were surely not intended by those who devised the puritanical uniforms. The flesh is unruly.
The various acts of violence noted here occurred in Henry’s, an actual bar; “Red,” however, exists only in fiction, from which, it appears, he has escaped. Or, being a Marine, from which he has apparently gone AWOL.
An AWOL bag was a soldier’s term for a soft overnight or gym bag. Perhaps it still is.
A Jodie suit was, traditionally, a badly cut civilian suit of O.D. wool, given to prisoners upon their release, with Bad Conduct Discharges, from the stockade. Out into the world they went in these condemnatory rags. To make a brand-new start.
Jodie was a legendary figure who always managed to avoid military service. He was loathed and envied by the dog soldier, for his reward for shirking his duty was the easy acquisition of good jobs, plenty of money, excellent clothes, the best food and booze, and all the women he wanted. There was a shining American-ness to his exploits, for he was the man who got what he did not deserve.
EXHIBIT:
Jodie says he feels all right,
‘Cause he fucked your wife last night,
Sound off! One, two,
Sound off! Three, four!
Cadence count!
One! Two! Three! Four!
One-two!
Three FOUR!
Stars of the silver screen
S O, HERE ARE A FEW QUESTIONS FOR YOU dopes—losers all—in the candy store, or, for all I care, in a contemporary facsimile of same.
Why are not those glittering stars of the silver screen at home, fixing a tuna salad sandwich on whole wheat with lettuce and mayo, and a cold beer?
Why aren’t they learning to read and write?
Is it possible that they are neglecting this golden opportunity, away from the rigors of the set, to shine their many pairs of extremely expensive shoes?
Why don’t they use just a jot of the varied and profound expertise gained in preparing for their many and diverse roles—and playing them well enough to be remembered, one hopes, at “Oscar time”—to prove that the light of bowling alleys is romantic?
Don’t they have anything better to do with their time than fix breakfast for the children, hurry them off to school, and then buckle down to seemingly endless domestic chores, not to mention shopping?
Why don’t they trust the housekeeper or the maids or the gardeners or the chauffeurs or secretaries or valets or personal assistants, or personal trainers, tennis pros, golf pros, swimming instructors, gurus of mystical bent, and sundry astrologers and pool boys to sweep the floors, at least?
Why are they forever comfortable and really swell and relaxed in their old T-shirts and ripped, faded jeans?
Why don’t they learn, for Christ’s sake, to write a decent string quartet for once?
Why don’t they find out where Parkside Avenue is? Or Ridge Crest Terrace? Or Charles Lane?
Why do they refuse to recognize that Scientology was, originally, a card game, something like Casino?
Why don’t they lay off the goddamned cream of tomato soup?
Why do so many of them retreat to the sanctuary of the Zen rock garden in the Bel Air place whenever the “blow-job theory” as it pertains to inexplicable success, is mentioned?
Why don’t they go home to Ashtabula?
Why, to borrow Raymond Chandler’s phrase, are “all their brains in their faces?”
Why do they think that Raymond Chandler is a cocaine connection?
Why can’t they spell “cocaine”?
Or, for that matter, “connection”?
Or, for that matter, “ MGM”?
How come they can’t shoot pool?
Why don’t they like the notion of themselves as “overnight successes”?
Does it have anything to do with the “blow-job theory”?
Why don’t they learn how to open clams? Why do they hate to be recognized?
Why do they think that they “work hard” for their money?
Why do they wish they could “just walk down the street” like “anybody else”?
Why do they rarely, if ever, really hurt themselves on skis or in boats, planes, and cars?
Why do they seem to live on and on?
Does it
The various acts of violence noted here occurred in Henry’s, an actual bar; “Red,” however, exists only in fiction, from which, it appears, he has escaped. Or, being a Marine, from which he has apparently gone AWOL.
An AWOL bag was a soldier’s term for a soft overnight or gym bag. Perhaps it still is.
A Jodie suit was, traditionally, a badly cut civilian suit of O.D. wool, given to prisoners upon their release, with Bad Conduct Discharges, from the stockade. Out into the world they went in these condemnatory rags. To make a brand-new start.
Jodie was a legendary figure who always managed to avoid military service. He was loathed and envied by the dog soldier, for his reward for shirking his duty was the easy acquisition of good jobs, plenty of money, excellent clothes, the best food and booze, and all the women he wanted. There was a shining American-ness to his exploits, for he was the man who got what he did not deserve.
EXHIBIT:
Jodie says he feels all right,
‘Cause he fucked your wife last night,
Sound off! One, two,
Sound off! Three, four!
Cadence count!
One! Two! Three! Four!
One-two!
Three FOUR!
Stars of the silver screen
S O, HERE ARE A FEW QUESTIONS FOR YOU dopes—losers all—in the candy store, or, for all I care, in a contemporary facsimile of same.
Why are not those glittering stars of the silver screen at home, fixing a tuna salad sandwich on whole wheat with lettuce and mayo, and a cold beer?
Why aren’t they learning to read and write?
Is it possible that they are neglecting this golden opportunity, away from the rigors of the set, to shine their many pairs of extremely expensive shoes?
Why don’t they use just a jot of the varied and profound expertise gained in preparing for their many and diverse roles—and playing them well enough to be remembered, one hopes, at “Oscar time”—to prove that the light of bowling alleys is romantic?
Don’t they have anything better to do with their time than fix breakfast for the children, hurry them off to school, and then buckle down to seemingly endless domestic chores, not to mention shopping?
Why don’t they trust the housekeeper or the maids or the gardeners or the chauffeurs or secretaries or valets or personal assistants, or personal trainers, tennis pros, golf pros, swimming instructors, gurus of mystical bent, and sundry astrologers and pool boys to sweep the floors, at least?
Why are they forever comfortable and really swell and relaxed in their old T-shirts and ripped, faded jeans?
Why don’t they learn, for Christ’s sake, to write a decent string quartet for once?
Why don’t they find out where Parkside Avenue is? Or Ridge Crest Terrace? Or Charles Lane?
Why do they refuse to recognize that Scientology was, originally, a card game, something like Casino?
Why don’t they lay off the goddamned cream of tomato soup?
Why do so many of them retreat to the sanctuary of the Zen rock garden in the Bel Air place whenever the “blow-job theory” as it pertains to inexplicable success, is mentioned?
Why don’t they go home to Ashtabula?
Why, to borrow Raymond Chandler’s phrase, are “all their brains in their faces?”
Why do they think that Raymond Chandler is a cocaine connection?
Why can’t they spell “cocaine”?
Or, for that matter, “connection”?
Or, for that matter, “ MGM”?
How come they can’t shoot pool?
Why don’t they like the notion of themselves as “overnight successes”?
Does it have anything to do with the “blow-job theory”?
Why don’t they learn how to open clams? Why do they hate to be recognized?
Why do they think that they “work hard” for their money?
Why do they wish they could “just walk down the street” like “anybody else”?
Why do they rarely, if ever, really hurt themselves on skis or in boats, planes, and cars?
Why do they seem to live on and on?
Does it
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