Joseph Campbell knew better. He stuck with the evidence, mostly. I’m not expert anything, won’t ever be, either. MAHI is winding down still before the 2000 election... on Coronado with the Clintons in late June, playing with the kids of all ages On The Beach, well before dawn. Campbell's soup used to be thicker. Hot and good, for whom the microwave prompts. This can't be oleo on the soda crackers. Sharp shooter medal blurrily snatched at BONG AB. Deftly pinned by the Honorable Congressman Clement J. Zablocki. Grill food. And this is my fiance. Types way-fast in her Spandex top. Sure. Thank you! Yes-sir! That was me, Sir. Yeah. We called it the hesitation pitch. Round and 'round we go. Oh sometimes in Hayward. Lake Michigan? O we'd love too. Eye to eye. I've got your back, Sir! Godbless you Airman! Gorgeous June 1969. Lots of daffodils, newborn whippoorwills. Blood on the Moon on those spotless formica chrome-legged tables. 34 degree Pabst in the coke 'chine. That tranquil sunset like a red bandanna.
My next project is calling me. It was, That Old Black Magic Returns, but now RaytheonE. I’ve never tried fiction. I was toying with coding the Eas 5: Raytheon5, but who is going to figure that out? One always means yes, two, no. The cab drivers announce the hour with horn blasts to let the working girls know, all night long. I’m not driving. Bullfrogs tenor-croaked. I'd a drawing board with palm smoothed blueprints. I plinked, plotted and planked technical instructions; mostly cautionary red arrows, asterisks and dots. Compelled to light yet another Marlboro whenever I had to emphasize: EXIT. OXYGEN. PARACHUTES. M1 (all the M16s were over there). And I typed orders. Could never spell worth a Kamov Ka (Helix) ~ counteracting Gunga-gin-tonic hangovers with always-hot Joe in those WWII surplus tins. As defensive drivers we'd our two lane blue road moon-glowed handkerchief dropped all hours thrills off the line. Convertibles mostly. Rain or shine. Glare ice or no. Fuck we became the radio. And I trained pretty good with aerials. Chimneys, clocks, sunrises (not far) over whitecaps on Lake Michigan. Somebody somewhere had a keen interest in clouds. Again. Manana. What? T.o.m.o.r.r.o.w. Same 'ting. Did you say marrow? Heh-heh Roger Dat!
Ray Pinnox deserves at least as much treatment as Dr. Smith, who will only be known as the character created for him in Lost In Space. I knew Dr. Smith as he lived on Waterman Avenue decades later. Pinnox was a story teller, Smith wrote sci-fi. Both did far more. Rich Flox earned accolades as much as Dr. Wesson, who will always be remembered randomly as though he were an itinerant ghost. Odd occurrences. One night up on Eagle River. Melissa tossed an aluminum can of Coors into the bonfire. You could smell the pungent wafe before she said don't breathe it! We'd our share of Amaretto and right then a shooting star streaked widening our eyes at once disappearing two o'clock behind the pines. That's Wesson for sure, I thought. I stoked-poked ambers through the fieldstones, heaped dry walnut and sage. Melissa segued into Leon Russell's BLUEBIRD.
Contracting. Hired guns, writers, animal acts, song and dance men...the HR requirements of the enterprise know no bounds...animal, mineral, or vegetable. Three witches over a caldron stir, not shake, the recipe for RaytheonE, from some stuff that crawled out of the bottom of a dark Scottish lake. Contracting like a 1917 bench vice! Hired soldiers of Ms Fortune, bearded poets one of whom swagged that afternoon's mohawk. You could see the fresh flecks of cut hair on his epaulets. Personnel requisites of that Empire State Building-sized giant eraser as though stationary upon the smooth steel-grey water (affirmed READY?) (squawk) linesoutlinesout (classified). All three wore vivid orange jumpsuits. He did hook. Sat straight up is all I remember. Needle nose vertical. Fire. Ball. I flat-bellied. My breath sucked out. Completely in gauze---all limbs elevated---she wept. That's a good 16 ft. of exploding froth, er, retardent, f-foam. Instantaneous-tell me? Yes Mam. At once. You've family enroute. Do you wish to see the Chaplain?
Ray was and might be the one, but not the only one. The sea hag mentioned thirteen. I’m thinking she was way low. The hunt to feed the pipeline? To narrow the field, to mold,control, and operate the assets? The sea hag...she knew, but not rule number two. Rich would've jumped right on Brady. He'd the teflon ya'know. Nowadays (after a few) he yammers on and on 'bout those shield umbrellas with bayonet, ah, tips. Perps would just up the caliber, no? Tangentially he goes on regarding solar what? Canvass? He's long time gone, hey? Older, you know. Solid pension with the Army Corp of Engineers. Marco Isle. Last Christmas card. Hey dem that's got shall get!. Claims 'heavy water' some-such in the family tree. Need to know? Whatchaneed? Two working girls in outrageous coats wearing Australian boots walk in auraed by high winter snow. Dr. Wesson yelled GITCHEGUMEE---at least I heard him.
Neither did I then, in 1976, when I was only 19, the sea hag told me what she knew. I had never heard of Joseph Campbell, or Ray Pinnox. Dr. Smith’s son was just another skinny kid walking home from high school when I was delivering the Newark Star Ledger In 1968. I had no idea his father was, at least on TV...a real jerk, or even that his father was also a writer. What? Gotta drill down on the naming history of Steamboat? You're thinking of that nte. in Colorado Springs when Mama just sat there with that ugly traffic stopping sternness and let us go at it. Awkward? Well...sugar pie honey bunch. Let me just say I filled lass' navel. Hey if oranges were limes, we'd all read the Times, searching for rhymes . Don't let the door hit you in the ass, the marm yelled. I don't give a good Shoshone if you're hitchhiking. You know what you can do with your thumb!!
If there is one, it might as well have been Ray then, I’m thinking that the old black magic never left for good anyway. I like the vowel at the end, or the beginning. Raytheone: Master of the tree ring circus.... Many here among us, it might as well have been Rich then. There was a damn swank trio and the bassist broke loose with Louis Armstrong's playbill. Bless the beasts and the children, is all I had. Lighting one after another. I.N.D.I.S.P.O.S.E.D. Faux nonchalance really really blowing up my political copy-ritter interview. Jesus! That partner's red lips. Optimistically, I was stuffed into a big yellow taxi. Woke up on a cot in Lodi.
Far better than bread crumbs, except in meatballs, tree rings stay rung. Birds peck away at them, yes, but they endure. Myths and legends endure too. I’m sticking with the tree rings, and Ray Pinnox. I just don't know. This trouble light as pendulum is, well...transdentally terrific.
Maybe I'll just stick with Redwoods.