Der Zuschauer

A Journal of Essays and Reportage on Drama, History, and Literature

Archive for the ‘Hirsute Women’ Category

Gorkyland: Barking Dogs

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These doctors who become writers: Chekhov, Bulgakov, Gottfried Benn, and Celine, William Carlos Williams. And why do they love cats, dogs, women after all that? We know why they ask for that last glass of champagne. Are there female doctors who I have forgotten to mention. What does “bottoms up” mean after all? Was Rabelais a real doctor? What does Doctor of Philosophy mean in the 21st Century? Consider the string of titles: BAJ, MFA, PhD. What level of higher education did Steven Jobs have? Robert Burton was a doctor. Goethe and Schiller were not. Walter Benjamin and Nietzsche were. John Donne, the Dean of St. Pauls? Jonathan Swift was but lived in Dublin. Ovid, not Steve Miller, was the Doctor of Love. Plato and Aristotle were simply beyond Doctor of Philisophy. So to Kant and Hegel (who was) and Schopenhauer. Then there was Lord Russell and Corporal Wittgenstein, but really then, who was the Doctor of Love? Janis Joplin or Jimi Hendrix? Every great mind ends up a parboiled dog whimpering around a Hebrew National Hot Dog stand. The key is to avoid becoming a man-librarian. More later.

Maxim Gorky, the 3rd, PhD.
Copyright 2012. Der Zuschauer.

Written by herrdramaturg

April 30, 2012 at 12:39 pm

Intellectuals: Lesbian and Otherwise

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Written by herrdramaturg

April 24, 2012 at 11:15 am

Gorkyland: Driving towards a Burning Hotel

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So, before he had become a rogue cop, on Beacon Hill, where his girlfriend introduced him to the fag-bar, Sporters, on the back side of Beacon Hill, back in the 1980s: “The place was jumping up to heaven like a line dance to the toilet, where guys kept offering me lines in the crapper on toilet-paper roles, and poppers, and the joint sold more Budweiser than any bar in the Boston area. Anyway, the vagina and I had an argument and I left her rat-hole and had no money for a cab back to Southie, so I decided to take a cab and then do a runner on the driver. Coming back down Bowdoin Street and heading towards Charles Street, I came by Sporters again and found an empty cab parked outside, lights on, engine running, and I thought, fuck, what the fuck, so I jumped in and took it for a ride. I got up on the Southeast Expressway and there was a great, crazy sky from the Carleton Hotel in Quincey, on fire, going up in purple skyline and the usual smoke. I was high as a well you know kite kite kite, so I just kept following Deep Purple. Then I got down to the Quincey rotary and because of the fire there was a line of State Highway Patrol cars, twenty deep, and I had to go through the line in a stolen cab, wired on poppers and cocaine, and of course they just looked in and waved me on. Cab driver to the nation in a time of need. I had kept the CB radio on and it was chirpy with no mention of the stolen cab I was driving. Then, remember the purple haze I was driving inexorably towards, I got sloppy and called in some stupid noise on my own radio. The line went dead, no one made a peep; the car-thief was on the air. That’s when I realised I had to bail. I called a friend of mine who lived in Savin Hill with a trash-heap lounge-lizard car he couldn’t get rid of. I told him to drive it into the public lot at the beach; it was now two, three in the morning. He said, “What’s up?” I said, just drive it there and leave it. I saw it as soon as I drove in the lot; I drove straight into it with the stolen cab and totaled both cars. I hopped out and ran home. He got the insurance and he owed me one. The next morning I slept in late, then went out and got the papers and read all about the hotel fire. Real news. I was young; I still had my work with the Police and the MBTA ahead of me.”

Maxim Gorky, the 3rd.
Copyright 2012, Der Zuschauer.

Written by herrdramaturg

March 14, 2012 at 12:56 pm

Gorkyland: Taint

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Sometimes, we, the Gorkyland main-framers, decide to go out in search of a certain object, or, a certain aspect, of human potential and experience; we go out looking for human possibility. It is said that everyone has a taint, even though the OED does not seem to list this particular nuance of human anatomy. One either knows about it not, or, one does, often heavy with the olfactory gathering intelligences from the nose and the tongue, and rarely, the eye. You may not know you have a taint; you cannot not have a taint. What does a taint do? Is an examined life possible without a taint? Is a female taint any different from a male taint, or either different from a bisexual taint? Do cows have a taint? Do howler monkeys have a taint? Do women with those tick-tock tick-tock stalker boots have a taint? More importantly, have they ever done anything worthwhile with a taint while wearing those hideous, thunder-thigh announcers? Did Lassie have one? Did Eddie Haskell need one? Mrs. Cleaver definitely had a taint. Saint-Just? Robespierre?

Now when you go out looking for something you have to be able to stick your nose in something.

Wide-tongued swiving is one way to really get at taint; Pliny the Younger, mentions this in his Letters. Mina Loy mentions it in her Lesbian Baedeker.

Woof woof bark bark!

Schlampen ja ja da da da ja Fotz zwischen. You can Doktor Frankenstein taint.

God, Dear Reader, should taint be shaved? Should it be left hairy, hirsute, while everything else is shaved bald, temporarily?

Mark Twain doesn’t do taint; Charles Dickens doesn’t. Trotsky and Susan Sontag do. Courbet does, as all fans of the 1871 Paris Commune know. Zola. Flaubert, Victor Serge. Do babes who don’t shave their legs or thighs have more of a taint than baldies? Jewish taint? Jap taint? Austrian taint? Polish taint? Jaegermeister taint? Now we know that Wittgenstein had a thing about taint but we are not sure if it was a male taint or a twat taint. Bertrand Russell and G.E. Moore had a thing about a beaver taint. There has never been such a thing as a kosher taint, but you can pour single malt scotch on a taint and lap it up without disgrace. Red Vienna had a lot of taint, as did Moscow when George F. Kennan was there. You can find taint in the crotch of an old oak tree in Missouri. Alligators are afraid of taint. It is not possible that taint ain’t. African-Americans who think they are Black Irish do not have taint.

You can rock, bop, and jive taint; you can funkadelic taint; you can paint taint. You cannot SVU taint. You can only arrest SUV taint.

Most importantly, you can scratch taint, but only if it itches.

God Bless taint; God Damn taint. You can lower-case taint, you can swat-team taint, you can double-up and double-down taint.

Spread your legs for taint; open your pupils for taint; order taint on the rocks or straight up.

You can marry a taint; you can divorce a taint.

Taint definitely has a sexual content.

Catherine Millet never mentions her taint.

Dada jaja dada jaja.

Goodnight, and, good luck, taint.

Maxim Gorky, the 3rd.
Copyright 2012. Der Zuschauer.

Written by herrdramaturg

February 28, 2012 at 3:29 pm

Gorkyland: Protective Custody

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So, this time the gentleman next door who was tossed, wasn’t actually tossed so much as he was taken away by the Cambridge Police department in protective custody. I had gone to sleep at my usual eight o’clock. The said madman had been seen in the kitchen nodding off into his dinner plate. Then he was seen sniffing the door frame trying to figure out a way to pass through. Everyone kept telling him to calm down and go to bed. Then he was seen sniffing the back steps leading up to the women’s quarters in the rear. What else can I say? The police were called and he was taken away. He did not come back, either last night, or this morning. The verdict from the experts was heroin or oyxies, because of the nodding off. Crackheads and coke addicts do not tend to fall asleep in their in their spaghetti. The point, earlier, was that someone next door the night before never came home (Dennis the Menace), so when Edward Said came in as the new dude he was suddenly enlisted by the loquacious new boss of the room to move beds and box springs around, so the Todster from the wet shelter at Albany would have the better main-frame. He had Chinese ideograms tattooed down his spine. After this and after I had gone to bed he begin to go wired and weird and crouching like Homo sapiens in a transformer world. What was he trying to smell on the back stair? With pints of Rouble Vodka you always know what will happen next; with heroin you never know: OD and death, bliss and extascy, or madness and mayhem. Who knows, if he had a few pictures of naked women he may have survived. I should point out there was a new broad from upstairs in the kitchen last night, who wore her shorts below her waist and hips like one of those gangbanger, loser, hip-hop assholes, and I can assure you no one needed to see her fat rump while eating Mexicali tacos. The Todster was not then present in the kitchen. You may think this is all electric barracuda or sex on the moon, but hell, I’m just trying to read Sergei Eisenstein, make notes, and then go to sleep. I keep my appointments, I go to AA meetings six days a week. I don’t want to run for public office. I continue to study German.

Maxim Gorky, the 3rd.
Copyright 2012. Der Zuschauer.

Written by herrdramaturg

February 16, 2012 at 1:06 pm

Gorkyland: Wherein the house is rife

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Wherein the house is rife with whispers, malcontents, rumors, lies, and the hard, cold facts: a person, a man, was tossed from the room next door, last night. Seemingly for not looking for work. Each case is different: I am considered disabled; also, I do intellectual work, writing, translation, etc., and so forth, so I am not expected to work for Stop and Shop, or volunteer at a food bank or an animal shelter. Other people do other things: hang at McDonald’s for eight-hour shifts, between coffee, shits, cigarettes, nips and drug deals. One of my room-mates, the Rhino, is a rogue cop and bombed and caught bus driver. He repeats the mantra: “I’m unemployed, I’m homeless; it is all my fault.” The other is a paranoid, conspiracy-driven, autodidact. Mad, mad, and combing the internet for not-for-profit crime. “They will pay; they will all pay.” The man who was popped yesterday was quiet, clean; his only sin, besides the inevitable inexplicable, was sitting up nights watching episode after episode of The Big Bang Theory, which seems to be a canned-laughter, Hollywood sit-com about graduate students! I swear, I swear, I swear, but then you already know this is true, don’t you, Dear Reader? Anyway, nowadays, the paranoia is all about busy work, paperwork, documentation of various meetings with various case-workers, clinicians, health-care providers;
AA, NA, and SA (sexual addiction), BA, MA, HOMOA, PhDA, and Polyamorist AA, etc., ad infinitum, blahblahblahA. If you are ever called an asshole, immediately explain, “Yes, but I am an asshole in Recovery.” Gratitude is the Foundation of Sobriety. Other useful terminology inside Gorkyland, especially inside wet shelters (aka. open drug and alcohol use, or abuse): prison or jail is referred to as “the Big House.” Doing time is referred to as “going on a vacation.” Denizens doing time rarely read Theophile Gautier, “People are nasty, my little one,” or, William Carlos Williams of Rutherford, or Adam Zagajewski from Lvov. Shelter for the homeless is compassion with a strap-on.

Maxim Gorky, the 3rd.
Copyright 2012. Der Zuschauer.

Gorkyland: Huge Birds in Central Square

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There were seagulls, really big ones, fighting with ravens and pigeons in the streets for food and trash this morning, right out where all the buses come bounding into time and space and then stillness, and the hordes on the sidewalks were eight abroad or abreast like in Manhattan. And the thing was, last night, at the shelter, they had tossed an African-American woman from upstairs who was crazy but clean and who never drank, did drugs, nor yelled, nor shrieked nor did any of the periodical, weird, science-experiment shit that so many babes do. She was benign, I swear. I mean she was crazy about her three bags of fabrics which she carried about with her everywhere she went and she had all these bizarre, anal, pack-rat organizing tendencies, that made trying to clean out the refrigerator once a week while she was around impossible, but still, she was no fright or horror. She read the New York Times in Au Bon Pain. She had a musical, clear, high voice that seemed incongruous coming out of her body. She dressed in some of those rich fabrics she kept in the bags and seemed African although she betrayed no accent. It seems all the other females hated her, couldn’t stand her; it was all about the toilet and how long she spent in there. “She showers with the light off.” But then all the women upstairs are bitches with pie-slits for eyes, and voices like howitzers, and they can all peel paint off a wall with the language and the attitude, and they call their abandoned daughters cunts, liars, or twats. Anyway I thought Jesus Christ where is this woman going to go at night with all her bags and the ice and snow, and sure she said she’d be back in the morning with lawyers but that never happens the very next morning. You get tossed and you feel angry, outraged, impossible, lost, and then it’s, “Where do I go now? What do I do now? I didn’t do anything.” And then this morning it’s like Spring outside and the enormous seagulls were out fighting ravens and the drunken pigeons for food in the street. You thought, I thought “What we need now are some red-tailed hawks to swoop in and do red tooth and claw.”

Maxim Gorky, the 3rd.
Copyright 2012. Der Zuschauer.

Written by herrdramaturg

January 24, 2012 at 3:29 pm