Temerity Theatre

Man, what a buzz kill.
There I was, minding my own business, covered in Playa dust, dozing on the shag carpet in the shade of a geodesic dome. It was 10 in the morning, so I’d just gotten to sleep, in the grand scheme of things.
I felt someone holding my hands behind my back and slapping me in handcuffs.
So I did what I usually do. I moaned “avocado”. That’s my safe word.
Everybody who knows me knows that it makes sense as a safe word because I’m from Pittsburgh and avocados….they have pits.
As the owner of the handcuffs flipped me back over, I smiled ever so slightly. Until I didn’t.

“Dude, it’s my safe word.”

“You have the right to remain silent. Your aura can’t lie, not here in Black Rock City.”

“Man, can’t you see I was trying to sleep? I only got home from the Million Unicycle March, and there’s no way I’ll be able to stand on two feet later for Radical Juggling, not unless I catch some Zzzzs!”

“Once again, we are under orders to detain you, as we have evidence of Fecula Out Of Place.”

“My mind tried to shift gears. Does that acronym what I think it acronyms?”

“Correct. FOOP is a serious violation of the sacred trust of the native nations who lent us this desert. If one person FOOPs here, then all the Plug and Play camps will start doing it, and soon we’ll have more violations than we know what to do with.”

“I’m sorry, Officer.”

“You may call me Broke Back Zach. It’s my Playa name.”

“It’s very gay.”

“Thank you. I know. Now, to the charges. Do you admit to hosting a share the love potato party last night?”

“Of course. Spuds not Guns has been a regular event since 2017.”

“Did you knowingly hand out disco fries?”
“Bro, people love disco fries after a night of partying.”

“And, did you filter the remaining potato starch, a.k.a. fecula, for safe disposal?”

“I’m sorry, I kinda fell asleep over at The Spider Cave.”

“Then, for your feckless act of starch and run, I must write you a citation. If you incur three such citations, you will be cock blocked from the Playa for the next season.”

“Dude, you can’t do that. I hear the theme next year is ‘White People On Fire’.”

“Straighten up and fly right. We’d hate for anyone to miss such an inclusive cultural event as what we’ve got cooking.”

“I know I can do better. Will you let me go now?”

“No, sorry, we have to make an example of you.”

And that’s how I got marched to center camp, where I was placed in the stocks in the middle of a silent disco event that I was not allowed to listen to. So many hot guys, though.

This time, he had really done it. Nothing could stop Sir Cuthbert.

This was his day. He had gone where no knight had gone before.

He had found all the treasure and left no crumbs. He had deep pockets, for someone who had armor that didn’t have pockets.
His horse was hot to trot. All the maidens were hot for him, too.

That’s why tonight’s gala was going to be an extravaganza.
He had been journeying for weeks to get to the place, which was known as
Castle Rainbow. It lay nestled in the Rainbow Pass, athwart the road to the Rainbow Mountains. And to get there, he knew he had to cross the Rainbow Bridge.

It was at that point that his horse bucked and dropped him like an unsubtle hint.

Ow! It was a long time since he’d been on his back on the ground. What could have gotten into his charger.

“I say, Engelbert!”

The horse turned away, acting like he’d never seen him.

“Now, now! Engelbert Humperdinck, daddy needs thy help!”

At the sound of his full name, the horse shot a mean, wide-angled glance down at Cuthbert.

“Is there something I have done to offend thee, my noble stud?”

The horse whinnied and reared up on his hind legs. Cuthbert took this opportunity to grab on to the mane and pull himself to his feet.

From there, it was kind of hard to mount the horse. Instead, perhaps they could both walk across the bridge.

But alas! The more he tried to walk, the more he fell. It was as though someone had bewitched this crossing.

And it came to pass that a little, hairless monk poked his phallic head out from behind a rock.
“My brother!”

“Yo, what’s up?”

“Why can’t I transgress this bridge?”

“I was about to ask thee the same question. Art thou pure in heart?”

“My heart is large, and pure, just like unto all the rest of me.”

“Knowest thou that health is wealth?”

“Wealth is my middle name.”

“And concerning thy health? Hast thou acquired any infections?”

“I ride and ride and ride and nothing can stop me.”

“True. But could it be a case of Galavanting Pneumonia?”

“Heavens forfend!”

“Thou knowest, one can walk and ride and thrust and hack and whack and galavant while being under the sway of an infection.”

“What will they think of next?”

“Sadly, the bridge was designed by our maesters to preserve the sterility of the Rainbow Palace, for those who venture there may venture beyond to the Pussy Palace, and indeed beyond that may penetrate to the Palace of the Most Untouched Sphincter.”

“‘Tis like thou didst read my mind, brother.”

“Well, sheet. Do us a solid, rest up a few weeks and come and see us.”

“Is there no appeal?”

“Nah, sorry, my man.”

And with a bang of a celestial gavel, the bridge vanished in an avalanche of cheesecake. Which the horse, Engelbert Humperdick, ate his fill of, sans gavage.

He sat at the clavichord and plinked a few notes. Rapidly.
They didn’t have crackheads back then, but clearly there were some eccentric maestros.

Grigory Arpegionovich Ladakov, by all reports, was a man of rapidly shifting moods. He could jump through time, playing a run of notes so fast he was done before he had started. Once, he put his hand through a door, and punched out a harpist, and the harp, too.

You didn’t wanna mess with him. His beard was long and scraggly, a bit like a crack-head’s. His eyes laughed at you even when he was sleeping, though it was hard to tell when he was awake, really.

The Czarina was rather pliant in the face of his charms. It was whispered that he was her lover. As is known far and wide, she gave birth out of wedlock to twin boys. And they both had beards. At birth. We should whisper those things so that Grigory doesn’t hear us.

He specialized in romancing young women. He was in his 40s and he had the ability to play notes and open legs. Upon further examination, he often played concerti in the key of A Minor. Oh, you thought this was going to be a piece where we sympathize with the male protagonist? He made his way across Europe, following any and every road, such as the Camino de Santiago, giving recitals and screwing minors. There, you heard it.

There was only one way to disarm Grigory Arpegionovich Ladakov. Can you guess? I call your attention to the portrait of him by Ilya Repin, in which the pianist is seated at his instrument astride a fluffy pillion. Why did such a rough specimen of a man place his rear end on a sumptuous cushion? Ah, that is because he liked to be spanked. Take note that, in his portraits, it is hard to tell that the maestro, always seated, grew to his maximum height of five feet two inches tall. Any dominant female he met–and there were six or seven in Russia–found she could talk him into lying stomach-down on his piano bench.

“Oh, you’re a bad one!” she would moan.
“Tell me I’m Grigory the Terrible! More Terrible Than Ivan!”
For Russia was known for having a really Terrible Ivan.
“You are Grigory The Gross!”
SMACK!!
“Grigory The Gruesome!”
WHACK!!
“Grigory The Ginormous!”
THWACK!!

It was said by musical scholars that no one could top Grigory Arpegionovich Ladakov. This depends on what is meant by top.

Lydia: Here, my dear Lucy, hide these books. Quick, quick.—Fling Peregrine Pickle under the toilet.—throw Roderick Random into the closet—put The Innocent Adultery into The Whole Duty of Man—thrust Lord Aimworth under the sofa—cram Ovid behind the bolster—there—put The Man of Feeling into your pocket—so, so—now lay Mrs. Chapone in sight, and leave Fordyce’s Sermons open on the table.

Lydia: How’d I do? I finally memorized the lines.

Gavin: Yeah, not too bad.

Lydia: But not too great? Look, this shit is 300 years old. I’m trying.

Gavin: I know.

Lydia: It just feels perfunctory. What in the actual hell is really the conflict?

Gavin: Yeah, so imagine you needed to clear your browsing history because all you ever do is read soft porn, and your teacher wants to check what you’ve been up to?

Lydia: Ohhhhhhhhh.

Gavin: Does that make sense?

Lydia: It does. Do you read 18th Century soft porn?

Gavin: Well, as a director for the Royal Shakespeare Company….

Lydia: It must be really thrilling.

Gavin: And yet, a few scenes later, Sir Anthony says “all this is the natural consequence of teaching girls to read.”

Lydia: Kind of sexist.

Gavin: Aren’t you happy you know how to read? Even if you don’t read anything? Or a steady diet of soft porn?

Lydia: Better a perfidious panther than a pusillanimous pig!
Gavin: Which means what?

Lydia: I don’t know what I’m saying…

Gavin: Then make the audience feel it!

“Dammit, that’s not an ending!” exclaimed Bartholemew, throwing his copy of Isaac Asimov’s “Second Foundation” across the room. It landed on a cat, who screamed.

“This can’t be the ending!” continued Bartholemew. “And it’s for nerds, so I can’t call up one of my friends on the bowling team and tell them ‘The Circle Has No End’ whaddya think of that, eh?”

He rolled over and tried to make peace with the cat. “Here, Carnissa,” he cooed to the feline. “You can take this book and shred it and pee on it, just like you did with “The Robots of Dawn”. Carnissa purred. Very soon, the apartment would smell like piss.

“I know, “Robots” was a hard book for me, too, since I’m Demisexual, as you well know, and all the characters are horny.” The cat rolled herself into a ball and started licking various hard-to-read places. “But, because I’m also a masochist, I’m into reading things that showcase pleasures I don’t personally indulge in.” Carnissa rolled over, cascading her hair all over the futon.

“Come to think of it, there was that year when I was a born-again Christian and I gave up EVERYTHING for Lent.”

Carnissa remembered. She had been put up for adoption, for a week, until Bartholemew read an article on “theodicy” and decided that if there was Evil, giving up good things only made it worse. Boy and cat were reunited. Also, Bartholomew had felt guilty, so he let Carnissa pick the books he would be reading. As a penance.

Bartholomew may have suspected that Carnissa only cared about the cover illustrations. If he had any children’s pop-up books, those would probably have been even more interesting. For both of them. Now, Bartholomew was about to commit himself to another huge book. He brought out the two choices for his judge to inspect. That cat refused to consider “The Name of the Rose”, but seemed very excited by “The Goldfinch”.

Bartholemew checked the page count. “775 fucking pages! Jesus Christ on a hot cross bun!” Carnissa’s claws were out before you could say “A Funny Thing Happened On The Road To Emmaus”. Bowing and apologizing profusely, Bartholemew slunk off to find a band aid and some antiseptic. Good thing he had a week off. Reading books. Can’t beat it!

“My name is Curtis, actually.”

“Curt, my man, tell me in one sentence or less why you would be the ideal candidate for this job.”

“Oh, I don’t know where to begin…”

“Next question.”

“What about the first question?”

“Live in the now, Curt!”

“But…”

“Forget regret, or life is yours to miss!”

“Oh yeah, I’ve heard that in a song somewhere!”

“Let’s just go ahead to question 3.”

“Sure, OK.”

“It wasn’t a consensual thing. So, if a client were to curse at you, what would be your response?”

“I would steer them toward less objectionable cuss words. My maw-maw is from Minnesota and she had a whole bunch of these for any occasion.”

“OK, so a customer is yelling WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU, YOU CUNTY SKANK! You would say what?”

“Son of a sea cook! Someone’s got a bee in their bonnet!”

“And then the customer pulls out a handgun…”

“I would say, gosh darnit oh shucks! Jesus Christmas, will you put that thing down? We don’t need to go back to the Big Bang!”
“And then the customer cocks the handgun, it is loaded and pointed at you…”

“Jesus, Mary, Crosby, Stills, and Nash! Have you heard the good news? Put down the gun and you don’t need to go to prison for life!”

“Curt, I have to say, these responses won’t really fly in our urban business environment.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Someone pulls a gun and tries to fuck you, you don’t just curtsy and bend over.”

“Have you read the Bible, though? That’s where I get all my ideas.”

“I don’t….read…all that much.”

“It says, REJOICE AND BE EXCEEDINGLY GLAD. It doesn’t say, despair and curse. It says TURN THE OTHER CHEEK. It doesn’t say…”

“Curt, why did you think you wanted to work at a drag queen supply store in Beverly Hills?”

“Glad you asked. My paw-paw used to wear my maw-maw’s wigs. Only when she wasn’t looking, of course. They were from Minnesota, and descended from Vikings, and we all know that whole culture is completely 100% straight.”

“I mean, the Vikings wore dresses and braided each other’s hair…”

“Tunics, that’s what they wore. Listen, I recognised that my paw-paw dressing up, doing what nowadays might be considered tucking and vogueing and lip-synching for his life…”

“You mean, he…”

“I caught him singing along to Patsy Cline records several times. Oh yah, and he always chose maw-maw’s curliest wig, too. He used to run his finger through it, just like so. Coy like that. I told myself, If I can’t be as strong or as seductive as my dear paw-paw, well, dag nabbit, I can at least sell all the stockings and heels and makeup to those who have the balls to be beautiful women!”

“Thanks, Curt. This changed everything. I’ll get back to you later today.”

My name is Eldritch. Weird Al Eldritch. Am I a ridiculous, gonzo, boho mofo? Not really. My name is a distraction. You know, to distract the Angel of Death. Maybe that’s too weird for you. Talk to my parents about it.

Love goes on forever. Somewhere. In Hollywood. Not in Bird In Hand, Pennsylvania. Whatever I think I have in my hand, might not actually be there. But if I open my hand, maybe the bird will escape? This kind of evanescence would have sent David Hume to an insane asylum. Where he could have hung out with my brother, who was told he was schizo and then started acting like he could talk to Shih Tzus.

I am not sure I like walking around in the outside world. I am very much into interior dialogue. It’s how I escape Pennsylvania, which is called the Keystone State. I am not the keystone species, meaning, if I disappeared, the ecosystem would not collapse and things would not change. Except for the bird which I am holding in my hand, which would presumably finally be liberated.

Someone, I dunno, a person with time on their hands, would write an effusive elegy, chock full of alliteration. Our weird friend wended a way well weighted with the waste of waves and wizards, woven with woe-begotten wealth and warmth. I wouldn’t want to hear a post-mortem eulogy that makes even less sense than my life, would you? I started out so bubbly, so effervescent, like a little gas giant, and now things are so attenuated, so etiolated, or, as the kids put it, so beta.

It was Valentine’s Day, and I had nothing to wear. I did, of course, have a closet full of things to wear, and they were all 50 shades of Taupe.
Call it earthy. Call it flesh tone. It’s just who I am.
My name is Mud. My name is not Mud, but why would that be wrong? Adam, the first man in the Bible, is named after the earth.

This particular outfit is tapered. It shows off my badunkadunk.
But I don’t need it to be so taut I can’t breathe. It’s loose enough so that when I walk across the room it’s like I’m moving between different states of matter. This, I hope, will confuse the Angel of Death. It’s like a cloak that’s a cloaking device. In any case, I haven’t died yet, and whenever I’m at rest I’m very conspicuous and amused. That would be at least half of the time, right? What does that say about people who never move?

My mother taught me, the best thing you can be in life is a Taurus. She was very stubborn on this point. And, if you’re not a Taurus, my mother said, find a Taurus and ride on their back. Worst case scenario, you won’t have to walk. Best case scenario, it feels good down below when you’re holding on bareback.

Tonight, I said to myself from the depths of my walk-in closet, tonight I will take the bull by the horns. Even if there is no bull, tonight is mine. Anyway, the proper study of man is man. And if man is in the moon, then tonight, we set our sights on the stars!

“Little Lion Man”

written by Victoria Masteller
directed by Jesse Edward Rosbrow
featuring Sheree V. Campbell, David Michael Kirby, Hraban Luyat, & Ed Malin

I vacillate. I can’t help it, can I? It’s like I am always a note above and a note below myself, which is called a mordent. It feels like I’m either retaining water or my past lives. Or both.

This is the essential question of modernism. How do I know the future isn’t going to be more fucked up than the past?

The feeling surrounds me, and fucks up my dreams the way McDonalds fucks up the rain forest.

It gnaws it me like when rich people put their feet in a tank of piranhas to get exfoliated. But I am not doing it by choice. So mordant.

I wish I could throw pie à la mode at Thoroughly Modern Millie. I mean, how thorough was she? Did the carpet match the drapes? Did she wipe her finger prints off the murder weapon?

And speaking of Modernism, we must end (must we not?) with T.S. Eliot, the pinnacle of it all. The author of The Waste Land, and Murder in the Cathedral. Of course, I don’t want to give away who the murderer was, but it was the Rum Tum Tugger.