I know I fucked up on the jig thing or the jig brouhaha (or foofaraw, or whatever you want to call it), and if I could, I would go back in time -- in a time tunnel or a time machine or one of those weird, kitchen-drain-like wormholes in space -- maybe to the time of Boleslav Chrobry, called “The Brave,” or Babur the Mughal, not to be confused with Babar the Elephant (also worthy of our praise-songs) – and recall every silly, unthinking syllable I've ever uttered about the jig or jig-like items. But, sadly, that is not possible, and now I can only pine for those halcyon days before I made the hideous misstatements regarding the jig and anything pertaining to it being “up.”
However, to be wholly frank, I'm still halfway inclined to the "Fuck-the-jig" position. Inside me pules the nasty, petulant toddler you know so well, whose cookie-dough-and-peanut-chunk ice cream cone has just flopped into the turgid-flowing gutter. I know that if I love something, I should let it go free, but ambivalence has always stopped me from loosening the vise-like grip I inherited from Mama. (I miss you, Mama!) The problem is: the jig is not "it." I am "it." I am lost and blameworthy and it makes me want to ululate in anguish, to bang the drum slowly, to cut off my little finger like the Yakuza, wrap it in silk and send it to you, sealing it with a kiss.
On the other hand, part of me -- the manic nugget as it were -- yet yearns to shout, "The jig lives!" from the rooftops and down in the grimy streets, on the riverfront with the fishwives and fishmongers, and from the tops of those double-decker buses they have in London. [With one caveat: I definitely want to be far enough away that no one can catch me and twist my testicles if they take exception to my exclamations -- I made some terrible miscalculations in grade school.] My voice shall vie with the roar and whistle of the hurtling train and the cries of the tamale vendor on Valencia Street. I shall laugh and weep in ecstasy and despair and/or a carelessly mixed gumbo of medications. We are the jig! You and I, the deer and the dachshund, and everybody else in this mixed-up, shook-up world.
Later this evening, I’m supposed go to a sausage-grilling party on 47th Avenue to celebrate Catalonian autonomy. I’m bringing the spicy lard and blood variety Papa used to love so fiercely. (I miss you, Papa!) But I don't want others to see me like this. They want to squeeze long scarlet streams of wine from the bota bag into their wet, gaping mouths, and grill their tasteless, mealy-white turkey/artichoke sausages until their blackened skins crack open in the licking flames. They want to shake and bake to “Hellbound Train” and “Take a Letter Maria.” That brings up memories, huh babe? Our songs. Also “D.O.A.” but that’s more of a slow dance tune. Tell me: What happened to us? I fist my eye sockets like a little rascal -- Weezer or perhaps Buckwheat -- whose mother just flew out a tenth-story window. (“Who’s cryin’? I aint cryin’!”) I will wash away the tracks of my tears, and put on the face that I keep in a box by the door. Who is it for? Christ, it’s for the people at the party. I thought I had made that clear. Please don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be.
But whom am I trying to kid? (Whom am I not trying to kid? Who, indeed, is willing to be kidded? Let's see a quick show of hands.) There's something brutish, shameless, dribbling and grunting inside of me that says, "The jig is up, dammit, and there ain’t nuttin' we can do about it. Put THAT in your pipe and smoke it.”
I only pray you take this in the heartfelt spirit in which it was intended.
By Henry E. Panky
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