-
© Alan Reade, 1999 and 2020
View the Show Notes
The Crossing
So I'm in a tunnel of some sort,really dark.
And I have the sensation
that I'm floating through it.
And I see a light at the end of the tunnel,
and I think,
Okay...
this is it....
Once we clear this tunnel, we'll be out of Seattle for good! Actually, along with John, my significant other, I'm in a van that's loaded down with all our stuff, headed due east. And we emerge from the tunnel on the Interstate, cross Lake Washington on a huge floating bridge, and prepare to traverse the rest of the United States. We're New York bound, with two cats and all our shit in tow. We don't have any savings or any plans for jobs, but John and I know that we're going to make it there because we can make it anywhere!
Why New York? Well, I wanted to "do my art" there. And John said he wanted to "do his art" there. And Seattle was just...too Seattle! We had been together for three years at this point, and we were ready for adventure. So, setting aside our fears, we prepared to bite into the Big Apple Core.
I guess fear is a healthy part of any journey into the unknown.
But lately, I'd been more afraid of staying still.
Hypochondrias and compulsions had been growing around me like weeds,
because I'd stayed in one place
for too long.
How I fear possible stagnation.
That's why my life is always
in motion.
And while driving for 2,000 miles,
I realized that only by looking at a map
Could I tell which state we were in.
Wherever we went, there they were:
The same strip malls. The same freeways.
The same neon signs. The same schools.
The same cars. The same houses.
And the same high fences
Keeping out all
Prying eyes and ears.
Obliviotopia
Oblivion. Utopia.Airplanes and shooting stars.
I keep blacking out
And waking up.
I feel as though I never left,
Even though I've been moving
For hours in a straight line
Past Benny's Burgers and Thrifty 7's,
Storage R U's, and Home Multiplex Videostores.
They follow me even in dreams.
Oblivion. Utopia.
Airplanes and shooting stars.
An itchy trigger finger and
A pool in each backyard.
Eternity, forever, never-ending, ad astra--My mind goes in a line.
Everything not on a road
Is stripped of place and time.
Everywhere I go is an offramp now--
A new improved. A while-u-wait.
Oregon, New Jersey, Iowa--all the same.
But nothing comforts me.
Oblivion. Utopia.
Airplanes and shooting stars.
An itchy trigger finger and
Some movement in the yard.
Long orange lines of halogen
That guide the strings of cars.
Oblivion. Utopia.
A pool in each backyard.
We want to live close together enough
That we don't have to drive
Too far for batteries;
But we want to live faraway enough
That we don't have to hear
Our neighbors' screams.
I dream a white-line freeway.
Or is it dreaming me?
I keep blacking out
And waking up in another life--
One where I've never moved.
Where things have stayed the same.
Oblivion. Utopia.
Some movement in the yard.
A stranger's body shot and killed
Then dumped inside a car.
An orange line of halogen
Past pools in each backyard.
Oblivion. Utopia.
Airplanes and shooting stars.
Apocalypse Whenever
Right after I moved to New York City, I began to think more and more about...the Apocalypse. Maybe that's because everything in New York is slowly falling apart, disintegrating. When I first moved into my apartment on Third Avenue, with the cracked windows and leaning floor, I was terrified that it was going to fall in. Every night, I would sit bolt upright at the smallest sound, fearing that the building would soon come crashing down, leaving me in a pile of rubble with my loved ones.Then, after the first few weeks, I realized that if you listen hard enough, you can almost always hear the sound of something falling apart in New York at night. So I stopped worrying so much...at least about my building.
Back then, I lived with John, two cats, and a fighting fish named Sushi. Now, Sushi swam in a bowl on the mantle over the fake fireplace at the head of the bed, which happened to be located in the living room. Every morning, when I would make the bed, Sushi would get excited and swim around so hard I thought he would come flying out of his goldfish bowl. I wondered why that was, until one morning I realized: Every day when I was making the bed and unfurling the comforter toward the head of the bed, he was seeing it as one huge wave rolling toward him. As if it were the end of the world, coming at him in a catastrophic tsunami of purple. And so, what was making my bed to me looked like the Apocalypse to my fish.
It's a bit like these dreams I've been having, the ones about a music group called The Schlichting Kids. Now, The Schlichting Kids in my dreams are like the Beastie Boys, only they're all under 12 years old. And they're really scary, because their whole schtick is...nihilism and youth. Kind of like Hansen crossed with Alice Cooper.
See, they come out on stage with huge afros in different colors and face makeup that makes them look like young cadavers. And they've got fake tumors in multiple colors all over their faces and arms, some covering their mouths. Also, they are wearing nicotine patches, maybe 15 or 20 per Schlichting Kid. (Hey! Nick-O-Teen! There's a marketing idea!) And each of them has the last name Schlichting, á lá the Ramones, and each of them represents a certain birth defect. So it's like, "Hi, I'm Joey Schlichting, and my birth defect is fetal alcohol syndrome."
And when they come out to perform, a few of them wear gas masks. Their big hit is a song called "Heart Cooties," which sounds like a cross between rap and a style of music I've never heard that seems like noise. And it goes something like:
-
"Bomba bomba bomba bomba bomb--
Heart cooties!
Dontcha dare give 'em to me!
Bomba bomba bomba bomba bomb--
Heart cooties!
You're getting near me,
But I don't want your disease!"
And the video to this song shows a bunch of preschool kids playing in class without supervision, eating paste, cutting themselves with scissors, jumping off the rooftops. The adults are in a state of catatonia, looking everywhere but at the kids. Everything is going in reverse. The noise gets louder. I can't tell whether it's a music video or some kind of souped-up documentary on the failure of social programs.
But the scariest part of the dream is not The Schlichting Kids themselves, but that they've really caught on!
I mean, they're on the sides of cereal boxes. Hasbro has made action figures based on each member of the group. Even the fake tumors and nicotine patches are being sold in little ten-packs at Rite Aid. The culture in general has embraced them--The Schlichting Kids are not a fringe group anymore. And I'm looking around at little kids wearing toy gas masks and asking--how did this happen?
So I wake up and it's about 5 a.m. Still dark. And I turn on the TV, and children's television is on. And I see the stream of commercials parading pseudomilitary toy guns, hypermasculine G.I. action figures, and robotic death machines in primary colors, punctuated only by cereal commercials that look like some crazy Irishman's acid trip. And I realize that my dream isn't that far from reality. So I get up, and I write this poem, called "Bleach":
Bleach
With toothbrush and Clorox,I attack the mildew--
Hear the dark colonies
Scream as I wipe them out.
If only I could take
A toothbrush to my life
And bleach out the bad spots
Of guilt, shame, and despair.
But I am no bathtub!
Not for one purpose: And so
I must be careful which
Darkness I scrub away.
The Mugging
"Stick 'em up!"
What?
At first I thought it was a joke.
But it wasn't.
"Stick 'em up!"
I'd only heard it in
B movies and bad adventure novels.
"Stick 'em up!"
Okay, come on, who is this?
Oh, god.
There is a gun in my ribs.
This is not a joke.
"Take everything out of your pockets
and give them to my friend here."
Oh god.
I don't want to die!
He's so calm.
Not like in the tough-guy action films,
where all men with guns
act like either Sylvester Stallone or Denis Leary.
"Okay, run! And don't look back!"
I'm running.
Please don't kill me.
I make more money per hour than you ever will.
I have more privilege in this culture than you'll ever have.
There were four dollars in my wallet, take it.
Please don't shoot.
Please let me live.
Take my wallet;
let me keep my life.
Funny how a gun changes your sense
of pride, of security.
Funny how a gun turns the tables.
Funny how a bullet means power
over money,
over life.
I'm in the door of a neighboring building,
I'm running through the halls, I'm on the phone,
I'm safe.
And, in five minutes,
here come the cops, with their guns
safely holstered,
to "keep the peace," they say....
Funny how guns
change the whole landscape of a city.
Funny how guns
are meant to even the score.
Funny how
I still feel that gun in my ribs.
Gay Ghetto Bus Tour
Okay, everybody, we now turn to the so-called "gay" part of town. Notice the picturesque restaurants, the flower shops, the men and women holding hands...that's men with men and women with women! Ladies and gentlemen, over to our left, you can see a man with AIDS. That's right, a genuine AIDS patient. Notice how thin he is and also note the purple lesions all over his arms and neck and face. He is going to die soon. Oh, wait--those are tattoos! Anyway, to the right, ladies and gentlemen, notice the quaint, well-kept houses, the lack of lawns, the flower pots in the windows, the fluffy, well-groomed cats. Oh, and right up ahead on the left, there's one of those so-called "fetish shops" with their up-to-date torture gear and smutty magazines--try not to be shocked. (However, you can tour the "other" side with our special Fetish Shop Tour, available for only $20.00 at the ticket window when we return.) In the meantime, ladies and gentlemen, please remember not to use a flash, because the windows will reflect the light back at you. Okay, we're turning the corner now. This concludes our tour of the so-called "gay" part of town....
Leaving Las Vegas
Mom? Hi, mom, it's me.I'm in the lobby of the hotel.
Uh-huh, yeah, the cats are with me.
Yes, yes! I'm still moving to San Francisco. Uh-huh. All the boxes are packed and headed to you. Uh-huh.
Well, three years in New York was enough, like I said. But, listen, mom, you know how I
came to Las Vegas to attend Dan's bachelor party? Well, I'm stranded in Las Vegas.
Uh-huh.Yeah, Mom, that's right. Just me and the cats.
What? Uh, yeah, it's been quite a year. Uh-huh.
Well, yeah, but the being a janitor to lower my rent wasn't so bad.
Incidentally, mom, they're called "supers" in New York, not janitors.
Uh-huh, mom. "Superjanitor." Yeah, that's, that's really funny. Um.
Well, yes, those crazy sisters next door to me who believed I was stealing their garbage? What a hoot.
Okay, that was pretty bad too. What?
Okay, I'll imitate them...just this once....
"It's my gahbage! Don't you evah touch it!!
Mine!! Mine!! Mine!! MINE!!!
YER A FAT FAG WITH NO INTEGRITY!!! THAT'S WHAT YOU AH!!! YOU--"
Huh? Okay, sorry.
Yeah, but they were louder, mom. It was like a rape whistle every time one of them spoke.
Oh yeah, the move, well...like I said, all my boxes are headed your way.
Yeah, I did it all myself. I mean, with John moving back to Seattle last month, I...
well...what else was I going to do?
"I should have stayed in New York and done more shows?"
Oh yeah, right, mom!
Like I need to compete with East Village 21-year-olds with 50 piercings each who scream bad poems
While they put mayonnaise all over themselves....
Uh-huh....
Oh, right.
I guess I did do a piece like that a while back....
But it was the eighties, mom! I was drunk! We all were! We had to be.
Besides, my work got better.
Oh, you--you read that review too? Oh well! I think it got better.
Hey, since when did you get to be a performance art expert?! But, listen mom, I--
I'm stranded here with a maxed-out Visa and the cats are...
Oh, you already bought me a ticket? While we were talking? First class?
Since when are you on the Internet? Oh, thanks, mom! Soon I'll be over Lake Mead.
Then back to the garages. The freeways. The neon signs. Oblivion. Utopia.
What?
Oh, no, mom, it's not part of a performance!
Listen, I'll see you once I get to San Jose.
Once I make the crossing....
The Airport
So I'm in a tunnel of some sort,really dark.
And I have the sensation
that I'm floating through it.
And I see a light at the end of the tunnel,
and I think,
Okay...
this is it....
And I walk out of the...what are those tubes they hook up to the planes for you to walk out of? Damn lights went out--that's why it was so dark. I've got a stuffed backpack on my back and a Sherpa bag with cat inside swinging from each arm. "Meow! Meow!" Squirm. Squirm. What is this new place? Their restlessness only mirrors mine.
And suddenly, there's a burst of fluorescent light as I emerge into the main terminal. I see my parents immediately, like in a movie, with them the center of focus. They greet me with open arms; my mother opens the cat bags and makes sure her surrogate grandchildren are okay. They poke heads out of bags, sniffing. What is this new place?
Truth is, it's not new to me. Just more present than usual. It's my past come back to haunt me. Or rather, I've come back to haunt it. I'm at Obliviotopia Airport, fresh in from New York by way of Las Vegas by way of Salt Lake City. Some stories have the protagonist emerging with some wisdom, some golden bough, some reward gained. I have come back, an ersatz prodigal son, with two fluffy cats to present.
I've never tried to be something I'm not. But I have often tried to be "from" somewhere else, anywhere but here. No matter how I've tried to be a city boy, though, I return to the fact that I am a child of Obliviotopia. Airplanes and shooting stars. Freeways and Fleetwood Mac. Hill people arts-and-crafts and KOA campgrounds. I'm a child of the car, not the subway.
But today, I've been upgraded to a child of the SUV. We climb on board my dad's Jeep, which my mom has equipped with a catbox. And the cats and I quietly watch the landscape unfold in front of us in lines of orange halogen as my dad navigates the wide freeways to my childhood home. It's night, so there are no traffic jams. I have emerged from some tunnel and the rest is up to me.
And I'm reminded of that song by Joni Mitchell; the one about her childhood home, when she sings:"No matter what you do
I'm floating back
I'm floating back to you!"
-Joni Mitchell, "Paprika Plains"
To the next part, Dancing With The Dead
Or, if you already know the part you'd like to go to, click it below:
Back to the Previous Page
American Language Launch Page