Ed puts arm around Miss Hayes. Squeezes Miss Hayes. Applause. Heavy applause. Ed pats hands together, joining applause. Waves hands toward Miss Hayes. More applause. It’s a triumph! Ed seizes Miss Hayes’s hands in his hands. Applause dies, reluctantly. Ed says, “. . . but first, listen to this.” Shot of building, cathedral of some kind. Organ music. Camera pans down façade past stained-glass windows, etc. Down a winding staircase. Music changes to rock. Shot of organ keyboard. Close shot of maker’s nameplate, HAMMOND. Shot of grinning organist. Shot of hands on keyboard. “The sound of Hammond starts at $599.95.” Ed introduces singer Ed Ames. Ames is wearing a long-skirted coat, holding hand mike. Good eyes, good eyebrows, muttonchop sideburns. Lace at his cuffs. Real riverboat-looking. He strolls about the set singing a Tom Jones–Harvey Schmidt number, something about the morning, sometimes in the morning, something. Then another song, “it takes my breath away,” “how long have I waited,” something something. Chorus comes in under him. Good song. Ames blinks in a sincere way. Introduces a song from the upcoming show Dear World. “A lovely new song,” he says. “Kiss her now, while she’s young. Kiss her now, while she’s yours.” Set behind him looks like one-by-twos nailed vertically four inches on centers. The song is sublovely but Ames’s delivery is very comfortable, easy. Chorus comes in. Ah, ah ah ah ah. Ames closes his eyes, sings something something something something; the song is submemorable. (Something memorable: early on Sunday morning a pornographic exhibition appeared mysteriously for eight minutes on television station KPLM, Palm Springs, California. A naked man and woman did vile and imaginative things to each other for that length of time, then disappeared into the history of electricity. Unfortunately, the exhibition wasn’t on a network. What we really want in this world, we can’t have.)
Ed enters from left (what’s over there? a bar? A BarcaLounger? a book? stock ticker? model railroad?), shakes hands with Ames. Ames is much taller, but amiable. Both back out of shot, in different directions. Camera straight ahead on Ed. “Before I tell you about next week’s . . . show . . . please listen to this.” Commercial for Silva Thins. Then a shot of old man with ship model, commercial for Total, the vitamin cereal. Then Ed. “Next week . . . a segment from . . . the new Beatles film . . . The Beatles were brought over here by us . . . in the beginning . . . Good night!” Chopping gesture with hands to the left, to the right.
Music comes up. The crawl containing the credits is rolled over shot of Russian dancers dancing (XONOWÓ!). Produced by Bob Precht. Directed by Tim Kiley. Music by Ray Bloch. Associate Producer Jack McGeehan. Settings Designed by Bill Bohnert. Production Manager Tony Jordan. Associate Director Bob Schwarz. Assistant to the Producer Ken Campbell. Program Coordinator Russ Petranto. Technical Director Charles Grenier. Audio Art Shine. Lighting Director Bill Greenfield. Production Supervisor Herb Benton. Stage Managers Ed Brinkman, Don Mayo. Set Director Ed Pasternak. Costumes Leslie Renfield. Graphic Arts Sam Cecere. Talent Coordinator Vince Calandra. Music Coordinator Bob Arthur. The Ed Sullivan Show is over. It has stopped.
BLISS. . .
Bliss: A condition of extreme happiness, euphoria. The nakedness of young women, especially in pairs (that is to say, a plenitude) often produces bliss in the eye of the beholder, male or female. A delight, let us confess the fact, and that is why we are considering all of the different ways in which this delight may be conceptualized, in the privacy of our studies, or in airport bars where the dry, thin drinks cost too much. There is not enough delight. Doubtless naked young women think the same sort of thoughts, in the privacy of their studies, or other sorts of thoughts obscure to us. Maybe they just sit there, in their studies, studying their own beauty, the beauty of a naked thumb, a passionate, interestingly-historied wrist. . . .
BRAIN DAMAGE
In the first garbage dump I found a book describing a rich new life of achievement, prosperity, and happiness. A rich new life of achievement, prosperity, and happiness could not be achieved alone, the book said. It must be achieved with the aid of spirit teachers. At long last a way had been found to reach the spirit world. Once the secret was learned, spirit teachers would assist you through the amazing phenomenon known as ESP. My spirit teachers wanted to help me, the book said. As soon as I contacted them, they would do everything in their power to grant my desires. An example, on page 117: a middle-aged woman was being robbed, but as the thief was taking her purse, a flash of blue light like a tiny lightning bolt knocked his gun out of his hands and he fled in terror. That was just the beginning, the book said. One could learn how to eliminate hostility from the hearts of others.
We thought about the blue flowers. Different people had different ideas about them. Henry wanted to “turn them on.” We brought wires and plugs and a screwdriver, and wired the green ends of the flowers (the bottom part, where they had been cut) to the electrical wire. We were sort of afraid to plug them in, though—afraid of all that electricity pushing its way up the green stalks of the flowers, flooding the leaves, and finally touching the petals, the blue part, where the blueness of the flowers resided, along with white, and a little yellow. “What kind of current is this, that we are possibly going to plug the flowers into?” Gregory asked. It seemed to be alternating current rather than direct current. That was what we all thought, because most of the houses in this part of the country were built in compliance with building codes that required AC. In fact, you don’t find much DC around anymore, because in the early days of electricity, many people were killed by it.
“Well, plug them in,” Grace said. Because she wanted to see the flowers light up, or collapse, or do whatever they were going to do, when they were plugged in.
The humanist position is not to plug in the flowers—to let them alone. Humanists believe in letting everything alone to be what it is, insofar as possible. The new electric awareness, however, requires that the flowers be plugged in, right away. Toynbee’s notions of challenge and response are also, perhaps, apposite. My own idea about whether or not to plug in the flowers is somewhere between these ideas, in that gray area where nothing is done, really, but you vacillate for a while, thinking about it. The blue of the flowers is extremely handsome against the gray of that area.
CROWD NOISES
MURMURING
MURMURING
YAWNING
A great waiter died, and all of the other waiters were saddened. At the restaurant, sadness was expressed. Black napkins were draped over black arms. Black tablecloths were distributed. Several nearby streets were painted black—those leading to the establishment in which Guignol had placed his plates with legendary tact. Guignol’s medals (for like a great beer he had been decorated many times, at international exhibitions in Paris, Brussels, Rio de Janeiro) were turned over to his mistress, La Lupe. The body was poached in white wine, stock, olive oil, vinegar, aromatic vegetables, herbs, garlic, and slices of lemon for twenty-four hours and displayed en Aspic on a bed of lettuce leaves. Hundreds of famous triflers appeared to pay their last respects. Guignol’s colleagues recalled with pleasure the master’s most notable eccentricity. Having coolly persuaded some innocent to select a thirty-dollar bottle of wine, he never failed to lean forward conspiratorially and whisper in his victim’s ear, “Cuts the grease.”
RETCHING
FAINTING
DISMAL BEHAVIOR
TENDERING OF EXCUSES
A dream: I am looking at a ship, an oceangoing vessel the size of the Michelangelo. But unlike the Michelangelo this ship is not painted a dazzling white; it is caked with rust. And it is not in the water. The whole immense bulk of it sits on dry land. Furthermore it is loaded with high explosives which may go off at any moment. My task is to push the ship through a narrow mountain pass whose cliffs rush forward threateningly. An experience: I was crossing the street in the rain holding an umbrella. On the other side of the street an older woman was motioning to me. Come here, come here! I indicated that I didn’t want to come there, wasn’t interested, had other things to do. But she continued t
o make motions, to insist. Finally I went over to her. “Look down there,” she said pointing to the gutter full of water, “there’s a penny. Don’t you want to pick it up?”
I worked for newspapers. I worked for newspapers at a time when I was not competent to do so. I reported inaccurately. I failed to get all the facts. I misspelled names. I garbled figures. I wasted copy paper. I pretended I knew things I did not know. I pretended to understand things beyond my understanding. I oversimplified. I was superior to things I was inferior to. I misinterpreted things that took place before me. I over- and underinterpreted what took place before me. I suppressed news the management wanted suppressed. I invented news the management wanted invented. I faked stories. I failed to discover the truth. I colored the truth with fancy. I had no respect for the truth. I failed to heed the adage, You shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free. I put lies in the paper. I put private jokes in the paper. I wrote headlines containing double entendres. I wrote stories while drunk. I abused copyboys. I curried favor with advertisers. I accepted gifts from interested parties. I was servile with superiors. I was harsh with people who called on the telephone seeking information. I gloated over police photographs of sex crimes. I touched type when the makeups weren’t looking. I took copy pencils home. I voted with management in Guild elections.
RHYTHMIC HANDCLAPPING
SLEEPING
WHAT RECOURSE?
The Wapituil are like us to an extraordinary degree. They have a kinship system which is very similar to our kinship system. They address each other as “Mister,” “Mistress,” and “Miss.” They wear clothes which look very much like our clothes. They have a Fifth Avenue which divides their territory into east and west. They have a Chock Full o’ Nuts and a Chevrolet, one of each. They have a Museum of Modern Art and a telephone and a Martini, one of each. The Martini and the telephone are kept in the Museum of Modern Art. In fact they have everything that we have, but only one of each thing.
We found that they lose interest very quickly. For instance they are fully industrialized, but they don’t seem interested in taking advantage of it. After the steel mill produced the ingot, it was shut down. They can conceptualize but they don’t follow through. For instance, their week has seven days—Monday, Monday, Monday, Monday, Monday, Monday, and Monday. They have one disease, mononucleosis. The sex life of a Wapituil consists of a single experience, which he thinks about for a long time.
WRITHING
HOWLING
MOANS
WHAT RECOURSE?
RHYTHMIC HANDCLAPPING
SHOUTING
SEXUAL ACTIVITY
CONSUMPTION OF FOOD
Behavior of the waiters: the first waiter gave a twenty-cent tip to the second waiter. The second waiter looked down at the two dimes in his hand and then up at the first waiter. Looks of disgust were exchanged. The third waiter put a dollar bill on a plate and handed it to the fourth waiter. The fourth waiter took the dollar bill and stuffed it into his pocket. Then the fourth waiter took six quarters from another pocket and made a neat little stack of quarters next to the elbow of the fifth waiter, who was sitting at a rear table, writing on a little pad. The fifth waiter gave the captain a five-dollar bill which the captain slipped into a pocket in the tail of his tailcoat. The sixth waiter handed the seventh waiter a small envelope containing two ten-dollar bills. The seventh waiter put a small leather bag containing twelve louis d’or into the bosom of the wife of the eighth waiter. The ninth waiter offered a $50 War Bond to the tenth waiter, who was carrying a crystal casket of carbuncles to the chef.
The cup fell from nerveless fingers . . .
The china cup big as an AFB fell from tiny white nerveless fingers no bigger than hairs . . .
“Sit down. I am your spiritual adviser. Sit down and have a cup of tea with me. See, there is the chair. There is the cup. The tea boy will bring the tea shortly. When the tea boy brings the tea, you may pour some of it into your cup. That cup there, on the table.”
“Thank you. This is quite a nice University you have here. A University constructed entirely of three mile-high sponges!”
“Yes it is rather remarkable.”
“What is that very large body with hundreds and hundreds of legs moving across the horizon from left to right in a steady, carefully considered line?”
“That is the tenured faculty crossing to the other shore on the plane of the feasible.”
“And this tentacle here of the Underwater Life Sciences Department . . . ”
“That is not a tentacle but the Department itself. Devouring a whole cooked chicken furnished by the Department of Romantic Poultry.”
“And those running men?”
“Those are the runners.”
“What are they running from?”
“They’re not running from, they’re running toward. Trained in the Department of Great Expectations.”
“Is that my Department?”
“Do you blush easily?”
The elevator girls were standing very close together. One girl put a candy bar into another girl’s mouth and then another girl put a hamburger into another girl’s mouth. Another girl put a Kodak Instamatic camera to her eye and took a picture of another girl and another girl patted another girl on the shapely caudal area. Giant aircraft passed in the sky, their passengers bent over with their heads between their knees, in pillows. The Mother Superior spoke “No, dear friend, it cannot be. It is not that we don’t believe that your renunciation of the world is real. We believe it is real. But you look like the kind who is overly susceptible to Nun’s Melancholy, which is one of our big problems here. Therefore full membership is impossible. We will send the monks to you, at the end. The monks sing well, too. We will send the monks to you, for your final agony.” I turned away. This wasn’t what I wanted to hear. I went out into the garage and told Bill an interesting story which wasn’t true. Some people feel you should tell the truth, but those people are impious and wrong, and if you listen to what they say you will be tragically unhappy all your life.
TO WHAT END?
IN WHOSE NAME?
WHAT RECOURSE?
Oh there’s brain damage in the east, and brain damage in the west, and upstairs there’s brain damage, and downstairs there’s brain damage, and in my lady’s parlor—brain damage. Brain damage is widespread. Apollinaire was a victim of brain damage—you remember the photograph, the bandage on his head, and the poems . . . Bonnie and Clyde suffered from brain damage in the last four minutes of the picture. There’s brain damage on the horizon, a great big blubbery cloud of it coming this way—
And you can hide under the bed but brain damage is under the bed, and you can hide in the universities but they are the very seat and soul of brain damage—Brain damage caused by bears who put your head in their foaming jaws while you are singing “Masters of War” . . . Brain damage caused by the sleeping revolution which no one can wake up . . . Brain damage caused by art. I could describe it better if I weren’t afflicted with it . . .
This is the country of brain damage, this is the map of brain damage, these are the rivers of brain damage, and see, those lighted-up places are the airports of brain damage, where the damaged pilots land the big, damaged ships.
The Immaculate Conception triggered a lot of brain damage at one time, but no longer does so. A team of Lippizaners has just published an autobiography. Is that any reason to accuse them of you-know-what? And I saw a girl walking down the street, she was singing “Me and My Winstons,” and I began singing it too, and that protected us, for a moment, from the terrible thing that might have happened . . .
And there is brain damage in Arizona, and brain damage in Maine, and little towns in Idaho are in the grip of it, and my blue heaven is black with it, brain damage covering everything like an unbreakable lease—
Skiing along on the soft surface of brain damage, never to sink, because we don’t understand the danger—
MANY HAVE REMARKED . . .
&n
bsp; “Many have remarked that it is wrong for governments to send their citizens with fife and flamethrower to quarrel with one another, and some have suggested that if the citizens were so longheaded as to refuse to attend these war parties the deadly music would perhaps stop. Some say that the rich should be divested of their holdings by legal persecution, and that said holdings should be divided among the long-hungering, hope-bereft poor. Some people like escalation and blowing up, and others cultivate their gardens behind barbed wire and Bums men. The earth is our mother, yet down at the sawmill they must change the whirling, singing saw blade once an hour because of shrapnel in the trees. The elegiac tone was invented for discussions of the past and cannot be used in looking to the future. Science is a wonderful thing, but it has not succeeded in maximizing pleasure and minimizing pain, and that’s all we asked of it. Dr. Swee, Professor of Grace and Perfection at the Paris Conservatory, advises humicubation, which is the act of lying penitentially prone; and dilogy, which is speech that has two or more meanings; and keeping the world’s conscience with a plegometer, an instrument for recording the force of blows.
The Teachings of Don B. Page 13
