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THE CLUSTER, APRIL 7, IMP-PAGE 7
6 The horror! The horror
This rooming. Good Re*der, I awoke with all of the
creative juices flowing and festering. I must be angry about
something, but I don't know what exactly. Creativity without
focus is a terrible thing to behold for it lacks the comforting
quality of order and intelligibility. Face the terror! SometinKs
in the ranting of the deranged, ranting without discipline or
jLscmrunmoc, can new insights be grasped with crystal clari
ty. Read on, for I have some visions of the most powerful
soft to relate to you. Perhaps you, as sentient beings of the
collegiate variety, can make some sense of them.
I have a terrifying vision of being chased by the Fruit or
the Loom Guys down Broadway, near the Mission, as the
street party revelers gaze on. The Fruit of the Loom Guys
are busy throwing porcupines at me, as they shout Islamic
slogans. I gather that they think that I am Salman Rushdi.
The street party revelers watch the spectacle with the
equanimity of cattle. Fortunately. I escaped. I am not sure
as to the means of my salvation. Perhaps they withdrew from
their mindless pursuit because I began brandishing a paring
knife and a bib. Perhaps (and this is more likely) they mere
ly opted to stop for a two-dollar beer ,rom the street party
concessionaries. Perhaps their fundamentalist convictions
were not enough to sustain them as they chased a fat man
through Macon. Lee Roberts, as fundamentalist of a different
ilk (but with the same stench), would have been undaunted
by anything short of lawyers. Yes, folks, he probably would
have caught me and thrashed me with an armadillo for his
convictions are fed by his mindlessness. We all know that
nothing (except lawyers) can hinder the progress of a man
with strength of convictions directly pnoportinate to his
Ben
Brooks
will they be stopped? They tre caught in their own inertia.
In such a case entropy alone cannot ensure their demise and
the thinking man’s survival.
Moreover, I had a vision of even greater repugnance just
yesterday. The difference is that this was real. I watched the
Wednesday edition of Oprah... and wished fervently that 1
hadn’t. The subject was that of secret admirers and how to
catch the man or woman of your choice. Some cat was on
the show for the express reason of giving us a sure-fire
method for establishing an “instant rapport’’ with the per
son of one’s romantic interest. The terror in tMs is dread
fully easy to see. but unbearable to behold. It is simply this...
Flirting, picking up chicks, what you want to call it, is now
a matter to be approached scientifically. Formerly it was a
matter of desperation, of instinct, of hormones screaming
through one’s system, to be approached inventively, even
romantically. Now, someone has now reduced the most ex
alted of leisure pursuits (and sometimes one of necessity)
to pure technique. What can be the only thoughtful reaction
to the reduction of human function to technique? Suckle the
Techno-Tit. One can only roll one's eyes back into one’s
ing vision to date. Imagine yourself, if you will, living the
yuppie daydream... Nothing can stop you. You cruise the
streets of Any town, U.S.A. in the luxury of your new top-
of-the-line BMW. This sucker's got it all! Candy-apple red
Imron paint, fourteen coats of it to give it that blazing lustre,
a thumpin’ sound system complete with a complimentary Bil
ly Jwl tape anthology, the man or woman of your choice
in the passenger seat (pick one. any one of 'em, you can snag \
him/her because you have a nifty little tediinique). This car’s
got it all! It's a deep ride with dream colored, leather guts!
You think to yourself, "1 could live in this car if my new
home weren’t so very nice." You have it all!
% Now it’s tax time. You waited to the last minute to get
your new accountant to do your taxes, because you were too
busy enjoying the fruits of your technique. You waltz into
your new accountant's office to get that sucker done. You
don't know the new accountant, since your old one did and
left his client list to the new kid on the block. Even though
you don’t know the new guy, you instinctively trust him to
keep the I.R.S. auditor at bay for yet another year. Paradox
ically, you also trust that he's honest enough not to rob you
blind. With all of the confidence in the world, you walk in
to the new accountant’s office too late to fmd a substitute.
The accountant wheels around to face you in his presiden
tial swivel chair. You recognize the guy! Your face goes pale
with the recognition. Your palms run with perspiration. Your
mind is filled with pure abject terror. You run to the nearest
easy-chair screaming. “Oh my God! It can’t be. It can'tbe!
I'm in Hell!" You know instinctively that you have just lost
everything you ever had or ever wanted, but you won't find
