The Twilight of the Bums by Raymond Federman, George Chambers Page A
Authors: Raymond Federman, George Chambers
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an officerâs vehicle to a famous tattoo parlor in the Tokyo Ginza.
Tattooing, as our readers are certainly aware, is something of an art form in Japan, although suffering some during the post-war occupation and reconstruction period, which eventually necessitated in most parlors the institution of a side business to thicken the cash flow, in this case the ever-reliable sex shop with all the essential instruments of pleasure.
So the Big Good Time Sex & Tattoo Shop was quite a busy power point, and there our two draftees wended their way to get laid and tattooed (young men, trust us, donât know which end is up).
Draftee One was first under the tattooing needle, the master creating a small pear on his right buttock. When One rolled aside to another table for his pear to cure a while, Draftee Two bared his back and prepared for an enpicturement of his first parachute jump in full battle gear, a big multicolor picture of the open chute stretching from shoulder to shoulder, but just as the masterâs needle was about to draw the first line, Draftee Two stood up, bowed to the master and paid for his and his friendâs tattoo with an arrigato gozimus.
The master turned to slather curing cream on Oneâs pear, humiliated that personal need did not allow him to refuse the cash for work he had not done. Probably only readers with any sense of history will have a clue as to why Draftee Two also felt disturbed, in an unexpressed way, on that special day, 40 years ago, when Draftee One got a pear needled into his ass, and he got nothing.
THE PRECIPICE OF HISTORY
Early in life the old guys were erased, wiped out from the blackboard of history, screwed free from the heart of motherland.
True. And so they spent their years trying to get back in, seeking nominal recognition, trying to write themselves into existence.
True. But no luck. The Kike and the Mick are mere statistics.
True. So whatâs all this belated clamor about the disposition of their remains?
Let their bodies and souls (if they have souls) vanish, vanish into the bottomless precipice of history.
HOLOCAUST THEME PARK
The two bums are bums of course but that doesnât mean they have not been exposed to certain approved elements of culture. Thus, for example, if you tested them with a grouping of pictures of buildings from the so-called Chicago School they could instantly discriminate a Sullivan from a Wright. Or give them a few bars of a sonata to listen to and theyâll tell you without any hesitation if itâs Beethoven or Westergaard. Thatâs how cultivated they are. But so what?
Well, of course, Kultur doesnât matter much, itâs what burns first, and fastest, when dictators take over.
Anyway, on this particular day the Bums find themselves at the new Holocaust Museum in DC, a few days after the final combustion in Waco.
They pay, receive their victim I.D. card, and move along with the crowd up and up to the top of the museum, der dritte stock , where the tour starts. They have barely looked at the first photographic display when Bum 1 draws his friend aside and faces him. Are you thinking what I am thinking? he asks.
Bum 2 replies, Guggenheim.
Exactly, nods One, Guggenheim.
2 takes 1 by the hand (old guys often hold hands) and together they rush out of this so-called museum. Down in the street in front of the building they are accosted by a group of protesters shouting: Six million lies .
The Bums join in. #1 shouting Guggenheim-Guggenheim. #2 chanting Disneyland-Disneyland. And both offering up the Nazi seig heil . The protesters form a circle around the two bums and begin shouting these strange words too, and saluting as well.
A FISH STORY
One day the two old geezers were fishing off the end of a decrepit boat dock, a new sport for these guys, used as they were in their younger years to power games such as tennis, ping-pong, racquetball, golf, wrestling, parachuting, mountain climbing.
Fishing is for the
Tattooing, as our readers are certainly aware, is something of an art form in Japan, although suffering some during the post-war occupation and reconstruction period, which eventually necessitated in most parlors the institution of a side business to thicken the cash flow, in this case the ever-reliable sex shop with all the essential instruments of pleasure.
So the Big Good Time Sex & Tattoo Shop was quite a busy power point, and there our two draftees wended their way to get laid and tattooed (young men, trust us, donât know which end is up).
Draftee One was first under the tattooing needle, the master creating a small pear on his right buttock. When One rolled aside to another table for his pear to cure a while, Draftee Two bared his back and prepared for an enpicturement of his first parachute jump in full battle gear, a big multicolor picture of the open chute stretching from shoulder to shoulder, but just as the masterâs needle was about to draw the first line, Draftee Two stood up, bowed to the master and paid for his and his friendâs tattoo with an arrigato gozimus.
The master turned to slather curing cream on Oneâs pear, humiliated that personal need did not allow him to refuse the cash for work he had not done. Probably only readers with any sense of history will have a clue as to why Draftee Two also felt disturbed, in an unexpressed way, on that special day, 40 years ago, when Draftee One got a pear needled into his ass, and he got nothing.
THE PRECIPICE OF HISTORY
Early in life the old guys were erased, wiped out from the blackboard of history, screwed free from the heart of motherland.
True. And so they spent their years trying to get back in, seeking nominal recognition, trying to write themselves into existence.
True. But no luck. The Kike and the Mick are mere statistics.
True. So whatâs all this belated clamor about the disposition of their remains?
Let their bodies and souls (if they have souls) vanish, vanish into the bottomless precipice of history.
HOLOCAUST THEME PARK
The two bums are bums of course but that doesnât mean they have not been exposed to certain approved elements of culture. Thus, for example, if you tested them with a grouping of pictures of buildings from the so-called Chicago School they could instantly discriminate a Sullivan from a Wright. Or give them a few bars of a sonata to listen to and theyâll tell you without any hesitation if itâs Beethoven or Westergaard. Thatâs how cultivated they are. But so what?
Well, of course, Kultur doesnât matter much, itâs what burns first, and fastest, when dictators take over.
Anyway, on this particular day the Bums find themselves at the new Holocaust Museum in DC, a few days after the final combustion in Waco.
They pay, receive their victim I.D. card, and move along with the crowd up and up to the top of the museum, der dritte stock , where the tour starts. They have barely looked at the first photographic display when Bum 1 draws his friend aside and faces him. Are you thinking what I am thinking? he asks.
Bum 2 replies, Guggenheim.
Exactly, nods One, Guggenheim.
2 takes 1 by the hand (old guys often hold hands) and together they rush out of this so-called museum. Down in the street in front of the building they are accosted by a group of protesters shouting: Six million lies .
The Bums join in. #1 shouting Guggenheim-Guggenheim. #2 chanting Disneyland-Disneyland. And both offering up the Nazi seig heil . The protesters form a circle around the two bums and begin shouting these strange words too, and saluting as well.
A FISH STORY
One day the two old geezers were fishing off the end of a decrepit boat dock, a new sport for these guys, used as they were in their younger years to power games such as tennis, ping-pong, racquetball, golf, wrestling, parachuting, mountain climbing.
Fishing is for the
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