ZDMT #23 - Voodoo Nightclub

As always, Newfoundland has refreshed me. Once again I am a healthy and functional tabula rasa prepared to endure the (re)imprintation of the glacier monkey of culture. There’s a spa on the coast that never fails to do the trick. I don’t want anybody to know about it so I’m not going to say it’s name or where specifically it is. It’s mine, so to speak.

Now I am in Canada. Other than the cold weather, I don’t know why it gets such a bad rap. I think South Park is too hard on this country. But I’d demean and deride and denigrate the entire cosmos for a million dollars an episode. I do that anyway, for free.

Note to self/world: Writer’s block is an Ovidian myth. One writes in slowtime, realtime or fasttime. Any idiot with half a lexicon can squeeze a sentence out of his ass. Sometimes a sentence is all it takes . . . I made this note as I entered the Voodoo Nightclub. As a graduate student at Michigan State University, I had been to Windsor on countless drinking and gambling sprees, but I had never been here. It is what it says it is. Liturgical attic tragedies unfolded across multiple stages as weird vodouisants and black magicians and wicker people and Adobe LiveMotion devil-dolls performed their respective rites of passage and damnation. Incense burnt in the corner. So forth.

I opened with the following caveat: “I’m tired of stories that tell stories. We all want something acausal and counterintuitive. Ergo: the hand grips hard on the pavement.” The Haitian owner had situated me on a “floating stage” that as far as I could tell was actually floating. I can’t remember how I got up or down – temporary scotomy – but I took “drugs” before the show in order to “fit in” and I can’t hold myself accountable for anything.

My father was in the audience again. I had successfully evaded him for the past two months (or vice versa – more scotomy). Unlike his former screenings, he made no effort to disguise himself. He had on Monday clothes.

I read a chapter 44B from Codename Prague: “Daikaiju Blues in the Bruce Lee Funpark.” I didn’t provide context other than the aforementioned caveat because there was too much to tell and I couldn’t summon the perspicacity and endurance to do it. Basically, my protagonist chases the antagonist to a Bruce Lee-themed amusement park in Hong Kong and there’s a big fight. Such an amusement park is actually being built in China, complete with screaming rollercoaster rides and Bruce Lee mannequin robots, but I’m proud to say that Codename Prague marks the first appearance of the park in any diegesis, fictional or otherwise.

Lately I seem to be producing a certain disenfranchisement in listeners. My attitude – i.e., the raw theatrics of my onstage schizosophy of selfhood – no doubt contributes to this effekt. I can assure you, however, that I am a good husband and father. In the end, that’s all that matters. Everything you do outside of your family dies with you.

An overweight blonde woman with an unnaturally red face had this to say about chapter 44B: "Yes, Dr. Wilson. You have a great talent for writing action, adventure, universe and characters. But your attempts at humor fall short, sometimes so much so that I feel embarrassed for you. At times, I feel that the story's legs are cut out from under it by your inability to be funny. Why?"

I might have responded in harsher tones had I not been on “drugs” and recently come from a Newfoundland spa. In a very friendly tone I said, “I don’t know. Humor is subjective?”

The fat, red woman had more to say, but to everybody’s surprise, my father, a former marine and Vietnam veteran, stood defiantly and barked, “Leave my boy alone, hog! Shut your hole, scum! Don’t even look at my boy, eggplant! Don’t you eyeball me, clump! Make like a tree, dirtworm! Do it now, mudbump! Do it!”

So forth.