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In recent years, Hollywood has taken inordinate delight in displaying the human race trapped and encapsulated in individual tanks of cold, gloopy fluid, with hoses jammed up every available orifice (besides some new ones, which look particularly uncomfortable). The camera pans slowly across seemingly infinite rows of naked, bottled humanoids (party bits teasingly blurred behind patches of frost or bubbling ooze), while in the background thrums a wet, low-tech, chugga-chugga sound reminiscent of emergency sewer pipe repairs. Our faces display a startled, wide-eyed, what-the-fuck look—though possibly that’s an inevitable consequence of having one’s mouth and other openings stuffed with thick, pumping, chugga-chugga hoses. (I’m not the one to ask, despite the photos Jeannine posted on the Web after we broke up.)
Two rationales exist for this uncomfortable, though perhaps not undeserved, predicament (i.e., canned humans, not the photos on the Web). In the first—exemplified by the superb 1980’s miniseries, “V”—we are being stored, like brine shrimp or Vienna sausages in syrup, for the culinary delectation of starving aliens. Their planets are out of beef and soybeans because of hay mold, bark beetles or imploding suns, and earth is the closest place to pick up some jerky, pork rinds and Bud Lime before the big game. These peckish extraterrestrials sport a gamut of, at least to my eye, unpleasant appearances: lizards, insects, lizard-insects, and beagles or squids with the faces of Charlie Sheen or Cher. I do not include in this category the beloved, oval-headed, Spielberg aliens who apparently do not want to eat us, unless they're just playing possum until the herd is fattened. But, come to think of it, I’m not sure they even have mouths, though they do "talk." Spooky, but I’ll live with the no mouthee, no eatee trade off.
In any case, the human-as-Cornish-game-hen scenario need not concern us for the purposes of this essay. Nor will we focus on aliens who want to play Nasty Doctor or, for that matter, lay eggs inside of us.
What does concern and disturb me is the so-called Wachowski Theorem, which posits that we are ALL floating goose-fleshed and bare-bottomed in these frosty longnecks —even though we think we’re home watching the bunkhouse scene of “Barely Legal Goes to Summer Camp” on the 8 foot plasma screen. According to this screenplay, we possess no actual lives, but are only dreaming pre-programmed life videos--of great banality, I might add--to distract our attention from the chugga-chugga hosepipes pumping in and out of us -- apparently to provide carbon-neutral electric power to the evil, Republican blenders and toaster ovens that rule the world.
Of course, you perceive the moral ramifications: where’s the free will? What about karma and reaping what you sow? What's the point in being tidy, cleaning the bathtub, or humping the recyclables out to the special tub by the curb? Why do I have a thing for heart-shaped bottoms? Does it make sense to continue to fund my Roth IRA?
On the other hand, for some of us, acknowledging and accepting these circumstances may bring welcome comfort to needlessly fretful lives. We knew that something wasn’t quite right. Jesus knows, life never made a lick of sense. Now we can finally relax, not take it all so seriously: put up our feet and light up that fist-sized rock of crack when the inlaws drop by; eat bacon and carbohydrates til we're big as Happy Humphrey; fuck our best friend’s toothsome wife—-but without all the remorse, angst and self-loathing. Be here now! Because we're actually just twitching in a tub of electromagnetic gloop*.
Okay, hold that thought, and let’s look at Who Are We Anyhow from a different angle.
* Please note that the so-called I'm-not-guilty-because-I-was-really-just-twitching-in-a-tub-of-gloop defense has not yet been tested in the courts, though I did use it several times with my girlfriend, Jeannine -- to decidedly mixed results.
Two-Faced Janus: He Calls Me Burford
In one of the legendary Dick Van Dyke Show episodes, Rob Petrie’s milquetoast brother Jerry comes to visit. This shy, drab sibling who can barely say howdy do without shitting his pants in self-consciousness, is transformed at night into a garrulous, skirt-happy, guitar strumming, sleepwalking bon vivant who calls everybody “Burford.” Think of autistic Dustin “I want Whapper” Hoffman in Rainman transformed into Frank “Chicks!” Sinatra in Oceans Eleven. Jerry’s slapping bottoms, shaking martinis, rolling spliffs the size of presto logs, doing the cha-cha with Mary Tyler Moore, and having peanut-popping contests with Morey Amsterdam. Dick was not happy because this was supposed to be his show.
Do you see what I’m trying to get at here?
A Brief, Pertinent Digression
In another episode, Rob dreams that earth has been invaded by Martians, who have materialized as a bedroom closet full of walnuts. The special effects were so simple, yet so deeply laced with nutty menace. Rob goes for a fresh shirt, the walnuts pour out across the floor, and Mr. Van Dyke plays the panic card perfectly: eyes rolling, knees high-stepping wildly, arms flapping like an egret on a quad cappuccino. I bring this episode up because, you know, we were discussing aliens earlier. These walnuts may turn out to be the missing piece in the puzzle.
If there are no walnuts, it would be an awful waste of space. Get it? As in outer space!
The Mortal Coil: Body & Identity
There's an early Ira Levin novel in which the ancient leaders of Red China have their wizened heads transplanted onto the bodies of buff, beach-volleyball-playing eighteen-year-olds. In the interests of our discussion, let's consider the eighteen-year-old heads who got the liver-spotted, artery-clotted carcasses of Comrades Zedong and Chou in return: You were just trying to make a couple extra bucks, volunteering at the science lab to buy your sweetheart something nice for Valentine's Day. You didn't read the disclaimer; you never do. After you wake up, ("uh oh"), you make your woozy way home, slip quietly in bed, pull the sheets way up (need to break this to her gently), with half-asleep ("Is that you, babe?") Samantha, an angelic, full-breasted nyphomaniac. Unfortunately, she catches you in the shower before you've had time to explain.
"I did it for you, poppet, so we could have a nice dinner at Red Lobster! It's still me, punkin'!"
And the tonsil-flapping screaming goes on and on.
You try to gather her sweet, young body into your decrepit, skin-saggy arms, and the love of your life flies out the second-floor window in just her panty hose, legs windmilling like Lance Armstrong, then hitting the ground and gone in a snaking tube of smoke and dust. (Remember the scene in "The Little Rascals" when Weezer brings the circus cannibal back home to meet his mother? Like that.) Sweet pea? Can't we talk this over?
The Fruit & Cheese Conundrum
During my early twenties, in pre-Taliban Marin county, our vegetarian, half-hippy household was visited by two short, stocky, round-bellied, murky-eyed Neanderthals, a romantic couple as it were: friends of friends and, of course, fanatic Grateful Dead fans. Earth father and earth mother were fruitarians, eating only that which dropped freely from the munificent tree or shrub, and everyplace they went, they ostentatiously and sanctimoniously dragged a burlap sack of bruised oranges or wormy apples. We, their hosts, were consequently despised for the loathsome sin of eating vegetables, grains and, I’m sorry you have to hear this, cheese.
Late one night, shuffling blearily from bed to bathroom, noticing a light in the kitchen, I came upon the two naked trolls, kneeling elbow to elbow in the refrigerator’s bluish light. They were cramming food products of every description into their gnashing, dripping maws. Grunting and snuffling. Their red, hyena eyes, dangerously glazed with the feeding, swung briefly my way. I backed up fearfully, holding my hands up above my shoulders (like I did as a small child meeting strange dogs). I said nothing, and they never acknowledged my presence, unless the trumpet of that long, wet-sounding flatus was for me.
To our bemusement, come morning, the finger-pointing harangues continued as they stared revolted at the buttered toast on our plates. We were murderers, filling our bodies with pollution! But soon thereafter, the Dead mercifully headed to Lodi, and they shambled off like grizzlies. A recent arrival, the Bee Pollen Man, went with them.
Well, we're all hopelessly self-deluded hypocrites, break-dancing and lip-synching like Milli Vanilli for an infinitely disinterested universe. (And perhaps doing it in cold gloop -- not a pretty picture.) I've heard the troglodytes later found the Lord (subsequent to a terrible spiritual crisis when Garcia died) and now use the same skillset to spread His Good Word in Zimbabwe. (Though they sometimes refer to the resurrection of "Our Glorious Savior Jerry.") But I still picture them, hunched and hairy-bellied, sitting together on a curb outside one arena or another, gnawing at sticky, brownish fruit cores with palpable self-approbation. Content and confident in their worldview, having scored the necessary hits of Owsley 12-hour LSD, and waiting patiently to boogie in abandoned, Cro-Magnon exultation to one more two-hour Sugar-Magnolia-Doo-Dah-Man jam. And who can quibble with delusion that delivers so much clarity of purpose and joy?
When Angels Come to Visit*
Is there a more delightfully unexpected experience than when your wife gets her hair cut and colored, and suddenly and startlingly, slightly, kind of resembles Catherine Zeta-Jones or Wynona Ryder or maybe Ann Heche? A couple of quickly gulped martinis, a new summer dress without panties, soft light and whoa-ahh, the sex life, she springs vibrantly -- boing! -- back to life! Ruff ruff! You lock the kids in the basement TV room with a garbage can of junk food, dig out that last, linty hit of Ecstasy, lick the plastic bag of coke you finished New Year’s Eve three years ago, roll a joint out of the dessicated roaches in your dream drawer, put the champagne on ice, get out a fresh pack of batteries. Yah mon! Hooo doggies! Cathy, you delicious tart, how about a little molasses for Pappy? Wynona needs a good bare-bottom spanking, don’t you, you saucy, little slattern? You betcha!
It’s a night of fantasy; anything goes; you get out the wigs, the costumes, the video recorder. You haven’t coupled like this since the triplets were delivered by caesarean.
But come grim morning, your toenail-clipping spouse is back, giving her belly roll a two-handed pinch test, but calling you “big boy” and throwing you horrible leers of bawdy invitation.
Catherine, Wynona, Ann, please come home! No questions asked. Substantial reward.
* Ladies, please feel free to make any necessary adjustments to enhance your pleasure in the story: Might I suggest an entree of Johnny Depp, Russell Crowe or Wilt Chamberlain? (Though, frankly, I've usually found that women are more aroused by the idea that they look like sexy goddesses, than that their males look like sexy movie stars. To which I cry, "Halleleujah!" It may be that the leap of imagination required to turn a boyfriend or husband into a Depp or Crowe, much less Wilt the Stilt, is too great.)
Opening Up to Vulnerability
Who is the real me (anyhow)? Is it the Hud-like cowboy, mopping his musky armpits with a t-shirt, and leaning against the kitchen door in low-cut Levis to lazily ogle the Patricia Neal washing dishes within. Or since Patricia would be in her eighties now, perhaps a sultry Elizabeth Hurley wearing nothing but a fill-in-the-blank? (Come on, readers, let's make this interactive!) Or am I more like Rocky, hanging from the door frame to woo the shy, nearsighted and seemingly retarded Adrienne? (Adrienne looked a lot better, and even learned how to speak in Rocky III after the dough started to roll in, but I’m still gonna stick with Ms. Hurley.)
What about the times when the medications get slightly out of balance, and I hide for days or weeks in my dark, triple-locked apartment, padding skittishly around on all fours, sniffing at the furniture seats and barking in alarm at the phone and doorbell? Is the real Henry Panky obscured or enhanced by the steroids, Lithium, Omega 3 fatty acids and endless, plastic-cap shots of Robitussin? And where did Jeannine hide my automatic weapons?
Am I a gentle soul like Stan Laurel, friend of all the world, or more an Oliver Hardy, a brusque, impatient, can-do sort of guy that Jack Welch might admire? Are my friends, like the Beautiful Mind guy’s, just delusions, and if so, can I make them as well-behaved as his, sitting like sad, mopey monkeys on the library steps? (I’d like that.)
My first therapist in San Francisco said I was a “cracked bell.” “Ring, ring, ring the bell; the cracks let the light in!” He also said that I was “wired differently,” no surprise to you, dear readers, but which initially gave me an absurd amount of comfort. I called everyone I knew: Mystery Solved! He also did this Tibetan, eyes-closed, really heavy breathing, whoosh whoosh, through the nose thing – he sounded like a steam train starting to roll – when particularly touched by my mental illness. It made me nervous and uncomfortable: how long was he going to do that? What should I do in the meantime, read a magazine? I eventually changed mental-health providers, which was all right: I needed someone who could write prescriptions anyway.
Lord Buddha said we’re only dust devils of psychic detritus swirling meaninglessly in a world of dreamlike delusion, awaiting the end of a hundred million, long, pointless lifetimes to reach nirvana. Which turns out to be … a Void. Tidy, even compassionate if you believe in euthanasia. I don't mean to sound spiritually unsophisticated -- a bumpkin who orders pigs-in-a-blanket at the Ritz -- but, candidly, I had hoped for a little more sugar at the end of the Long March.
My friends, the hope, the love, the light, the ceaseless inane thoughts, are pouring out of me as if out of a …I dunno… a pipe? Yes! Perhaps we’re all just pipes of consciousness dripping and gurgling our individualities down the sluiceway of Life into the ocean of Being. And when that journey is over, we shall know. No! We shall REMEMBER what we always knew! Who we are anyhow.
Right now, I’m thinking, maybe pipes. Metaphorically speaking.
By Henry E. Panky
"Nobody knows me like the Lord...
and He don't like me.
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