fry pans or
hot head, cold feet
everyone wants to win; nobody wants to work up a sweat.
everybody wants to know the ANSWER; nobody wants to read a book.
everyone wants to go to heaven; nobody wants to die.
everyone wants to be free, and yet, is repulsed by politics:
whereas, refusing to get into politics assures politics will get into you.
So. It’s not so surprising to watch the eyes glaze-over when 911 comes up.
I went to a Thanksgiving Dinner Party the other night, and the hostess comes out of the kitchen bearing a really great tray of oeurs d’oeurves.
As she sets it on the table she announces pleadingly, "Tonight let’s all promise not to talk about sex, religion, or politics. OK?"
I quickly blurted my agreement, smiling, "Yea! Sports!" And some of the looser guys cheered.
"No! Not sports either!" she cried, returning to her kitchen.
Hey. What else is there to talk about in America? Music? I’d rather just listen to it. Art? Who knows anything...? Lit? Who reads? Science? Yeah, how about chemistry? Like what’s cadmium doing in our landfills and hence, water tables?! Or what about the amount of lead in our nation’s meth supply? What is coltan for?
"BPA in baby bottles!" shouted a skinny blond I hadn’t met, yet, and whom we all wanted to take home. So we all stared...the guys wondering if, and even the girls, whatever they wonder. "I mean," she pursued her thought languorously like a wide river rolling past Natchez, "It might be a cause of autism."
"Hey!" I shouted toward the kitchen. "In Seattle they measure the air for silt levels wafting over from China’s Badain Jaran and Tengger Deserts, or whatever...want some Gobi in that souffle? Anyone? The air is yellow from nano-particulate. Worse than smoking cause it won’t leave your lungs!"
Omigod! I’m making myself sick.
"Stop it! Jimmy!" she screams from the kitchen.
"Hey, chemistry is good things brought to meth!" I went, one time too many.
"Oh. God!" our hostess uttered at the point of exasperation.
"That’s religion, dearie!" I countered.
Then she dropped some lid or pan on the floor and I backed off. In soto voce I offered up this one: the melting point of structural steel is 2900 degrees versus the combustion temp of kerosene, or jet fuel, is only 1450. Duh....and it makes one wonder how the buildings fell. Is alllllll...i'm sayin'.
I went on: "If petroleum could melt steel, the City of Pittsburgh would’ve been in Texas. And Cheney ran NORAD that day," I added. "Drop a bowling brawl fromthe roof and see if it doesn’t hit the sidewalk after the building does!"
"Why all the secrecy?’ I wondered out loud. "They could’ve let everyone go down there and look around after the steel stopped melting. I mean we had to wait a month for it to cool, just to send it to China and India?!"
Jimmy! If you wreck my party...!
"Just because they repressed the evidence, don’t mean they didn’t do it. Ha! There was enough circumstantial evidence buried in there to hang a black man in Texas!"
Jimmy, if you wreck my party...!
If you wreck my country...!
"That does it!" She squawked.
"One question: what happened at 8:36 AM on 9-11? And Where? Anyone have the answer?"
Huh! Went someone. The buildings didn’t collapse until after 9...
Two jet airliners were in the same exact spot! Guess which ones!
How could you be so fucking stupid?!
You’re a glazed donut, you sheeple!
Go to hell!
Another grand banging from the kitchen. Something smashes. Two of the girls jump up. Then, blocking them at door, this...
"JIMMY! I want you to leave my house. Please Go!"
"Well. Happy Thanks-f-ing-giving."
"Well. There’s no red-skinned naive-american indigenous people here anyway...just dupes. Great, I get booted from a dupe party.
I left. Stormin'.
I went to a Chinese market. Almost all the way across town. I was so riled up. It just happened to be the only thing open. I bought all the iron skillets they had. I charged it. It cost me 128 dollars.
You bettah off.
He helped me carry them out to the car. I needed a plastic tank and or I mean a five gallon paint can. Make that a pail. He had one. No, two. OK.
The Chinese man thanked me repeatedly–I thought for what I was about to do–me, the patriot. But he was thinking he’d made money this day! Now he could return to his own home, to his chiding wife, head up. I had just verified his whole existence.
I went to a gas station. Filled up every thing I had that could carry gas, including the car. More credit. I bought a hose for syphoning. Used.
I raced back to my ex-friends’ house. They were eating dinner. Talking about anything they wanted except sex, religion, politics, shopping, sports, environmental issues, drug addiction, war (a subset of politics), and I guess, 911, [as well as the insidious perversion of woman's lib.] They were drinking and having fun. They were laughing like Mad Nazis around 1937, and I, paranoid, imagined I was one of the jokes.
I began stacking the frying pans on the sidewalk in front of the house.
5-10-15-20-30-40 pans high. [At 3" each that would be about 120 inches, so maybe only 30 high. All I know is no one noticed and my arms grew tired.] All the once-strong good ol’ US Steel from the WTC, I’m thinking, now laced throughout these iron pans, and maybe some (un)depleted uranium waste product also...it was all I could find here in this town of West Coast Thanks For Us-ers. Of all days. Maybe it went into syringes, or stainless pots, or desk chairs, eye glass hinges...bomb shells....
I filled the frying pans with the gasoline (careful not to let my fucking cigarette drop into the mix as i flipped it downwind.).
Carefully pouring, more and more easily I poured: as the lifting becomes higher, the load becomes lighter. Or me stronger, under the spell of my rising revolutionary zeal. Soon the volatile liquid filled all the pans. Up over my head. Here, a couple more!
All filled with more jet fuel, proportionately, than the Twin Towers 1 and 2, and on every floor, but not any on Building #7, remember! And if this doesn’t do it!? I squealed in my excitement...viva Zapata!
I ran up and rang the doorbell. I knocked ten times.
I yelled. I yelled, "Fire!" Someone finally came to the door. I screamed, "My head is on fire!" Actually, there is going to be a fire!
I ran down the stairs before anyone could figure out they ought to stop me.
I yelled, "LOOK! You'll see...!"
And I tossed the match about 1/5th of the way from the top, right where the jets hit the towers more or less exactly. Only in MY tower experiment the whole thing went up like Jonah’s Ladder! WHOOSH! It went.
Up over the power lines and way past the phone polling interview telecom lines that made Lynn Forester rich and famous in semi-cryptic FISA-justice the entire stack exploding in a grand sigh, sucking all the Oxygen offa da street for miles around just like a mini-Daisy Cutter bomb would.
Cough, cough, I went. I can’t breathe!
in mute resistence
to all the liars
and all the psuedo-analysts
and corrupted sycophants
and the lying fraudulent fascists of Amerika, Inc.
And in front of the glazed-eyed don’t wannabe involved non-thinker sheeples i used to call friends...oh god...what sublime aloneness i was feeling in my satori bliss moment...in...
the NEO NAZI WAR MACHINE NEW Weird DISORDER.
My frying pans held: 30-plus weak-sister precursors to steel, mere iron, just like Nietzsche, Heidegger, Strauss, were precursors to Hitler, and he, maybe more accurately, Mussolini and his cheap, Slutty g.f. Carlotta Petracci, were precursors to Wolfowitz (and his chp. S. g.f., who got him fired from the WTO), Perle, Kissinger, Friedman, Harriman, Cheney, Bushes I and II, Hannatty, Limbaugh, Baker, condi "legs" rice, the Rothschilds, shoops! don't kill me! Kill us all!
Stoically ironically steely-eyed, standing beside my own burning man the burning Bush of un-melted metal lightness and brightness in the Tower of Truth that I’d built--just slapped together--in front of one and all. I yelled out to the populace, "Wake up! Wake up, Viet-nam! Iron does not melt under flaming jet fuel! Come witness the TRUTH!"
A curtain moved ever so slightly in a window across the street. One eye added to the witness pool. A phone picked up faster than if i was ms genovese screaming for her life.
30 frying pans strong. Holding in mute infernal evidence another inconvenient truth we got to deal with....
Mute evidence unmoved and unshaken by this paltry heat of 1450 degrees just like science would have it.
On Thanksgiving Day, 2008. Seven years is never too late...
While the oil-based plastic coating of the communication lines above dripped all over my antique Plymough Valiant with a goup I’d never wash off even if I could.
"How did you know?" someone asked. (I think it was the skinny blond.)
I read a lot, I said. Staring at the fire. And I began to believe the fire would have been even hotter where they really go, on the stove. Over flaming natural gas, sometimes all day...never melting in mute service to knowledge. Steel pots simmering stews for hours around the world. I thought of: Mere iron gratings of the millions of stoves over natural gas, and jet engines made of steel, steel branding irons; conversely, perversely raw steel being melted by chemical actions in the Bessemer process. All the fires that went out too soon (in skyscrapers) and somehow didn’t let us know that steel don’t burn, or melt, by any plasticky burning of mere carbon...all the losses we have incurred for not knowing that...not to mention the loss of spunk. The demise of American Don't Tread on ME! vs. the crying shame of sheepleness.
What a dumb waste.
Of our trust...and our senses.
"C’mon, baby. Let’s waltz," I said to my Valiant. "Our work here is done."
Someone grabbed my arm.
Wait a sec. I’ll get my purse, she said.
My name’s Sheri, BTW....
And the fire on the sidewalk slowly died...for another one risin’ in the heart.
"Where are we going?" she asked in admirable amiable wondrous-ness.
And I said, "Wherever you want. Thankyouverymuch."