Street Brawl on Flamingo

I’ve been a little nervous about writing, lately. I was in the middle of an essay a few weeks ago about the Saudi Royals entitled, “You May Have a Beard, But You’re Still Wearing a Dress,” when I chanced upon the story about Jamal Khashoggi’s mysterious disappearance at the Saudi consulate in Istanbul. I guessed that he was dead, and apparently I guessed right. Now if I can only guess the lottery numbers for Georgia’s 1.5 billion-dollar jackpot, that would be a pretty impressive two-for-two. 

I decided to suspend my essay about the dissection of the Saudi Arabian fashion sensibility. It was becoming obvious that they were into a more gruesome dissection, and were intent on having the last laugh. Instead I took the dog for a walk and said a little prayer of thanks for the First Amendment of the Constitution, remembering that in many parts of the world the exercise of free speech is as life-threatening as getting cancer, and with a higher mortality rate.  

Absolute rulers have a very poor sense of humor, on average. They would not be good candidates for those Seth MacFarlane roasts. There they would sit, stone-faced, while comedian after comedian ripped them a new asshole, and then the next day each guest comic would be cut up by the royal morticians and fed to the pet tigers. Or their insides would liquefy after being fed a plate of Novichok brownies by gay Russian nutritionists, who, because of their sexual preferences, would be barred from any direct ties to the Kremlin. 

Dictators are also very bad liars because in their own countries it doesn’t matter what they do or say, and they are mostly immune from the greater world-at-large. So to watch Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman’s team of public relations officials stumble over a handful of contradictory excuses for Khashoggi’s disappearance was like watching a man with no toes try to walk, lurching in every direction except the one in which he actually wants to go. 

“The Saudi Embassy is so big that it is easy to get lost. We think Mr. Khashoggi is somewhere on the third floor, caught within a bland array of poorly marked hallways.” 

“We watched as Mr. Khashoggi walked out of the consulate and immediately floated off into the sky like Remedios the Beauty in Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s Hundred Years of Solitude. Isn’t that a lovely image?”  

“Because Mr. Khashoggi was at the consulate for a document to secure a marriage license, we wanted to show him, in a kind of conceptual art installment, what actually happens to a man once he is married, so we pulled his arms, legs and genitalia off. He was dead within the hour, relatively quick and painless. In a way, we did him a favor.”  

The final story was that he got into a brawl, which is the lamest excuse of them all. They should’ve just said he fell into a tank of alligators that had been held up in customs, or something. The Crown Prince is known for his taste in exotic animals, and once they get loose it’s every man for himself. One time a plump and dwarfish accountant with an overbite like a rat was consumed by the King’s fifteen-foot python in an unfortunate case of mistaken identity. Shit happens. 

The brawl story had rung a bell in my head. Like I mentioned I had taken my dog for a walk and had chanced to see my neighbor lingering around her mailbox, scanning the road. I asked what was up? 

“Street brawl on Flamingo Drive,” she murmured. 

My neighbor is an avid user of “Next Door,” the website that alerts neighborhood busybodies about everything from lost kittens to code violations. She has encouraged me to join up in the past, and I’ve always demurred, but this time she had me hooked.  

“What?” I said. 

“You heard me,” she muttered. 

My neighborhood is so quiet it was hard to believe she was telling the truth about a street brawl. We exist in this weird pocket of anonymity, like some lost tribe of the Amazon Delta. Every once in a while we will sniff and grunt around a visiting anthropologist, but for the most part we are like a mound of church mice. Flamingo Dr. is two blocks up from my street, and just as quiet. It was almost impossible to fathom a huge street fight breaking out. So when I got home I signed up to “Next Door” and sifted through the more mundane notifications. 

“Man on Lyndon Lane clears throat.” 

“Poodle poops on Parker, ends up with a dangler.” 

“Street brawl on Flamingo.” 

I clicked on the link and sure enough there was an account of four cars that had pulled onto the quiet road, got out, and started kicking the shit out of each other. A real street brawl, and not the fun, musical kind like West Side Story or Michael Jackson’s Beat It, in which the the leather-clad toughs end up in a huge synchronized dance routine. Well hell, I thought, if it could happen on Flamingo Drive then there is a chance it could happen to Mr. Khashoggi in an incredibly secure and highly monitored state building in Turkey. 

Then I laughed, noting the difference. In America there is always the possibility of something unexpected, which is a consequence of a democracy. Under an absolute monarchy, nothing is left to chance. 

More Alembics…

The Bulb of Light

This entry is dedicated to Gabriel Garcia Marquez (1927-2014)

“[Man’s absurdity] is so solely by virtue of the disproportion between his intention and the reality he will encounter, of the contradiction between the true strength and the aim which is in view. It lies in neither of the elements compared; it is born of their confrontation.” –Albert Camus

I was feeling a little lonely this week, artistically speaking, so I decided to have a friend accompany me through this edition of The Alembic. I chose Guido Anselmi, the tortured anti-hero played by Marcello Mastroianni in Federico Fellini’s movie “8 1/2.” It is the ultimate artist movie. It is a movie about making a movie, about making two movies, in fact, while making none of them and actually making the one that is presented.

Fun.

And Guido, for those of you who have never seen the movie, or for those of you who have watched the first three minutes only to fall asleep for the rest of the film, is the ultimate artist’s protagonist. Guido is suave, accomplished, cerebral, decadent yet suffering from an inadequacy of direction. He understands, and even worse must endure the obvious contradictions of the privilege that surrounds him with the suffering necessary to produce any legitimate work. He has all the food and wine he needs, yet he needs to be hungry. He has his pick of women yet he needs desire. He has all the resources at his disposal for making a film, except for the most important thing, inspiration. He seemed like a fine choice for a road companion. Sal Paradise had Dean Moriarty, Tom Sawyer had Huck Finn, Dante had Virgil. I figured what the heck, it is my blog, I can bring in anybody I want.

We began our whimsical trip by traveling to Pakistan, because we could, Guido and I, to attend the arraignment of Musa Khan, the nine-month-old toddler charged with attempted murder because someone in his family threw a rock at a soldier. Little Musa Khan, the court claimed, was the mastermind behind the assault, holding his relatives hostage until one of his uncles was forced to throw projectiles at advancing police, only to save the family’s life from the tiny terror. The court claimed that, despite little Musa Khan’s inability to talk, and his penchant for long naps, and his crankiness when he drops his bottle, and the flagrant way he soils his diaper at authority, and the fact that he is less than a year old, the child has a deep-seated and dangerous attitude toward cops and society in general and must be stopped at all costs.

Guido and I look on from the spectator pews. Although it is strange, Guido seems to think that the boy has a special streak of luck for having to endure something so ridiculous. It is the birth of a revolutionary, he says. The nine-month-old in his highchair at the defense table throws chick peas at his accusers while his lawyers try to calm him down by singing him a lullaby. Pretty soon the infant is asleep, which doesn’t win him any favors with the judge, who warns of an added charge of contempt. They call for a recess.

“I hear there is a bar above this place,” I say, motioning overhead. “Claudia Cardinale hangs out there when she is in town.”

This brightens Guido up considerably since she is his muse in “8 1/2” and furthermore I need a drink. We adjourn upstairs to a dusty saloon. In the corner a man at an upright piano is furiously pounding the keys in a frantic rendition of the Infernal Galop. There is some gambling going on in the corner, fits and bursts of shouting. A man is somehow caught hanging from a wooden chandelier, unsure of whether to cling to the ceiling or drop himself to the floor. The cast of Moulin Rouge is atop all the tables, kicking their legs high in the air, petticoats flying every which way.

“Strange,” says Guido, dodging the high-stepping feet, “for Pakistan.”

“Hey! We’re stretching time and space. Besides, what’s good for surreal sixties Italian cinema is good for me,” I say. He shrugs, grabs a bottle of something sinister-looking from the bar, again dodges a near miss kick to the face, and settles in to take stock of the situation.

“We must find the bulb of light,” he says, looking around.

“What’s that?” I say.

He makes a closed fist gesture above his head.

“Like the divine spark? Inspiration?”

“Si, si,” says Guido. “I have a friend who is counting on me.”

“A Pakistani courthouse with a burlesque bar in it is a good place to start.”

We drink whatever is in the bottle that Guido is holding. It’s got the general effect of a blowtorch to the head. Waves of heat roll over me. Eventually I see Claudia Cardinale, seated at the bar. Actually there are two Claudia Cardinales. I spot a third. Now there are four. A fifth emerges from behind the fourth. There is way too much Claudia Cardinale, which I would’ve thought impossible, because there is no such thing as too much Claudia Cardinale, but as more Claudia Cardinales show up, it seems like the whole thing might become a stampede. At this rate we may be smothered by Claudia Cardinale. Guido seems to think this isn’t such a bad idea.

“If we have to succumb to something,” he says, “this might as well be it.”

“There are definitely worse ways to go. What I mean is, every other way to die would be worse than being smothered by a mob of Claudia Cardinales. This isn’t B-list suffocation. This is the real deal.”

The man hanging from the ceiling finally falls as the chandelier he has been holding onto breaks and here he comes, crashing down into our table. Guido rescues our bottle at the last second. He also takes something from the ground. My mind is a menace. Not only are there not many, many Claudia Cardinales, but she isn’t there at all. My fear of being overtaken by a roomful of voluptuous clones is reduced to the gritty misery of being left with none. I want the dangerous potential for infinite Claudia Cardinale. The world is boring without it. Guido says that art needs risk and uncertainty like a plant needs sunlight and water. You have to feel the dread before you get the “bulb of light,” as he calls it.

Word comes to the bar that there is a verdict for little Musa Khan. He has been acquitted on the grounds of absurdity. The crowd rejoices. Outside the nine-month-old walks down the steps of the courthouse, gives a small press conference to a handful of reporters, thanks his lawyers, then jumps into a modified Alfa Romeo Spider parked at the curb and whines the word, “suckers,” as he speeds off, although it is unclear whether he is referring to the court itself or rubber pacifiers, in general.

It is time for us to go, as well. It is just around midnight in my part of the world, and Guido and I visit a field by my house near Stone Mountain, Georgia. There is a party being held to either celebrate or mourn the onset of the ‘Blood Moon,’ which is the catchy nickname for a series of lunar eclipses that will be turning our normally gray satellite into a deep, rich, ominous red as many as three or four times within the next month. Guido and I sit in the grass looking up at the impressive moon–erumpent, fiery, theatrical, incarnadine. I find myself glad to be living in the age of science, where these types of things can be explained. Five hundred years ago somebody would’ve been thrown into the bonfire, just to be on the safe side. Guido wistfully mumbles something in Italian. Luckily he is subtitled.

“Beautiful,” he says.

As is to be expected, the blood moon brings out all types of eccentrics, as well as the garden variety parade of freaks, paranoids, pagans and postulants, reading the end of the world in the fat carbuncle hanging low in the sky, or the salvation of it. There is a lot of that strange, astrological math being thrown around, as well as charts to dictate what the blood moon means for the universe, the nations of the earth, and Spencer from “As The World Turns,” who may or may not emerge from his coma. (Or whoever is emerging from a coma on whatever soap opera is on these days.) My attention turns from the moon to the fireflies in the trees. There is a strange phenomenon that takes place when I notice a firefly. I will notice one, then a second one, then a million. I can never notice just three. I wonder why that is? I ask Guido about it. He laughs.

“I feel I can only articulate the depth of the mystery,” he says. “I can give no answers.” He gives my shirt sleeve a tug. “By the way, what is a Loup Garou?”

“A werewolf, I think. Why?”

“Because this woman next to me just said the ground is about to split open and an army of them will pour forth and devour us. You know, it’s all brought on by the blood moon. She’s got the math to prove it.”

“I think it means we should get out of here,” I say.

“Fretta,” says Guido.

We hop into a smooth looking convertible and head toward the city, but the city is no longer one that I recognize. Yet we arrive. The streets are deserted. Guido insists to find the bulb of light we must find the crowd. For an artist to be appreciated, he must first be perceived.

“Recipe for rabbit stew. First, catch rabbit,” he says.

“Like if a tree falls in the woods type of thing?”

He shakes his head. “If a tree falls in the woods and I am not there to hear it, then there is no sound, there is no lumberjack, no axe, no tree no woods. There are no chairs and tables made from the woods. There are no cabinets, dressers, no houses to put them in. No toys, none of those Dutch shoes…”

“I get it. Like if something happens and it isn’t posted to Facebook did it really happen?”

“What the hell is a face book?”

“It’s like a cloud sandwich.”

“Like a floor wall?”

“Look there,” I say, “a celebrity boxing tournament. Let’s go in. There is bound to be a crowd.”

Inside the gritty arena, which is more of a teamsters’ hall with a canvas ring in the middle, the crowd is whipped into a frenzy. The announcer introduces the fighters. In one corner it is former presidential candidate Mitt Romney and in the other, Sesame Street’s Big Bird. They will be going at it, toe-to-claw, nose-to-beak, P.B.S. versus the L.D.S, the big payback. Mitt’s hair looks perfect.The former contender a top contender. The Sesame Street icon has the eye of the tiger. Legs of a chicken. The bell dings and seconds later feathers and blood fly everywhere. The crowd goes crazy. The bird has got the reach but Mitt’s a scrapper.

Guido watches the boxing match for a minute and then his attention is caught by something else. He hears some disturbance through the noise of the crowd. Rising, he rushes to the source, up the steps, out of the arena and down an empty street. I hurry to keep up. He walks straight into a house that is pitch black. He knows his way. Couple of lefts, a few rights. He comes to a door, gives a few quick raps and walks in. The room is dark. He pulls me over to him and asks me for a boost. I lift him as best I can. I can hear the sound of metal squeaking on metal. The room lights up. Guido jumps down to the ground after inserting the lightbulb he had taken from the broken chandelier from the saloon. I am no longer hoisting him up. I am sitting at my desk, holding my head, looking at him. He seems satisfied.

“A lightbulb,” I say.

“Bulb of light,” he says.

“Thanks,” I say.

“Look how small the filament is,” he says, pointing up to the glowing bulb. “And it illuminates the whole room.” He smiles, spins on his heels and walks off down the hall. I watch him go in appreciation. I see others with him. A parade of forms and shadows long cast. Mastroianni. Fellini. Twain. Coleman Hawkins. Joseph Heller. Hunter Thompson. Iris Murdoch. Hugh Selby, Jr. Edward Hopper. John Muir. Bogart. Huston. Edna Millay. Roberto Bolano. Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Out of the darkness comes the blaze of light. Someone harnesses the power. Someone catches the magic. Struggle, triumph and the rare plateau. Within a small slice of time the tiny filament can, with the right surge of energy, not only create the best of all possible worlds but the heat and light that shines immortal upon it. More Alembics to come.