My Super-Speed 16

Anyway, where were we? Oh yeah! At the drive-in, where I was 16 and out of my mind on these pills. (And there was something else back there somewhere about traveling and a Zappa record or something. I’m sure we’ll get back to it somehow, but you gotta let these things work themselves out.)

Well, there I was, pacing furiously around the entire drive-in theater, over & over again. I was w/ a friend who was not speeding and apparently felt that I needed watching. I don’t know how he kept moving that fast. I was telling him about my idea for an opera, based on the decline of William Katt’s career after The Greatest American Hero was cancelled. (Presumable decline—I didn’t know this at the time, but the guy was still getting the occasional TV guest role.)

I was explaining how there were gonna be all these parts where a buncha valkyries on horses soared around William Katt while he pretended to fly clumsily (and in a really obviously fake way) in front of a rear projection screen, just like he did in every episode of The Greatest American Hero.

And the final tear-jerking number, would be sung by a castrato. And yes I do know (& also did at the time) that they don't castrate opera singers anymore, but that'd be part of what would be so daring about this opera. See, you'd get a different guy to play William Katt every night—starting w/ the man himself, of course. You’d get a different baritone each night & then let him do the whole opera normal-like except for the last scene, before which you’d castrate him w/ a rusty hacksaw! (Back stage, of course. Opera's haute culture and therefore requires the highest standards of good taste.) How's that for daring???

(Though I'm not sure castrating an adult would give him a really high voice. I think that's why they cut 'em off when these guys were kids, I hear, but in the name of great art, anything's worth trying, right?)

And in case you’re wondering about the first night—like, if William Katt couldn’t pull off a baritone, what we’d do. Well, we’d have him lip-synch to some other guy’s voice, but we’d still castrate him & make him sing the high notes at the end, even if he sounded like shit. I mean, every show’s a little clunky on its first night, right?

And so like in the last number, he'd be wearing that stupid red outfit and wandering, alone, around his decaying Hollywood manor, weeping in front of the many mirrors he used to stand in front of whilst wearing the same costume and jerking off to the sight of himself as a famous actor playing a comedic super-hero. And guys dressed in dark cloaks who were supposed to be creditors would be prowling about outside, and his former agent would be singing on a break away set, and supposedly what he'd be singing would be the text of emails he’s sent, saying they shouldn't work together anymore due to (and get this) "creative differences."

William Katt'd weep and wander and bleed at the crotch, all the while belting out these lovely, really high notes that would shatter the lenses of every pair of opera glasses in the house, thus destroying the eyeballs of countless snobs, which, along w/ the pure artistic glory of the thing, would be at least a little beneficial.

(I don't think all opera goers are assholes, and I have nothing against the form or those who genuinely love it. Like Robert DeNiro in The Untouchables. I just hate the clump of pompous rich assholes who are always goin' to the opera. Well, in the movies anyway. I don't know who goes to the opera in real life because I can’t afford the tickets.)

Anyway, in words that were occasionally supplemented by complex sketches I made in the dirt of the drive-in lots, I finished telling my friend about The Passion of William Katt, including lengthy descriptions of sets, lighting, casting, compositional approach, binding of the libretto, orchestral setup and why fat chicks like the ones who sing at the end of opera can be really hot. (My friend was very patient if you haven't picked up on that, by the way,)

Then I started drooling like a basset hound and was feeling kinda shitty, like my chest was about to implode, so I went and sprawled on the hood of my other friend’s car, (the birthday girl's,) and twitched epileptically till she made me get in the passenger seat. I leaned out the window & puked for pretty much the entire ride home. Mostly on the side of her car, for which she did not kick my ass. Wow I had patient friends back then. I wonder why I never hear from them anymore?

And then I got home and woke my mom up with my puking and apologized and told her I ate a bad hot dog at the drive-in. I don’t know if she believed me, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t appear drunk. My speech was way too clear, if fast, and I was way too alert. Fortunately, I don’t think she knew how someone on speed would act. I suspect she hardly even knew it existed. Anyway, she never said anything about it.

But so while I have this bad attraction to stimulants, I also have this bad habit of listening to people on stimulants. And other people. Any people. Somehow, I just find people interesting—even though, generally speaking, they usually piss me off, bum me out or both. Stupidly, I’ll even ask them questions, (which is partly, but not entirely, an occupational reflex,) thereby ensuring that they’ll continue to talk about themselves. With the right kinda person, this can work out OK. You might even meet somebody sorta cool. But usually, the people you talk to just drone on about themselves, revealing general petulance, narcissism, apathy, violence, bigotry, etc., etc. (Not, I’m sure, that I’m any better, when you get down to it.)

So in this case, during the flight from Chicago to Phoenix, I went on listening to my neighbor, the ice expert from the previous entry, well past the point of reason. Part of why she had to get back to Phoenix was because she was only a semester away from completing a degree from the Phoenix Cosmodemonic College. (Don’t remember the actual name of the place.) I asked her what she was studying, and she told me she was gonna be a sex therapist. Caught me off guard. I never met anyone in that line of work.

Then without blinking she said, “I figure people have all kinds of problems with sex. Why not make some money off of it?” Vague smile. Again I was surprised by how blunt she was about her less than romantic and/or altruistic motivations. Don’t know why. In my experience, pretty much anyone who’s in a sex related industry—e.g. porn or strip clubs or flat out prostitution—is not really motivated by sentiment or pleasure. It’s just another job.

Sure enough, the longer I listened to her, the more I grew to dislike her. Not violently—more like with general boredom and irritation. Fortunately, the person sitting to her right chimed in, and she wasn’t a pathological narcissist. She was maybe my age, maybe a little younger and worked as a schoolteacher. Middle school, even.

She had dark hair pulled back by w/ a kerchief type thing. She wasn’t particularly striking—maybe vaguely pretty in a way that good-natured people can be. She was very generous w/ her smile. Here and there she'd turn it my way as though I was likable & interesting, even though I'd just met her. I saw her smile the same way at a stewardess and even... at the sex therapist.

By this time, I’d ceased to make any encouraging noises toward the sex therapist. Or any noises. I think that made me a less desirable audience, because she turned both barrels on the schoolteacher. I probably would've escaped the conversation altogether, if the teacher hadn't drawn me back in with the occasional question. But hey, she was just trying to be nice.

Anyway… Somewhere during the second half of the flight, clouds broke on red mountains. Beneath them were broad expanses of yellow-brown sand, shot through with unexpected swirls of color—mineral deposits?—red and blue and gold. Here and there, sharp light reflected off a distant lake or pool.

I found it easy to lose myself in all of this. I checked out of the conversation, and just watched the landscape mutate, the clouds shift, and the light change. The time passed quickly. Before I knew it, we were making our descent.

While we were on our way down, the sex therapist produced a cell phone and started talking, loudly, into it. It was impossible to zone her out. And as she never seemed to pause to take a breath, I couldn't imagine where the other party was fitting in her/his part of the conversation—if, in fact, he/she/whatever was able to contribute at all.

On the ground, we exchanged the awkward sort of goodbyes shared by air travelers who’ve just met and will probably never speak to one another again. You say goodbye on the plane, and you’re almost always stuck self-consciously ignoring each other while you wait to get off the plane & get gone.

More on the way…