of his eye.
“Ha, I noticed,” Greg said.
“Is this how guys talk when there are no girls around, boys?” That shut them up. “Good boys. You should stop smoking, Rod. And Greg, don’t you own any non—Iron Maiden T-shirts? There’s no reason to play Casanova Badass with me.”
“What do you want?” Greg said, petulant.
“Remember that girl at the show? The one whose esophagus you cleaned out with your tongue? She’s a bad penny, that one. If there’s weird shit going down, I guarantee you that she’s involved in it.”
“And you’re not?” Greg said.
“Yeah, maybe you’re the lighting rod seller,” Rod said.
“I’m the lightning rod,” I told them. “And I’m not a commodity, not a capital good. I am the thing in itself, a use value.”
“Okay, I’m confused,” Greg said.
“Good,” I said, and I turned on my heel and walked off, waiting just a moment too long before appending bye to the word good . Roderick launched into an explanation of Marxism for Greg as I turned the corner. He must have been educated by Jesuits.
It was twilight by the time I picked my way through the side streets and back to the apartment, and when I walked in the police were there in the kitchen, waiting for me, and Grandma was sitting at the table, sobbing like a toddler.
“Look at you,” one of the cops said. There were five of them—there had never been so many people in the apartment, not even when Grandma had fallen last year and the EMTs had come—and they all were smirking. “Halloween isn’t for another three weeks, fuckin’ freak.”
“Murder . . .” Grandma whispered.
12.
I’m not a huge fan of the show I Love Lucy , but of course I’ve seen every episode. Despite my interests in magick, overthrowing capitalism, and punk rock, I’m still living in the suburbs of the United States, and my grandmother owns a television. Of course I watched it as a kid, and like most people I have a favorite scene. A kabbalist might call my reminiscence about Lucy an example of Qliphoth—an impure “husk” left behind after the moment of Divine Emanation.
Anyway, my favorite scene isn’t the one on the chocolate factory assembly line—though is there a better example of speed-up and increased exploitation in popular culture?—or Lucy’s drunken attempt to sell Vitameatavegamin, a classic critique of consumerism and bourgeois medical “science.” My favorite scene is from the episode when Tennessee Ernie Ford plays Lucy’s hick “Cousin Ernie” from Tennessee. He got lost on the way to the Ricardos’ fancy Manhattan apartment, and walked across Long Island to find it.
“You walked all the way from Long Island?” Lucy asks, incredulous.
“Yup. Ding-donged if it ain’t,” Ernie answers.
“What?”
“A loooooong island,” Ernie says.
When I was a kid, family legend had it that I would only eat when I Love Lucy was on TV. Luckily for my mother, and for me, Channel 5 aired it three times a day, and around breakfast time, lunch, and dinner. I don’t even remember the first time I saw my favorite scene, but of course I remember the first time I remember—I was six, and it was five o’clock, and the Long Island scene came on and I squealed with excitement. “Lucy knows about Long Island! She made a joke about Long Island!”
“You say that every time,” my mother had said, but I hadn’t remembered anything that had ever been so thrilling. The pretty woman who called herself a redhead even though she was
“Which you were a part of.”
“Like I said, I just had a feeling,” Roderick said.
“Is that what they taught you in Catholic school—to get in touch with your feelings?” I wanted to smile at him, at both of them, really. But I couldn’t.
“I’ve been doing house shows for a while—”
“Out in Huntington?” Greg said.
“Yeah. Catholic-school girls like anything transgressive,” Roderick said. He shot me a look out of the corner of his eye.
“Ha, I noticed,” Greg said.
“Is this how guys talk when there are no girls around, boys?” That shut them up. “Good boys. You should stop smoking, Rod. And Greg, don’t you own any non—Iron Maiden T-shirts? There’s no reason to play Casanova Badass with me.”
“What do you want?” Greg said, petulant.
“Remember that girl at the show? The one whose esophagus you cleaned out with your tongue? She’s a bad penny, that one. If there’s weird shit going down, I guarantee you that she’s involved in it.”
“And you’re not?” Greg said.
“Yeah, maybe you’re the lighting rod seller,” Rod said.
“I’m the lightning rod,” I told them. “And I’m not a commodity, not a capital good. I am the thing in itself, a use value.”
“Okay, I’m confused,” Greg said.
“Good,” I said, and I turned on my heel and walked off, waiting just a moment too long before appending bye to the word good . Roderick launched into an explanation of Marxism for Greg as I turned the corner. He must have been educated by Jesuits.
It was twilight by the time I picked my way through the side streets and back to the apartment, and when I walked in the police were there in the kitchen, waiting for me, and Grandma was sitting at the table, sobbing like a toddler.
“Look at you,” one of the cops said. There were five of them—there had never been so many people in the apartment, not even when Grandma had fallen last year and the EMTs had come—and they all were smirking. “Halloween isn’t for another three weeks, fuckin’ freak.”
“Murder . . .” Grandma whispered.
12.
I’m not a huge fan of the show I Love Lucy , but of course I’ve seen every episode. Despite my interests in magick, overthrowing capitalism, and punk rock, I’m still living in the suburbs of the United States, and my grandmother owns a television. Of course I watched it as a kid, and like most people I have a favorite scene. A kabbalist might call my reminiscence about Lucy an example of Qliphoth—an impure “husk” left behind after the moment of Divine Emanation.
Anyway, my favorite scene isn’t the one on the chocolate factory assembly line—though is there a better example of speed-up and increased exploitation in popular culture?—or Lucy’s drunken attempt to sell Vitameatavegamin, a classic critique of consumerism and bourgeois medical “science.” My favorite scene is from the episode when Tennessee Ernie Ford plays Lucy’s hick “Cousin Ernie” from Tennessee. He got lost on the way to the Ricardos’ fancy Manhattan apartment, and walked across Long Island to find it.
“You walked all the way from Long Island?” Lucy asks, incredulous.
“Yup. Ding-donged if it ain’t,” Ernie answers.
“What?”
“A loooooong island,” Ernie says.
When I was a kid, family legend had it that I would only eat when I Love Lucy was on TV. Luckily for my mother, and for me, Channel 5 aired it three times a day, and around breakfast time, lunch, and dinner. I don’t even remember the first time I saw my favorite scene, but of course I remember the first time I remember—I was six, and it was five o’clock, and the Long Island scene came on and I squealed with excitement. “Lucy knows about Long Island! She made a joke about Long Island!”
“You say that every time,” my mother had said, but I hadn’t remembered anything that had ever been so thrilling. The pretty woman who called herself a redhead even though she was
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